Fried & Convicted, page 3
And while I enjoyed the trek, and wouldn’t say the morning was for the birds, this Pileated New Yorker prefers an activity with a little more of a pulse. Like sitting at the window at 400 East 51st Street in apartment 35 F and, with my Bushnell 70s, gazing across the street into the windows of 37 C. It is the city that never sleeps, you know.
As Woody would say, “(make woodpecker laugh sound here).”
April 2014
AND BABY MAKES THREE . . .
I was all prepared to launch this column by screaming, “What were we thinking???”
That’s because we just added a mini-schnauzer puppy to the family, and it’s been seventeen years since we last had a puppy nursery. During this time, especially recent history, our experience has been more canine assisted living than obedience training.
Therefore, we were sure we were in for it—exhausted, hapless retirees chasing a pup, sleep-deprived seniors suffering 2 a.m. backyard bathroom breaks, and harried, hoarse-voiced parents incessantly shouting, “No! No! Bad dog!”
But those things just haven’t happened. And, frankly, I’m a little pissed off. What the hell am I going to write about here?
We were in trouble from the start. After picking up the adorable, energetic pup from his parents’ house, the little angel slept on my lap the entire five hours it took to drive home. No squirming, barking, biting, or peeing. “Maybe he’s been drugged,” I suggested.
Back home, it didn’t get any worse. Dreading plaintive cries from his crate as he longed for his mommy, we did, right away, that which we’d do eventually anyhow. We let him sleep on the bed. And he did. All night, every night, not a peep nor a pee. When the alarm goes off at 7 a.m. we run him outside, where Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes does all his business instantly. Is this some kind of cruel hoax perpetrated on a journalist? I need material here!!!
Not that the puppy is catatonic, if he’ll excuse the feline expression. He’s all-canine, lapping the living room like NASCAR and chasing fly balls as if he’s at Fenway. And you should see this little WWE wrestler wringing the necks of his stuffed toys.
But that’s just it. They’re his toys. Despite a home filled with enticing chair legs, delicious newspapers, fluffy pillows, leather sandals and other puppy mouth-magnets, so far there’s been nary a tooth mark. We’re sitting around waiting for him to turn into Freddy Krueger or Hannibal Lecter and we get nothing.
Meanwhile, the industrial-size jug of stain remover just sits, languishing. Earlier today, I became completely unraveled when he learned sit/stay the first time we tried it and, at a mere 13 weeks, actually walked to the door and barked to go out. I’m surprised he hasn’t grown opposable thumbs and opened the door himself. Is this any way for a self-respecting puppy to act?
Right now, the prince is asleep under my desk, alluring computer wires free for the nibbling but he’s just snoozing with his head on his teddy bear. What’s a writer to do? Although the peace and quiet perpetrated by Mr. Wonderful does give me time to think about my twenty-year evolution in puppy parenting.
Our last schnauzer pups got metal food bowls, Milk-Bones, plain Purina kibble, and a wicker dog bed with an old pillow in it. Done.
Over the years, we learned of ceramic dog bowls in artistic metal holders, raised off the floor for better digestion; Tempur-pedic senior beds for healthy spines; gourmet food featuring lamb and rice; and glucosamine therapy for their joints. We succumbed to the whole expensive lot before our geriatric pets finally succumbed at ripe old ages.
But now, in the dog-eat-dog business of pet products, it’s even crazier. There are more dog foods in the pet store than human brands in the grocery. And the meals are reviewed with one to five stars, with the cream of the crop advertised as natural, holistic, non-allergenic, gluten-free, carb-free, and grain-free. They are not, however, financially free. His dinner costs more per morsel than mine.
And it must be yummy, with its power protein plus cranberries, spinach, peas, apples, potatoes, beta-carotene and folic acid. I avoided the five-star food with the spray-dried chicken liver—it sounded like something my grandmother made for Passover.
There are at least 65 five-star brands from Amicus to Ziwi, and there must be a thousand dog foods in all. So now, in addition to going berserk trying to remember what printer ink cartridge I need from Staples, I can also go nuts trying to recall if I buy Blue Wilderness, Authority Mini-Chunk, or Eukanuba Gold at Pet Depot. But I did make certain to choose a food with added blueberries for brain health and memory.
