It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth (4 page)

So the clinic is called for 6:30. At 8 they had not arrived and I have a trunk full of pet supplies. I could hold my own dog show with the crap I've bought out of sheer boredom. They finally arrive... do they apologize? NO. "Form a line in the aisle or your dog won’t gets their shots." She/He/whatever says with a voice that sounds like he/she/whatever gargled with battery acid. These people are working at top speed... reverse. My dog went into heat waiting for them to set up. I said to the he/she/whatever, "My dog is 10 years old. Do you think she'll get her shots before I have to put her to sleep." NOTHING. It's like I'm in a joke vacuum. They forgot the Visa imprinter and are now rubbing crayon and paper over my card like it's Windsor Castle and we're making grave tracings.

Finally I get to see a vet. I think this one was from Viet Nam. I've never seen a woman doctor with a tattoo, "Born to raise veal".  The shots take 10 seconds and I'm outta there. As I leave I ask about side effects from the shots... the he/she says, "You'll be fine." Everyone is a comedian.

Thursday, February 23, 2006 -
THE PROBLEM

Well here's today's deal.  Bad shit doesn't happen to me every single day of my life. It's not like I take the trash out, I'm kidnapped and held hostage for the release of Adele's new CD. Some days...nothing happens and on those days I am forced to face the fact the boredom that is my life.  Case in point... last night. Last night I went to a dinner party with some "Hollywood" types. The food was magnificent, the company was wonderful, and I had no problem finding the house... no drama. OK, I did forget my only winter coat there and they are leaving for Palm Springs today and won't be back until Sunday... but in comparison with the rest of my life, this is a piece of cake.

The ONLY problem I have today is that harness I bought for my dog, Tori Spelling. She has a small head... just like the real Tori Spelling and it pulls out of a conventional collar.... just like the real Tori Spelling. So, I bought her one of those harness contraptions that goes around her tummy and over each leg.  Here's the problem, when I took it off the cardboard it melted into a macramé of belts and buckles.  I put the dog's head through one hole and her paw through another; she looked like the cover of an S & M magazine. So I start over.  I put her head through another hole and her paw through here.  She looks like my grandmother in her corset.... it's hanging here, it's tight there. I start over. I put her head through this hole and pull her leg through that one. It won't fit... so now I grab her foot and pull it. POP... it's through and she's wearing a push up bra. I start over only now the dog goes, "GRRRRRRRRR". Evidently she WANTED a push up bra.  I can't get the effing thing off her... she looks like Mae West. She runs into her doghouse. I follow. It smells like shit in there... why...there's shit in there. I pull her out telling her calmly that if she doesn't let me get this harness off I'm going to have her put to sleep. I get it off.... now I've got it lying on the ground and next to it I've got a map of the dog and a map of the harness. I think I've got it this time. I pull and push, presto change-o, the straps are running horizontally, they should be vertical.  I pull it off. Now the big dog comes. He picks up the harness and runs into the back yard with it. I'm thinking gun... I'm thinking bomb.... I'm thinking of hostages at Petco. He will not give it back...not for a bone, not for a toy, not for my favorite Prada shoes he ate the night before. He wants the harness...and he's a big dog... BIG.... if I get a pony cart I could make money in Beverly Hills pulling kids around birthday parties.

Two hours later I finally get the effing harness away from him and on her. That dog is going to die with that harness on her. It's never coming off...ever. It could be faded, stink and on fire and I'm not removing it. It would be simpler to get her a bigger head.

February 24, 2006 6:20 A.M. -
I.B.S.

Do you see the time?  DO YOU??? I have been up since 4 a.m. with irritable bowels. That's what my doctor says it is but he's with Kaiser so I'm probably pregnant.  To me irritable bowels sounds like my bowels are too temperamental. I don't know if you know what irritable bowels are but I now have a direct connection to any woman with monthly cramps. My hat is off to you ladies, I don't know how you do it. From now on, when you flip me off on the freeway around the 25th of the month (that's the international sign for P.M.S.)... I'll understand because we now have a bond. Cramps. This is the kind of pain you wish on ex-in-laws. 

