I Still Have It. . . I Just Can't Remember Where I Put It (8 page)

“Uh-huh,” I uttered, feeling confident his recovery options were coming to an end.

“I’ll call Brad. He’ll know how to fix it.”

Brad is a twenty-two-year-old who works in my theater. He knows everything about computers. If anyone could fix this problem, it was Brad.

“Have you looked in the recycle bin?” Brad asked. “Anything that’s deleted should be in the recycle bin.”

“Brad, you’re a genius,” my husband chortled even before he checked out Brad’s theory.

“That @%^$#*& Brad knows nothing,” my husband belched after checking the very empty recycle bin.

“Honey, I think you have to let it go,” I volunteered. “We didn’t like most of the people in your address book anyway.”

“But it’s everybody I’ve ever known in my life. They’ve disappeared into cyberspace and I’ll never know how to get in touch with them again.”

“You’ve got to take it easy. You don’t need to contact your drama teacher from elementary school. You haven’t talked to him for over thirty years. That part of your life is over. And besides, I have my address book right here, so we can always stay in touch with all of my friends.”

“I liked it better when you just kept saying ‘Ah,’” he snarled.

Giving up is not part of my husband’s makeup.

“I’ve had another idea,” he said later.

“Ah.”

“Maybe I can turn the computer back to a month ago, which was before all this @%^$#*& happened. The computer will have to have a memory of the addresses then.”

I held my breath while the search-and-recovery mission was implemented. I heard many noises emanate from my husband, and none of them could be interpreted as positive.

“I did it.”

“What did you do?”

“I’m not sure. I think I annoyed my computer so badly it gave up. Look,” he exclaimed, “the date on the computer is yesterday. I did it. I’m again able to contact hundreds of people I don’t want to talk to.”

“Congratulations, sweetheart. I knew you could do it.”

“How about a victory celebration for your genius husband? Is there anything for lunch?”

I thought of the lasagna that had been in the refrigerator twenty-four hours ago.

“Is there any way you can trick the refrigerator into thinking it’s yesterday?”

Things That Amaze Me

1. How little meat is actually in a lamb chop.

2. How long half an hour can be when you’re watching a bad television show.

3. How short half an hour can be when you’re having a good time.

4. How many people still smoke.

5. How many thousands of people gather every New Year’s Eve in Times Square in the freezing cold to watch a ball drop.

Fishy Friends

T
RYING TO MAKE NEW FRIENDS AFTER THE AGE OF
forty is a little like eating my mother’s cooking; it requires a lot of luck and a very strong stomach. Martin and I ventured out into new-friend-land a few times in our forties and came up with a combination of some very nice new people and some new adventures. My favorite adventure involved Mexico, fish tacos, and parrots.

We met Jack and Penny at a racecourse and had lunch with them a few times. Jack owned racehorses and Penny was a nurse. They invited us over to their house for dinner and we reciprocated.

“What a beautiful house,” Peggy gushed.

“I love this furniture,” Jack added. “You know, you can get a lot of this stuff much cheaper in Mexico.”

I bridled somewhat, because we had recently spent a great deal of money on decorating and had never crossed the border.

Jack admired a very expensive bit of furniture we had purchased not long before. “That’s a beautiful armoire. Penny, didn’t we see something like that in Tijuana?”

“It’s a hundred and ten inches tall and fifty inches wide. How would I get it back to Beverly Hills? On a team of donkeys?” I commented spikily.

“Believe me, they have really cheap delivery services down there,” Jack assured me.

I could take it no more. I had to find out if we could have purchased all of our furniture for half the price in Mexico. We arranged our trip. I had a gig already booked in San Diego the following week, so we decided to meet Jack and Penny there. We would take Jack’s car because he was familiar with the roads and spoke Spanish.

The trip did not begin well. We met Jack and Penny on a San Diego side street at 8:00
A.M
.

“I apologize for the smell in the car,” Jack explained. “My son and I went fishing yesterday and we brought home a bunch of salmon in the trunk. I’ve saved one for you.”

