I stifle a laugh and pad through our living room. Glorious views greet me in every direction.
I click on the lights and groan when I see the nightmare in my dream kitchen.
Pizza boxes and wineglasses line the countertops. Chips are ground into the floor. Every cabinet door is wide open.
I refuse to clean up their mess this time, I say to myself.
I have my hands full already being the mother of this group. Hell, I’m mother, father, babysitter, cook, mailman, and lawn and pool company. My Golden Gays see any task that requires a little manual labor as beneath them.
I head to an open cabinet and pull out my espresso roast whole coffee beans. I place them in the coffee grinder and silently smile at the cacophony it creates. I grab a filter and make my coffee before reaching for my favorite Monday morning mug. A fan gave this to me after a performance ofThe Golden Gays. The mug features a picture of a smiling Rose on one side, and on the other it reads, “It’s like you people don’t pay any attention to me whatsoever.”
I tap a finger on the counter as I wait for the coffee to brew, trying to distract myself from the urge to clean up everyone’s mess yet again.
I am the busiest one in this household. Yes, Teddy owns his business, but the shop is truly only slammed in the winter, and he has help. Sid still works part time with select clients—I mean, maybe ten hours a month—while Barry spends most of his days tweaking our monthly show, staring at his cell waiting for his agent to call and auditioning for Miracle Ear commercials he somehow believes will resuscitate an acting career that has been on life support since MC Hammer was popular.
But I still have a full roster of clients. I am on the board of Modernism Week in Palm Springs. I still love what I do. I look out the window.
I have no desire to melt into the horizon.
I survey the mess surrounding me.
No, I just don’t have a desire to live a never-ending replay ofGroundhog Day, where every day is the same: a late-morning juice glass turns into an early afternoon cocktail glass, a statin turns into a gummy, the warm days fade into cool nights, and the world becomes as beautifully hazy as the morning light over the mountains.
Out of nowhere, a bighorn sheep leaps onto a boulder and stands motionless. I hold my breath and reach for my cell to take a photo.
I snap a photo of this majestic beast.
Without warning, it turns and takes aim at a barrel cactus, ramming it with its massive, curled horns. It strikes it over and over and over, until the cactus bends like the Leaning Tower of Pisa before finally collapsing.
The sheep totters over the cactus, looking momentarily dazed. Then it nods its head as if pleased with its work and begins to eat the moist interior, satisfied that the payoff has been worth the effort.
And with that, I begin to clean the kitchen in a flurry and do not stop until it is gleaming like the morning sun.
When I am done, I froth some coconut milk, add it to my coffee with a dash of cinnamon, and eat my morning yogurt and fresh fruit.
I head back to the bedroom and get ready for my day, working on my hair—blowing and back-combing—until it reaches a height that pleases me. I slip into a pair of Mr Turk slacks and matching jacket—lime green with a velveteen mid-century pattern that resembles a flower garden on acid (my new clients and the out-of-town visitors who come to Modernism Week for my tours and talks about design love that I dress like this—He must be great if he has style like that!)—and I finish my outfit with a simple crisp white shirt.
I grab my keys and as I head out the door, I say, “Alexa, please play Anita Bryant’s greatest hits! Louder!”
If there’s anything that will get my boys to wake up, it will be hearing the sound of her voice in their home.
I smile and lock the front door. And then I stop, as usual, feeling guilty.
I reopen the door. “Alexa,” I say, as if it’s a dog who’s gotten on the sofa. “Off!”
I stop to touch a small plaque outside the door that I had made for our home that simply readsZsa Zsa.
I am the only who truly knows what her name means in Hungarian:
God is my oath.
I head to my BMW convertible, which is parked in the driveway.
Our immaculate driveway looks like a used car lot.
Barry’s and Teddy’s cars are parked at forty-five-degree angles as if they are cops who stopped a carjacker in the middle of the highway. Behind them, parked partially on our perfect grass, is a car I don’t recognize—a jacked-up black pickup truck on tires so high I would need a stepladder and oxygen mask to enter—but instantly realize belongs to Barry’s boy toy from Arizona.
I stand in the driveway, shaking my head.
