As I Lay Frying Page 8

  “Make a fist except for that finger,” the technician requested.

  Um, okay.

  The resultant brightly illuminated x-ray of me flipping the bird to the consulting physicians had the whole room screaming with laughter.

  So why the x-rated x-ray? I’d been cultivating a bump inside my fingertip for some months, but it suddenly grew painful. Personally, I think the actor is right. These things don’t happen to people who don’t have to come up with an idea for a column on a regular basis.

  Suffice to say I was in the operating room the next day, awake, but numb (somewhat my natural state) and listening to the surgeon proclaim, “Whoa! This is no princess and the pea.”

  Apparently, the finger tumor (that’s the first time I’ve ever typed those two words together) was a whopper, although fortunately it turned out to be a benign tumor of the digit (the correct terminology).

  Unfortunately, the doctor was a sadist and proceeded, despite my plea for a double-digit bandage, to wrap my middle finger alone in a humongous swaddle of gauze and discharge me. Now it’s bad enough that my spouse took one look and burst out laughing, but complete strangers in the hospital elevator also had a cathartic hoot at my expense. I had a giant dildo attached to my hand (don’t go there).

  So we drove home, being careful not to accidentally raise my hand above window level lest I incite road rage from passing motorists.

  The next day I drove to work, hand propped on the steering wheel, with this digit thing making a perpetual left turn signal. It was not a good day, what with my staff, several clients and the entire board of directors having their funny bones tickled at my expense. By 5 p.m., all I wanted to do was go home and try to get a glass of Absolut to my lips without dunking my club finger.

  Alas, utensils would be a challenge, so dinner would be, as they say, finger food.

  I walked in the front door to find a note: “At the vet. Max sniffed something up his nose.”

  Now this raised more questions than it answered. I’ve seen the dog sniff. In addition to typical canine hydrant sniffing, I’ve seen him aspirate things like drywall dust, kitty litter (that was a nice moment) or an entire vodka gimlet. It makes him sneeze. So????? What did he do, hoover up a Yorkie?

  I was still trying to imagine exactly what would constitute a sniffing emergency when the front door opened. “We’re back,” said Bonnie, canine DustBuster in tow. “The vet said she was glad Max was still around to do these dumb things.”

  To hear Bonnie tell it, Max had gone out for an innocent backyard pee and when making his site selection, took an extra energetic sniff at the lawn.

  “He came back in the house with his snout all scrunched up, unable to stop sniffing and sneezing. It went on for 15 minutes before I called the vet.”

  And?????

  “Well, they said it could be serious so I rushed him over there.”

  According to Bonnie, just as she and the patient pulled into the parking lot, Max let out a thundering sneeze, giving himself a very bloody nose.

  With the bloodied dog in her arms, Bonnie raced into the office, whereupon the receptionist gasped, “Hit by a car?”

  “No!” Bonnie hollered. “Something up his nose!” That stopped everybody in their tracks.

  As it turned out, Max had to have a 9-inch blade of crab grass extracted from his left sinus. You just don’t see Grassectomies every day on E.R. Which brings me back to my original theory: my whole family has to lay low for a while and let some ridiculous things happen to other people for a change.

  So here I am, trying to type with this gauze-covered zucchini on my hand, determined that until this last column of the season is written I’m not doing anything or going anywhere an adventure could possibly happen.

  “But aren’t we going to the Punkin’ Chunkin’ Festival?” Bonnie asked.

  “Are you kidding? I could be hit by catapulted pulp.”

  “Are you going with me across the Bay to take the boat to dry dock?” she ventured.

  “Not on your life. There’s a crab pot with my name on it just waiting to sabotage us. Or I’ll get Physteria. Pay somebody else to be ballast.”

  Bonnie looked exasperated. Only her sense of propriety prevented her from—as the x-ray technician put it—making a fist except for that finger.

  “Well you can’t just sit here in the condo until deadline.”

  Yes I can. And wish all Letters readers a happy Thanksgiving, a terrific holiday season, great outlet shopping, a delightful January and many wonderful adventures until we get together again in February.