Martin and I entered the fish car. Penny was already seated in the front.

“After a while you don’t even notice it,” she assured us.

We crossed over into Mexico and entered the furniture mecca that is Tijuana. Store after store offered nothing except wooden birds and papier-mâché fruit.

“I don’t understand this,” exclaimed a perplexed Jack. “Last time we were here we saw lots of stuff like yours. Isn’t this something like your coffee table?”

“No, it’s nothing like it,” I replied happily.

“I heard you can buy some great cigars in Tijuana. Do you know anything about that, Jack?” Martin asked.

“Absolutely. You leave it to me. I speak Spanish. I’ll bargain them down,” Jack replied, evidently eager to save his Mexico reputation.

We located a small cigar store on the corner. Jack took charge.

“Señor. Cigaro. How mucho?”

So much for Jack’s Spanish expertise. Jack purchased two cigars of questionable quality for about five dollars apiece after haggling in broken English for fifteen minutes.

“Anybody hungry? I know a great place to eat.”

Jack led us to his favorite fish taco stand. Martin and I watched as he and Penny devoured the suspicious concoctions.

“I have a surprise for you. Tonight we’re going to stay overnight in our favorite hotel on the beach. My treat.”

“W-well, thank you so much, but we have a room booked in San Diego for tonight,” I stammered. Obviously it was a little too early for a playdate with this couple, let alone a sleepover.

“What’s the number? I’ll cancel it for you. I don’t want you to miss out on an experience like this.”

Jack drove deep into Mexico before I noticed that his gas gauge was nearing empty.

“Jack, you might want to fill up your tank. My treat,” I offered.

“I’ve got plenty left,” he replied confidently.

“There’s a gas station right there,” I pointed out. “Let’s stop.”

“I know a gas station that’s much cheaper. Don’t you worry.”

Martin and I worried in the backseat as we witnessed the emergency you-better-fill-up-your-gas-tank light come on.

The car slowed as Jack looked around the shuttered gas station.

“It’s been a while since I was here. I guess they closed this place down. Don’t worry. I know another one not far down the road.”

We sputtered to a gas station and filled up the thirsty car. We drove another hour down the coast before pulling into the parking lot of an attractive hotel.

“This looks like a very nice place,” I said with relief.

Jack was puzzled. “This parking lot is never full. I don’t understand it.”

“You made a reservation, didn’t you, Jack?” Penny asked.

“You don’t need a reservation at this place. They always have rooms.”

Jack exited the car. He returned moments later. “Full tonight. They have lots of rooms tomorrow night.”

Martin chimed in. “This has been quite an adventure, but it’s getting dark and we’re deep inside Mexico. Just for fun, let’s not sleep in the car and get murdered tonight. Let’s go home. We still have our hotel booked in San Diego.”

“Oh, I canceled that,” Jack said proudly.

“Don’t worry,” Martin whispered to me. “I had a feeling. I rebooked it.”

We began our journey back to the border, but not before we got so lost we ended up in a small town that seemed to specialize in selling used parrots by the side of the road.

Penny the nurse gave me some career advice on the way back about what television shows I should appear on and why, which I always enjoy. When we arrived at the hotel in San Diego it was after 8:00
P.M
. and Jack tried to book a room. Due to the ophthalmology convention, every hotel in town was full. Jack and Penny drove back to Glendale, and we returned to our room and celebrated the fact that we would never see Jack and Penny again.

Our friend foray in our forties had failed miserably, but I had proved to myself that I didn’t overspend on our furniture. I did, however, have to throw away the outfit I wore on the trip. It always smelled of fish.

My husband came home with a staple gun the other day. He staple-gunned everything. There is nothing loose in our home anymore. There are a few major changes. For instance, now we have to bring the food to the cat.