OK so no sleep last night, maybe four hours... but the blood pressure pills have slowed down my system so badly I feel like Billie Holiday at a recording session. I am so slow on the uptake; it doesn't feel like me... how can you be agitated and sluggish at the same time?  I hate it. How can I vacuum?  My only form of relaxation...I do Zen vacuuming... up one chair down the other, up one chair down the other, up one chair down the other. OHMMMMMMMM.

So it's 6 a.m., my day has not even started yet and it's started.  I go in for my morning pee and the phone rings. I don't know about you, but I can't stop mid pee and it feels like last night I drank Lake Superior. It would not stop.  And I have to get the phone before the 6th ring because then the answering machine picks up and it's on the 4th floor and has an annoying "beep" sounds when a message has been left which means that I will not be able to go back to sleep because all I'll hear is... "beep...beep....beep" to infinity.  I am now pushing the last of the Great Lakes out of my bladder and run to the phone. "Hello?".  My heart sinks...  it's one of my bi-polar celebrity friends and they're having "an episode". "Remember two years ago when we had dinner at your house? " (Me) "No"; "Oh yes you do. You told everyone I was mentally ill. Well how could you do that to me?"  How does one respond to that in pee stained pajamas?  "You're having an episode. That never happened." "I KNOW it never happened but how could tell people I was mentally ill????"  I stay on the phone with this person until I can take it no more. "I've got to go now." And just as insanely as they called they say, "OK, have a good morning" Why me?  How do I collect these people... and I've got a ton of them. There's the crier, the obsessive compulsive, the sex addict, the alcoholic, the drug addict and the sociopath. My closet friends.  I love them all so much because I can relate. I've had every one of their illnesses and if I can make it through, so can they... all they need is a friend that will listen. That's what I needed. I had one shrink tell me that with my childhood I should be proud I am not in a State Facility making wallets. To which I added, "yet".   The bottom line is these friends are my family and I love them with their warts and farts because lord knows I farted and warted with the best of them.

Now the morning doesn't end there.... my bi-polar friend calls back an hour later. 7:30. "I'm sorry I called you so early... but I was just thinking..." (Your first mistake)  and then, like an unraveling roll of toilet paper, I get a laundry list of accusations.  I lay the phone down on the counter and let the person spew. I butter my toast until I hear the murmuring stop. "OK, thanks for calling.  I'll see you tomorrow." CLICK.  Now most people would be angry but I know it's the illness talking and not my friend. I love this person. I want to see them well again, nothing would make me happier. I am of the conviction that we all should be there for one another. What this world needs is less self-obsession and more compassion... and a cure for irritable bowel syndrome.

And now. Off to The Bank of America to fight with a teller. I shall report my encounter later today.

12:02 PM

The strangest thing just happened.  I went to the bank, there was a space right out in front. I took it and entered the bank. There was no one in line and I walked up to the teller, handed him my deposit slip, he stamped it and handed me a receipt, "Thank you. Anything else?" is all he said. I said no and was out of the bank in five minutes. There's something very wrong here.  Where was the lady who is always in front of me depositing 157 dollars in nickels? Where was the 98-year-old man who couldn't figure out how to use the ATM?  Where were the
Iranians? There's always Iranians at the bank... some people visit relatives, Iranians visit their money.  Something is very, very wrong... maybe I've found the parallel universe. The entrance is in the Bank of America in Beverly Hills...  Or... maybe, just maybe... this is what it's like living in Utah.

February 25, 2006 –
SPORTS-BERG

So I'm watching the Olympics as Sasha Cohen skates between her falls last night and I'm thinking, "See, Cohen should not be in sports. Cohen should have a going out of business dry goods store on Long Island." Be serious, Jews were not meant to be sports figures, run heavy machinery or fly airplanes. Once, I was flying LA/NY and heard the announcement, "I am Stewart Rosenberg and I will be your captain today."  I immediately thought, "We're all going to die."  "Jews aren't pilots. Jews are in the back of the plane complaining..."I had a special meal." 

In any case, I'm watching Sasha and suddenly there is a bright light floating in front of my eyes... it turns to a chevron that obscures most of the TV. Then my vision begins to narrow and I can't see anything peripherally. My head starts pounding.  I think...I'M HAVING A STROKE. I run to the phone and call my Kaiser doctor who by now has given me his private number (he’s afraid I’ll mention him in my book)  I describe my symptoms and tell him where my will is. He laughs, which is exactly what you want to hear from your doctor when you're having a stroke.  And he says, "You're having a visual migraine".  "Are you sure? How do you know? Maybe you were absent that day. "  He reassures me the symptoms are textbook and to take two Tylenol. 