  “Okay Max,” I said, “you can go out, but follow the Bill Clinton presidential

  role model: don’t inhale.”

  February 1998

  WRITER’S SCHLOCK

  When I first sat down to write this column I had plenty of time. It was the holiday season and coming up with copy in time for Valentines Day seemed like a piece of cake.

  I knew I was in trouble when all I had to do was type the word cake and I was out seeking dessert like a truffle sniffing hog. Then I figured it was stupid to go back to the keyboard on an El Niño-inspired 67 degree day. So Max and I took a December 26 boardwalk stroll. If this is global warming, I’m all for it.

  That night we went to a cocktail party, which validated my theory of the genetic discrepancy between most gay men and women. If Bonnie and I bring a party appetizer we buy a pound of something yummy and plop it on a paper plate.

  We show up with our mound of crabmeat slathered in cocktail sauce or caviar ladled over a sturdy block of cream cheese and it’s piteous compared to the guys’ exquisite contributions— delicate china carrying dainty sculptured works of art posing as canapés.

  So we went to this party with a typically sturdy offering and stood in awe of our brothers’ contributions. One of the guys tried to teach us to recognize the perfect consistency for lemon curd —in case hell froze and we had to make curd for, say, insulation.

  Terms like mousse and meringue failed to connect with us until somebody said “Stir until it resembles spackle.” That we understood.

  “Fay’s going to write this one up,” said a cheerful passerby.

  “Not likely,” I said. “I have writer’s block.” A week passed. No column.

  When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Not so Bonnie, who hates shopping. She will, however, go getting. When she needs a specific item, she goes and gets it. But no browsing. I dragged her to the outlets anyway. Not only did I come home without a story, but she violated one of our basic relationship rules and bought more than I did. Bitch.

  New Years Eve arrived. Surely a column idea would surface. Small elegant dinner party; wonderful friends; lots of laughs; some bubbly at midnight; went home. We’ve got to do something about this wild gay lifestyle.

  When I couldn’t find anything to rant and rave about by January 10, I panicked. So while Bonnie watched Bob Vila wallpaper Saskatchewan on the living room TV, I locked myself and my laptop in our condo’s tiny bedroom, popped the little set on and hoped for a revelation to get me typing.

  Holed up in the claustrophobic bedroom, I found no small irony in news footage of the Unibomber’s cabin being trucked to court to prove that any person willingly holed up in a 10x12 room writing manifestos was most surely certifiably nuts.

  Another week, no progress. For our next cocktail party offering, I tried to be as inspired as the guys. I made hard-boiled egg penguins, based on a scene in the Rosie O’Donnell movie, Another Stakeout.

  Rosie served eggs with black olive heads, arms and feet, perched on a white bread glacier, surrounded by blue Jello water. The last time I assembled so many parts, it was a model airplane. “Stick whole olive A atop egg B for penguin’s head; align egg torso to fuselage C....” If I’d had glue I would have sniffed it.

  I toothpicked quartered olives to the egg for arms and put half olives under the egg for feet, anchoring them with shin splints. At least I didn’t need decals and paint.

>   Finally, with the pathetic penguins rolling around the counter, I said screw blue Jello, draped a blue plastic grocery bag over a plate for water, and sturdied my penguins on a crustless white bread iceberg.

  Ugh. In the end, I brought my usual mound of sturdy shrimp salad to the party, hoping just to get some literary inspiration at this soiree. While no one said “Oh, you’re the lunatic who makes a spectacle of yourself in print,” I suspected they recognized me. After all, what’s the chance that every person in the room was in the witness protection program, unable to divulge name, career or interesting tales? Would nobody say anything printable?

  I’ve got it! I’ll write about a recent family gathering, so truly weird readers would find a simple re-telling hilarious. Saved! I finished the story and read it to my spouse. “It’s hilarious, every word is true, it’s a great column, and if you use it I will have to kill you.”

  This was a first. This long-suffering woman has seen every stupid thing we’ve ever done show up in print and never once used a line item veto. That includes the infamous Hot Flash article, which, if you missed it, I don’t dare repeat lest I get the hot flash cold shoulder all over again.