Ginboree

T
HERE ARE FEW THINGS IN LIFE THAT
I
ENJOYED
more than taking my then-two-year-old daughter, Molly, to Gymboree. I was an only child and spent a lot of time talking to myself in a mirror. One of my earliest memories is arriving at kindergarten, looking around, and thinking,
Who are all these little people and why are they sharing toys?
So I felt the need to break the news to Molly early on in her life that there are other children in the world.

Once she could walk, I began taking Molly to organized activities, and she grew from a baby who was reluctant to participate into a gregarious toddler who would slide, stomp, and pop bubbles with the best of them. Everything was moving smoothly until a new parent moved into my Friday morning class.

The first indication that there was something amiss occurred while Sean, the father of Molly’s friend Elise, and I attempted to help our daughters put together a Jimbo puzzle. This is trickier than it first appears. Jimbo wears many colors and not all of them live comfortably side by side. I was explaining the concept of finding all the straight pieces first and building a frame and Molly and Elise had begun handing me the straight bits when a small, round boy came and stomped on all we had accomplished.

I looked around to see if I could find someone who looked concerned enough to be his parent but could spot no one. The little boy then reached over and grabbed a piece of the puzzle out of Molly’s hand. Molly, not having brothers or sisters to practice on, did not fight back. She just looked at me with sad blue eyes and said, “Mommy?” I looked around again but still could see no one responsible for the child. I took the piece of puzzle back from the little boy and gently said, “We’re putting the puzzle together now, but in a minute you can rip it apart.” Elise’s father said nothing. In retrospect, I think he knew better.

It was then that
he
appeared from behind the green slide. His dark brown eyes matched his socks. It was a sartorial pity that his shorts and shirt didn’t behave in the same way. He scooped up his little boy, shot me an eye bullet, and turned away.

“Do you know him?” I asked Sean.

“No, he’s new in town, but I’m getting some strange vibes. He could be a psycho-dad.”

“What’s a psycho-dad?” I asked, putting Molly on the one slide she could manage by herself.

Before Sean could answer, Molly was met halfway down the slide by the same small, round boy climbing
up
the slide. They crashed into each other midway, which resulted in crying on both ends. Psycho-Dad again appeared, this time from behind the rainbow barrel, and scooped his child off the slide. Once more, he shot me a malevolent stare.

This time I just had to say something.

“I’m sure the child going down the slide should have the right-of-way, don’t you think?”

“No,” he said deliberately, and walked away.

Sean, who had witnessed the collision, chimed in, but only after the coast was clear.

“Don’t get involved. Just stay out of that kid’s way.”

I took Sean’s advice and continued on with the serious business of rolling hoops until it was parachute time. Then something happened that I just couldn’t ignore.

There are roughly thirty balls in the class, all different sizes and colors. Molly’s favorite color is yellow, which makes sense because Mommy’s favorite color is pink (she’s already trouble). Molly was sitting on my lap in the parachute circle and we were singing about the frog and the lily pad when the small, round child appeared again.

He proceeded to rip the yellow ball out of Molly’s hands. I could stand it no more. I took the ball back and said, “There are lots of other balls. Please go get one of them.” Tubby ripped the ball out of Molly’s grasp again. I took it back again. Just then, Psycho-Dad appeared from behind the basketball hoop, grabbed his child, and snarled menacingly, “Don’t you ever handle my son again.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Don’t you ever touch my son again.”

“I didn’t touch him. I just took the ball back. And by the way, where were you when all this was happening? Smoking behind the trampoline?”

“I was right here.”

“Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you tell your son not to grab things?”

“He’s a baby. He grabs things. What’s your problem?”

I looked over at Sean. He was shaking his head. I could see the conversation was going nowhere, so I joined into a chorus of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and tried to be very adult about the whole thing.

After class, Molly and I were on our way out the door when I noticed the man waiting with his child outside. Was he waiting for me? I didn’t know, but I decided to approach him first to try to smooth things over. Being a performer, I really hate when people don’t like me.

“Look, this is silly,” I began.

“You’re aggressive,” he interrupted. “You were aggressive with my child. Don’t you ever go near him again…or else.”