OK, let's review, shall we?  Irritable bowels, L4 & L5 bone spurs, and now visual migraines.  I can't just have a heart attack and die, I have to go out piece by piece, they'll bury my naval in a three-piece suit. He tells me what to expect and the migraine follows the exact course he predicted. I make it through the night and am here to write this morning. But it scared the shit out of me. (However, not as much as my bi-polar celebrity friend.) 

February 26, 2006 - 
THE RAINS CAME AGAIN.

We are about to start five days of rain here in LA. I have a huge mountain looming in my back yard with irritable bowel syndrome.  Last year it threw up all over my house, this year who knows what it will do so my level of anxiety is high this a.m. I'd take the "important " papers out of the office but the important papers were eaten last year by a 13 foot wall of mud and water. All I have left is a phone bill and an autographed picture of Allen Funt. 

However, I was reminded, by a friend fighting Cancer, that the garage door and the mudslide and the lost papers are just things and can be replaced. Ya know what? She couldn't be more right. All those things, while they "feel" shattering, are just a burp at the banquet table of life. So let's take a moment to reflect on the important things we have and the people we love and be grateful for what we have and then I'll tell you why I hate Beverly Hills. (Look at me getting all soft and mushy)

Feb 27, 2006 -
ESTELLE HARRIS COMES TO DINNER.

Last night I was cooking dinner and was reminded of the following story.

Estelle Harris, of Seinfeld fame, had read one of my plays and agreed to do a staged reading here in Los Angeles. She is a wonderful woman; a fine actress and I immediately fell in love with her. I wanted to thank her for all her efforts on my behalf and so one night I invited her over for dinner. I should have taken a gun and shot her, it would have been a lot less painful for her. You see, I completely forgot I can't cook. Can't boil water, I can make toast if I have the recipe.

It was holiday season and I thought I'd make the traditional Christmas meal... Russian brisket. I started at 8 a.m. I got out the crock pot and cut up the veggies, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten fingers... veggies go in the pot.  I added the meat. I added the seasoning. I plugged in the crock-pot... God is good.  I left for the day knowing that dinner would be ready when I arrived and I'd have plenty of time to prepare for Estelle. She was coming over at 7. 

At 3, when I returned and opened the door, there was no brisket smell in the air.  I ran to the kitchen, the crock is ice cold. I forgot to turn it on. Estelle will be here in 4 hours and I go into panic mode.  I empty the crock into a casserole dish and pop it in the oven. I set the electronic oven, which I have used 2 times, to have the meal done by seven and go about the task of setting the table... it's around 5 now and we have brisket smell. God is good.  I need to make the rice. I open the cupboard, grab for the rice, hit the oatmeal container and 3 pounds of oatmeal come pouring out. It's a Lucy sketch.  I'm covered in oatmeal, the floor is covered in oatmeal, the counter is covered in oatmeal, Estelle arrives in 2 hours. I have never done this but I call for the dogs, " MAINTENANCE!!!" I scream and dogs come running.  Within 3 minutes they have eaten all the raw oatmeal off the floor. All I have to clean is the counter and myself.  That's done and the dogs go back to the bedroom. I start all over. I grab for the rice, the bag rips and 4 pounds of long grain brown rice take up their position where the oatmeal just was. There is rice everywhere. My kitchen looked like the bride and groom just left for their honeymoon. Then I remember I need this rice for the meal. No dogs... but they hear the noise of falling food and are in the kitchen like in ten seconds. Picture me fighting them off with a broom. One dog has the broom in his mouth while the other is sucking up raw rice at one pound a minute.  I wrestle the dogs outside and survey what's left.... about one cup and seventeen hairs.  I can do this if I F. H. B. the meal. (Family Hold Back)  I know!  I'll make steamed veggies and that will take up the slack. I get to the kitchen that I now have to clean AGAIN.... I prep the steamed veggies, I make the rice minus the hair and I set the table. God is good.