  But, of course, she was right. Making fun of ourselves is one thing but making fun of people we care about is a topic of another color. That I almost blew it gives you a glimpse into my wretched desperation. I pushed delete and the column went bye-bye.

  By January 17, I would have done anything for an idea—evidenced by my driving 30 miles to the Midway Slots. Have you been there? It’s like the Space Shuttle ejected a payload of slot machines onto a cornfield. Rural roads, a lonely gas station, alfalfa fields, chicken coops, !!!CASINO!!! Can you say oxymoron?

  Can you say moron? I lost $20 in twenty minutes. One lady fed a hundred dollar bill into the video slot machine, poked the PLAY button a bunch of times, shrugged and walked away empty-handed. She wasn’t alone.

  The place sported hundreds of people, some in 70s leisure suits, playing one-armed nautilus machines—all to the migraine-inducing clatter of buzzers, bells, blinking lights, and blinking people. As for scenery, I especially liked the man with a towering pompadour who tripped on a roll of nickels, fell down and broke his hair. I went home broke. Without a topic.

  With a column due in mere hours, I lunged for the laptop and typed at warp speed, trying to make readable drivel out of the past few weeks. My kingdom for a topic. What the heck can I write about? Why isn’t there anything interesting going on? I did my best, finished up and prepared to turn in my column.

  “Are you watching the news?” Bonnie rushed in to ask. “Some White House intern is claiming she and Bill Clinton….

  Now you tell me.

  March 1998

  THERE’S LIFE IN THE OLD BOY YET

  W.C. Fields warned us never to work with kids or animals. He was afraid we’d learn something. You might recall that our Schnauzer Max was diagnosed with cancer in November ‘96. After two surgeries, a course of chemo, and paying off the vet’s mortgage, he was pretty much his old self again—and spoiled beyond reason.

  Now, as Max approaches his 14th birthday, our family is dealing with geriatric dog issues we never thought we’d have a chance to experience. And I remind myself how lucky we are to have this extra time with Max, even if he’s driving us nuts.

  First off, we’ve got the world’s only two-seater station wagon. After a shortstop sent Max sliding off the back seat, Bonnie took a thick slab of foam rubber and lodged it from the back of the front seat to the front of the backseat—so Max can travel like Cleopatra on a barge. Not even Bonnie’s penchant for short stops can send him flying. Of course, if we have to take an extra passenger, I get stuffed in back like luggage.

  As if his travel accommodations aren’t special enough, we also cut a hole in the dog barge and flush-mounted a water bowl so Max can drink and drive. So we got the traveling down, but the staying home was problematic.

  Max, who used to bark to go out with such regularity you could use him to set Greenwich mean time, now makes us guess when he needs relief. Since he’s hard of hearing, we figure he thinks nobody can hear, so why bark? If we don’t guess YES by a certain time, pass the rug shampoo.

  So now we just toss him out the door every four hours, overnight included. It brings new meaning to the term wee hours. But now things have gotten even more complicated as Max’s vision has deteriorated.

  I know. We’ve been asking ourselves if it was, euphemistically, “time.” But both the vet and Max say, “No.” After all, the dog still eats like a goat, wags his tail once he notices we’re there, snuggles up to “watch” TV and can sniff beach fries at 50 yards. Last week at the pet shop he shoplifted two biscuits and a jerky chew.

  But we do have our hands full keeping Max from hurting himself. Since he navigates by caroming off the walls like Schnauzer hockey, we went to K-Mart to pick out a playpen for him to occupy when we go out.

  We got lots of advice from local moms who saw us shopping for Fisher Price and suspected the gayby boom was about to strike again. We didn’t have the heart to tell them our little one wears a flea collar.

  Most recently, I’ve been sleeping in gym shorts and a t-shirt so I can accompany the dog into the moonlight for his 3 a.m. pee break—a move made necessary one night when he couldn’t find the back door and forced me to scoot around the yard barefoot and indecently dressed to fetch him. Now that was a full moon.