Although it’s not like he has to remember his social security number or a million different computer passwords. Or does he? The latest craze is interactive dog toys. We bought him the Doggy Blocks Spinner, a treat-hiding puzzle that “teaches step-by-step problem solving, in a two-part challenge!” Really? Maybe he can teach me how to use my smartphone.
Once he masters this one, sniffing out hidden kibble in the treat chambers, he can go on to the Pooch Puzzle for “circuit training your dog’s brain!” Seriously, is all this necessary? Can’t I just plop him down in front of Sesame Street?
Hang on a minute. He’s not under the desk anymore. Where did he . . .? Hey, get that sneaker out of your mouth! Drop it! That’s my new New Balance!
Yay!!! My kid is normal! So what if there’s an incisor mark on my new footwear. It’s not like it’s Dolce and Gabbana. And I’m so proud he’s a regular pup.
While at the moment he’s just goody one-shoe, I’m sure there’s more teething destruction to come. What were we thinking????
Bring it on!
April 2014
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR
At first, as you know, our new schnauzer, Windsor, was an unusually docile puppy and that worried us. Turns out he was just planning his strategy.
Mostly, he’s a good boy, but yesterday I uttered the inevitable, “What were we thinking?” while walking across the room with him hanging by his teeth from my bathrobe.
Windsor is teething, and his incisors are literally sharp as tacks. The new style we are wearing for spring includes Band-Aids. I just finished spraying a substance called Fooey on all our chair legs, electrical wires, and floor molding. While it might keep him at bay, he got it on his snout last night; I kissed his cheek and got the most vile and disgusting flavor on my own lips. I don’t think the object of this product is to have the consumers running around gagging and saying, “Pfooooeeeeyyyyy!”
When Windsor nibbled a slipper last night, I told him that was disappointingly trite.
If our old house was affectionately named Schnauzerhaven for the late lamented Moxie and Paddy, our new house is now The House of Windsor.
The pup’s royal name has nothing to do with stately old Windsor Castle, and everything to do with stately, eternally-youthful Edie Windsor, plaintiff in our marriage equality fight. Our boy is named for the victor in United States v. Windsor, which overturned the hateful Defense of Marriage Act. Thanks to Edie Windsor, federal marriage benefits and obligations are available to gays and lesbians married in states that permit gay marriage.
Naming the kid Windsor is our tip of the hat to Edie and an opportunity for simultaneous LGBT outreach. “What a wonderful name!” or variations, respond lots of folks who meet Mr. Adorable. Then, I tell them who he is named for and why.
It’s interesting to see which gay and straight people immediately recognize the name Edie Windsor, and why she’s famous, and which gay and straight people have no clue about her. It’s a pretty good litmus test for who’s been paying attention to current events, and, depending on their reaction, where they fall on the discrimination spectrum. As for gays and lesbians whose faces are blank at the name, wake up and smell the progress. She’s a hero.
Now we need to report to our state legislators that we have a new puppy—especially those who voted “aye” for marriage equality. This is not as bizarre as it sounds, nor am I deluded to think they actually want this mundane news. But I promised.
A little over a year ago, as I testified at Legislative Hall in support of marriage equality, I described my three-decade-long relationship—our supportive parents, our careers, and how our lives mirrored long-term straight marriages but without full equality. Oh, and about our many schnauzers. The end of the testimony went like this:
“We married first in Canada, when marriage equality there became legal. We married again last year, with a big, fat Jewish wedding, recognized as marriage by our religious institution, but only as a civil union in Delaware. So neither ceremony gave us what we need most—a legally recognized marriage equal to our heterosexually married neighbors.
Now, we’re retirees and sadly, just lost our remaining 15year old schnauzer. The dogs have been a benchmark for our 31 years. We urge the state to end our long run as lesser citizens. We need Delaware to pass the marriage equality bill so when the Defense of Marriage Act falls, whenever that may be, we will have the one thing we need, a legal marriage, to qualify for federal equal rights and benefits.
At the moment we’re debating whether we’re too old for a puppy. Our run with unequal rights has gone on long enough. Please be on the right side of history, and grant all Delaware citizens marriage equality. And we’ll let you know what we decide about the puppy. Thank you.“
So I’m off to send puppy announcements to the politicians. And thank, again, those who voted for marriage equality in Delaware. Owing to our legislators, Windsor’s parents are legally married, so technically he is not a little bastard.
Although after what he just did to the bathroom rug, I am not so sure.
