For Frying Out Loud Page 14

  But as Team Rehoboth left to watch the match, what to do with their four-legged sons and daughters? They all came to my house, Camp Schnauzerhaven.

  We had our own two, Moxie and Paddy, plus Paddy’s littermates Cody and Kelli, and another distant sibling, Ashley. Then it got weird. Niki the Yorkie checked in along with Gentle Ben the Airedale.

  I know, seven. But with Bonnie as the resident Alpha dog, I’m just another pack member and that makes eight which is truly enough. Actually, on two different occasions last week we had day spa clients for grooming, so the thundering herd swelled yet again.

  Each of the boarders checked in with their own food, treats, bedding, leashes, clean-up bags and toys.

  Luckily, like me, most of the guests were of a certain age. Also like me, they were more interested in food than exercise. There are some amazing parallels here.

  After check-in we had a meet and greet cocktail party featuring ice cold beverages and Snausages. Most of the shorter guests sampled from the bowls on the floor. Gentle Ben had happy hour in a raised porcelain bowl in another room. Ewwwww, yuk. As for me, I was the only one having Grey Goose on the rocks, and a lot of it.

  Dinnertime. Each guest came on vacation with his or her own dietary regimen, requiring great coordination by staff to fill the bowls with the correct choices and have all entrees come out of the kitchen and onto the floor at the same time.

  The chef had to juggle diners requesting yogurt on the side, green beans and carrots atop kibble, a variety of pills inserted in a variety of incentive choices and an assortment of measurements for portion control. With meals prepared, seating assignments (or would that be standing assignments?) needed to be made.

  Bonnie and I mapped out the standing chart and starting calling names and placing bowls. Incredibly, each dog waiting until their name was called and then went obediently to where we pointed. Nobody tried to slip us a treat for a better table. I’ve seen rowdier crowds downtown waiting for tables.

  Moxie! Paddy! Ashley! Niki! Cody! Kelli! Ben! Like clockwork.

  The trouble began when the hoovers among them, namely my Moxie with Ashley a close second scarfed up their meals and went trolling for leftovers. Or didn’t wait for leftovers and stood breathing down their prey’s backs until they could make their move. There was a lot of snarling and whining and of course that was from me, as we humans got served last.

  Then the pack needed to go out. Moxie! Paddy! Ashley! Niki! Cody! Kelli! Ben! Out they obediently trouped, most of them going off the deck for their evening constitutional.

  One dog who shall remain nameless insisted on creating a literal poop deck.

  Moxie! Paddy! Ashley! Niki! Cody! Kelli! Ben! Time to come in. We always had to count heads, and Kelli was always missing until we went out and carried her in personally. From that moment on she became Princess Grace Kelli.

  After dinner came TV time and the flock took their positions on the living room floor, sofa or comfy laps. Amazingly peaceful – until a doorbell went off on a commercial and the whole house erupted.

  But nighttime was my favorite. I’ve heard of three dog night, but this was ridiculous.

  Four pack members insisted on sleeping in bed with Alpha: Niki, Ashley, Paddy and me. The rest took positions on the floor as IEDs (Improvised explosive devices) booby trapping my route to the bathroom.

  And then came the storm. At the first huge crash of thunder Cody and Moxie also leapt on the bed. And they all started shaking and drooling in response to the thunder and lightning, turning our Posturepedic into one of those sleazy motel vibrating beds. And it continued for over an hour. Ben slept through it, the upside to hearing loss.

  By morning the routine began anew. Moxie! Paddy! Ashley! Niki! Cody! Kelli! Ben! Time to go out, then breakfast. Then naps, then snacks, then playtime, then snacks, then naps, then dinner, then….

  It was such a great routine I hated going off to work and missing it. So I quit my full-time job. Really. Honest. Done. I intend to be a stay-at-home pack member, writing this column, doing some freelance work and getting my napping skills just right.

  Ashley went home on Saturday, then Cody and Kelli on Monday. Niki is checking out sometime tomorrow and Ben has a late check-out the next day.