  And while we’re all trying to adapt with a sense of humor, the truth is, he’s just not the same dog. We really miss his mischief, bounding energy and effusive unconditional love. But just when we were assessing his quality of life (forget about ours), he surprised us.

  Friends visited the beach with their adorable 4-year-old. At first Katy shied away from Max, with her Dad telling us an encounter with a big dog had left her wary. Seeing how calm Max had become, Katy’s Mom said, “This will be great. We’ve been wanting to get a pet and Max will help Katy get over her fear.”

  Mom and Dad explained to Katy that Max was very old and couldn’t see, so she should be careful not to move fast and scare him. Well, that’s all it took. Katy instantly signed on as practical nurse.

  With admirable gentleness, this kind 4-year-old miracle worker guided Max around the condo, fed him as many treats as we’d allow and made sure he could find his wa-wa—her Anne Bancroft to his Patty Duke. On Saturday night Katy clutched Max like Tickle Me Elmo until she fell asleep.

  In a charming corollary to her canine care giving, Katy inquisitively whispered to Dad, “Did Aunt Bonnie and Aunt Fay’s husbands die?” When Dad told her we didn’t have husbands, she answered with concern “But who takes care of them?”

  Say what you will about the message society is still sending our kids, this 4-year-old was bright enough to sense we had an alternative household.

  “They take care of each other,” said Dad, which seemed to make perfect sense to Katy as she quickly returned to her full-time job as Max’s personal assistant.

  On Sunday, by the time Katy packed up, kissed Max and waved goodbye, her parents were betting she’d ask for a dog by the time they hit Route One.

  Well, the kid and the dog showed us that Max is still very much here. Not only did the weekend erase Katy’s fears, and cultivate a next generation Schnauzer lover, but it proved to us that our old man can still make a difference.

  I’m going to the powder room to put the toilet seat up so Max can have his 5 p.m. cocktail. Cheers.

  June 1998

  I SEE LONDON, I SEE FRANCE,

  WE LOST BONNIE’S UNDERPANTS

  Bonjour! Bonjour!

  Okay, we didn’t see London, but we did see France, and we did lose Bonnie’s underpants.

  We’re reluctantly back and would return in a heartbeat. But if we never get the chance it’s okay, since this vacation was, simply, the trip of a lifetime. Our quartet toured the Riviera, Provence, Chateau Country, and Paris with lots of great food, wine and tourist madness.

&nb
sp; We drank Chateauneuf du Pape at the actual Pape’s chateau, sipped Cote du Rhone in that very countryside, had Salade Nicoise in Nice, and ham and cheese with Dijon mustard in, where else, Dijon. We walked where Cezanne got his inspiration, explored where Toulous Lautrec met his models and sat on the Pont Neuf spanning the Seine in little nooks history says are reserved for lovers.

  We had a ball. This was despite the fact that most of my obsessive tourist preparations turned out to be for naught. The dual current hairdryer never worked anywhere. For 16 days I looked like the Bride of Frankenstein. The plane was so packed we’d have blown out a window or a flight attendant if we’d inflated our cervical pillows, so we arrived with jet lag and whiplash. And on day two, one of our troop drowned our emergency compass in the bathtub, leaving us geographically befuddled.

  But those security wallets staved off the swarms of pickpockets—mostly doe-eyed youngsters under parental guidance, working every major tourist site. They would have had to commit third degree sex crimes to get to our credit cards.

  And speaking of underwear, our throw-as-you-go plan (discarding our underwear after its daily use), really worked. We had all sorts of packing room for souvenirs. Although on our first day at each hotel, the chamber maids thought we idiot Americans didn’t know trash cans from hampers.

  Actually, Bonnie took throw as you go a little too seriously, packing her very worst underwear. Apparently, sagging elastic got the best of her during a chateau tour and she confided that for comfort reasons she’d ditched her drawers in the Louis Sixteenth toilette. Archeologists may conclude Catherine De Medici wore Jockey for Women.

  Since one short column is no match for this simply astonishing and eye-popping journey, I’ll just share some random thoughts.