  Pretty soon it will be Alpha, me, Moxie and Paddy, alone again, naturally.

  I’m looking forward to an afternoon snooze and some kibble, followed by a martini made by the leader of the pack. I know they say that unless you’re the lead dog, the scenery never changes, but for now, I’m perfectly content to follow the fleet.

  Did somebody say treats? I’m so there. A bath? I’m next in line. Flea dip? You can never be too careful. I’d like the rainbow collar please. I’ll pass on the game of Frisbee, but I sure could use a nice walk.

  Ahhhhh. Retirement. Sit/Stay. Pardon me if I go take a snooze. I’ll try to keep my muddy paws off the furniture, but I can’t promise.

  September 2009

  WHAT COMES AROUND…

  There’s nothing like spending the day with old friends out on the water. Especially since it was in the best kind of boat – somebody else’s.

  As a former boat owner I can tell you that Bonnie and I spent 13 years boating on Chesapeake Bay and we have pitiful 401Ks to prove it. Boating is one expensive hobby.

  So there I was, lounging on this boat, with no fiscal responsibilities, enjoying the water, the weather and the relaxation. Everyone aboard but me had a fishing pole and I can report that I caught as many fish as they did.

  As we headed for a restaurant along an area called Kent Narrows I smiled, as this glorious September day reminded me of one from many years ago. Same captain, same crew.

  Back then, our buds invited us boating “to run the gas down” so they wouldn’t leave the boat with a full tank all winter. We gladly accepted the invite.

  As we boarded the vessel, I said, “Let me go back to the car for my camera.” I was as prolific back then with film as I am today with digital.

  “The heck with it,” said Bonnie, “for once, dammit, just go out and enjoy the ride without all the camera business.”

  Obviously, Bonnie was starting to view me as paparazzi, so I reluctantly agreed to leave the camera behind.

  A half hour later, as we reached the middle of the Bay, near the famed Chesapeake Bay Bridge, I asked the captain how long it would take to run the gas down to an acceptable winter level. “I mean does it have to be empty on the gauge?”

  “Well, said the captain, “the gauge is broken so it’s hard to know, but we have plenty of gas, so let’s just run around a while and head back.”

  At which point the boat’s engine hiccupped, belched, bubbled, then quit.

  Apparently we’d had a lot less gas than the broken gauge was able to indicate.

  “Crap,” said the first mate, “we’re in the shipping channel.

  Now, for my non-boating readers, simply put, being in the channel meant we’d likely wind up as flotsam and jetsam if a large boat came along. There’s a lane in the middle of the wide bay, marked by buoys, that is deep enough for giant oil tankers and container ships filled with Mitsubishis. That’s the channel. We were stalled in it, or at least perilously close to it and we’d all heard stories of small boats being hit and sunk by tankers, or perhaps even scarier, being sucked to the deep by the undertow of a passing cargo ship.

  Of course, we instantly grabbed the marine radio to call for help. The sheepish captain’s face said it all. “Um, the radio is supposed to go to the shop tomorrow. It only gets channel 17, so I hope somebody is listening.” By this time Bonnie and I were incredulous as well as scared, and re-evaluating our relationship with boating and its boaters.

  So we put out a call on the radio and waited for a reply. Nothing.

  In the meantime, Bonnie tapped me on the shoulder, pointed toward the horizon and said, “What’s that?”

  In the distance, beyond the bridge, a boat approached. A very big boat.

  “What is it, a tanker?�
� Bonnie asked.

  “I dunno,” said the captain. “It’s tall, and almost looks like a passenger ship.”

  “Is that Leo DiCaprio on the front? Damn, I see several smokestacks,” I said, watching the enormous blob lumber toward us, slicing the water, heading for the bridge. The thing was so big, in fact, it looked like Pittsburgh on a barge and I doubted it would even fit under the bridge.

  “Holy shit,” or a version thereof, said everybody.

  We held our breath as this behemoth gained on us. Exactly how much trouble were we in? From the look of things, the monster vessel was hugging the left side of the channel and we, in the equivalent of a rubber bathtub ducky were off right. Maybe, just maybe, we would luck out. But then again I didn’t know the clearance required to avoid being sucked into the depths.

  “My God, it’s clearing the bridge by inches.” I said, with the first mate adding “good thing the water’s calm.” Well, the water was the only one.

  “Look at that thing!” “Holy Moly.” “I’m peeing.”

  “Oh my God, it is a passenger ship. I’ve never seen so many decks in my life.” I said, now looking up at an increasingly steep angle, with the giant bow approaching. Then, as we watched in dumbstruck awe, our eyes looked heavenward as the bow, with its massive anchor and chain, then the side, with its hundreds of staterooms and lifeboats, then the stern, pushed by its colossal propeller passed above us, regaling us with the giant lettering Queen Elizabeth II.

  It was a passenger ship alright and when I realized, remarkably, that we were still afloat, I was incredibly pissed not to have a camera.

  We watched the ocean liner’s hind end travel down the bay, its wake causing us to bob up and down like that aforementioned bathtub toy and frantically called again for a tow.

  Hooray! Somebody heard us on channel 17 and said, “I read you, changing to Channel 16.”

  “No!!!” we yelled, too late, understanding that the rescuer was being polite, getting off the open channel and telling us to go to channel 16 for a private conversation. Only we had no channel 16.

  We tried again on our lone 17.

  Our hero came back. “Switch to 16. Over and out.” Click. God he had ants in his pants.

  “Nooooo!” we hollered, despairing of getting his attention in time to get out of the channel before Moby Dick or The Titanic came by.

  Finally, on the third try he listened long enough to understand our dilemma. We told him our location and he promised to be out to get us as fast as he could.

  Meanwhile, the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen, before or since, took place on the Western shore of the bay, framing the departing QE II in a pink glow and providing us with the show of our lives.

  No camera. My spouse knew there would be consequences.

  Finally, the Lucky 5 rescue boat appeared to haul our lucky four asses back to shore.

  In the ensuing years, and there have been many of them, that captain and first mate have remained two of our closest friends, fuel emergency and broken radio not withstanding. They’ve purchased a new boat and, for the record, have kept it in tiptop shape. We’ve boated with them often and somebody always makes a snide comment about running the gas out.

  So here we were, almost two decades later, heading back to shore from our fabulous day on the water, when a stunning sunset appeared.

  “Hey team,” I said. “How ‘bout a photo.” So they dutifully posed on deck, before the lovely setting sun.

  I was using the fancy 8-megapixel camera on my new Droid phone. But the battery had gone dead. No camera. Dammit. We all laughed.

  What comes around, floats around.

  September 2009

  HEALTH INSURANCE ISN’T INSURANCE; IT’S PRE-PAID HEALTH CARE

  Suppose that slimy Geico Gecko charged you, every year for your premium, the amount it would cost to buy a brand new car. Would that be car insurance? I think not.

  Consider it in terms of this whole health insurance boondoggle and see why I have to go with my gut here.

  My gut requires very little care and I can eat (and, of course, have happily eaten) pretty much anything without requiring a prescription medication. But because once, a millennium ago, I thought I was having a heart attack, which turned out to be gas, I am considered high risk for digestive issues and almost uninsurable.

  Oddly, this was just academic for me a month ago. While I myself had employer paid insurance, I very much favored an expansion of Medicare as the new “public option” for those people not as fortunate as I.

  How quickly things change. Now I am without any employer paid coverage and must venture into the mythical “open market” for individual health insurance. News flash! I cannot get any. That’s right, as an individual I am totally uninsurable because I am fat and over 60. And I’m not even the 800 lb woman on Discovery Health every night.

  Even people we consider to be trim and shapely are over the weight limit imposed by most insurers for individual coverage. I don’t know about you, but I’ve earned my excess pounds with some pretty heavy carbohydrate loading. I’d hate to be working out like crazy and eating whole grains and still be considered too fat for insurance.

  I may, however, be able to get insurance through my business, A&M Books, so here’s what I found out. The problem is not health care; it’s health insurance, a completely separate issue. And most people, along with politicians, pundits and pontificators are conveniently forgetting that fact.

  There’s nothing wrong with the health care I get. Love my doctor; happy with my choices of practitioners in the Rehoboth area. This dire crisis is NOT about doctors, end of life decisions, abortion, death panels, illegal aliens, deficits or all the other apple scrapple folks are trying to shove down our sore throats.

  No, it’s about access to affordable health insurance and unless you are a 27 year old Olympic athlete who’s never even had a hangnail, insurance companies don’t want any part of you. And if they do want a part, it’s an organ that has never hiccupped. What organ would that be, our stiff upper lips?

  Here’s a dirty little secret. Insurance companies are no longer even selling health insurance, a product which involves a large enough pool so the risk of covering old sick people is outweighed by the reward of covering young healthy people. No, they are peddling pre-paid health care, an entirely different product. The paradigm shifted while we weren’t looking.

  Insurance companies no longer accept risk. They don’t want no stinkin’ risk. If you are 60 and fat and will need a colonoscopy and a flu shot in the next six months your premium will reflect exactly what they expect those things to cost.

  My business has been quoted $900 a month for a policy for one employee, me, with a $5000 deductible. If I pay $900 a month for a year, plus my $5000 deductible, I am paying $15,800 (a year!) before the insurance company takes even the slightest risk. Meanwhile, they are raking in money from me and that healthy young buck requiring not so much as a tongue depressor.

  I’m risking that my health care will cost more than a new Lexus, otherwise I’m just paying insurance company CEOs, lobbyists and favored candidates when I could just be paying the doctor or the hospital directly. This is insurance?

  Okay, so you get this, right? If the insurance behemoths do want you, they want to make damn sure you pay them enough to actually fund all the MRIs, doctors visits, prescriptions and tests that a person your age will likely have. It’s like pre-paying for your funeral – and under this system we are lucky if one doesn’t turn into the other.

  Now doubtless some folks will argue that my health care could cost more than $15,800 a year if I get really, really sick. But isn’t that the kind of risk the insurance company should take in order to profit from some lucky jerk who pays money year after year and never so much as sneezes?

  And how ‘bout that lower-cost government option that teabaggers, blow-hards, and legislators yelling “Liar!” think will turn us into a third world communist country? We all see that public education has killed private
schools and universities. And Medicare put all the big insurance companies out of business, too. Puleeeze!

  Tomorrow I have to call around for more health “insurance” quotes. I can picture it.

  “Hello, you have reached Giveusyourwalletincorporated.”

  “Dial 1 if you are old and fat.”

  “Dial 2 if you have ever belched.”

  “Dial 3 if you were seen by a doctor coming out of the vaginal canal.”

  “Dial 4 if you think we paid off enough legislators to keep it business as usual.”

  Mel Brooks or Allan Sherman, or some funny guy wrote new lyrics to the song “Blue Skies” and called it “Blue Cross.”

  (sing it with me…)

  Blue Cross,

  said I would be

  happy that

  Blue Cross,

  covered me.

  Then I took a fall

  leg in a splint

  they said that I

  should read the fine print.

  And when a high

  fever I ran

  they said that I

  bought the wrong plan.

  Oh Blue Cross,

  there seems to be

  plenty for

  Blue Cross

  nothing for me.

  Pray for Obama Care.

  October 2009

  MARCH ON!

  I hope some of my friends went to DC for the October 11 Equality March and marched for me.

  When I heard about the October 11 national march I was terribly disappointed. Bonnie and I and the pups were in P-Town for Women’s Week doing book signings and having a grand time. Who the heck scheduled the march on a day when thousands of East Coast lesbians would be heading for Cape Cod???

  Dammit, I haven’t missed a gay march on Washington since I came out of the closet in 1980.

  For the first national march, in 1979, Bonnie was there in my place only she didn’t know it. We hadn’t met yet. In the midst of my coming out angst, I hungrily read all about the March but didn’t have the guts to go.