May 2014
SUITING UP FOR SUMMER
It’s my own personal Black Friday. Time to buy a bathing suit. Yes, after the hideous winter along our shore, the sun has finally shone, and I need to go buy a sausage casing.
I started at the outlets, but the garments there are designed for skinny beach bunnies. I crammed myself into a stretchy floral number and looked like a float in the Rose Bowl Parade. Sorry—for me, orange blossoms are not the new black.
There was only one thing to do. Pay the big bucks for a “Miracle Suit.” Have you seen these things? They cost as much as a three-day cruise but are purported to help you shed 10 pounds in 10 seconds. Ten seconds my foot. Seriously. It took at least 10 seconds to squeeze my left foot through the first leg hole.
Getting the rest of me inside the suit was an extreme sport. I could drop my gym membership and just wriggle into this outfit once a day.
Exhausted but hopeful, I looked in the mirror and easily saw the 10 pounds the suit shed. They were my ta-tas, bulging up toward my neck, sadly less Sophia Vergara, more Mrs. Doubtfire.
After painfully extricating myself from that particular miracle, I tried the magic suit called “The Tankini.” Ugh. The shock of seeing myself in the Tankini made me lust for a martini.
Next I tried the “Anaconda Yasmin.” Yup. I looked like a boa constrictor who ate a goat. Marketing people, what were you thinking with that name???
I finally forced myself into the “Flash Dance” model. It was acceptable. Oh what a feeling.
That odious chore done, I turned to sunglasses. Even though I own several pair, every day is Where’s Waldo? While the Ray-Ban search adds hundreds, if not thousands, of steps to my pedometer stats, it is not my best use of time. So I broke down and bought an old-lady eyeglass necklace. Face it, no matter what chic brand of shades I now wore, I was but one step away from the matching housecoat and rolled-down stockings.
I loved having my sunglasses at the ready, but now, after switching, what do I do with my regular specs? Hence, I got a second neck lanyard. The first time I left the house I swapped glasses so many times I knotted my neckware and nearly strangled. It’s embarrassing being late for an event because you’re cutting yourself out of your eyeglass lanyards.
So, to simplify things I bought Fitover glasses—you know, the big clunky Mr. Magoos to cover your real glasses and turn you into Elton John. But they work. Now, my five-pound sunglasses hang around my neck indoors and provide protection outdoors.
Perfect. Well, not entirely.
One day after lunch, I walked around in the house smelling an odd, unpleasant aroma. It followed me around. What the . . . ??? And then I saw it. About six inches down from my nose, nestled in the right lens of the sunglasses hanging on my chest, was a big, smelly shard of onion. From that point on, after every meal I wipe my mouth and check the lunch bucket tied to my neck.
About beach chairs.
Are they getting lower or is it me? I went to a boardwalk store with the chairs on display outside and tried out a cute little number with a drink holder built into the arm. Plop! I’m down, with my butt inches above the boardwalk, knees in my face, ready for the starting gun for the two-man bobsled.
Instantly I realized that getting me out of this chair was not a one-person job. With beach chairs on either side, I had no wiggle room. My only option involved bouncing myself forward in the chair, then capsizing the vehicle onto its side, mid-boardwalk. When you are lying in a fetal position in a fallen beach chair on the tourist-filled boardwalk, your life does flash before you.
“I’m all right, I’m all right,” I hollered as I crawled out on all fours and finally stood up. Perhaps they make beach chairs with ejection seats.
My final summer prep is, of course, sunscreen. I used to use it religiously, which, for me, meant only on Passover or Chanukah. But now I know how critical it is to avoiding skin cancer, so I have become a zealot.
But like with many obsessions, how much is enough? SPF 8? SPF 25? SPF 50? The higher the number, the more epoxy-like it is. I worry that sitting at the pool packed in SPF 50, somebody will mistake me for a plaster gargoyle. Also, does this body cement float? Might I sink like a mobster in cement shoes? Not even my miracle suit will save me.
I’ve decided to compromise with SPF 30. After slathering up you can still bend your limbs, but gnats adhere on contact.
So I’m set for summer. I’ll cram myself into a swimsuit, don my polarized eyewear, slather myself with paste, and head to the beach. Of course, with climate change, it might be too hot to go outside this year.
If so, I can stay right here, in my pajamas, typing. It’s much less complicated.
May 2014
LIFE IS WHAT HAPPENS
WHEN YOU HAVE OTHER PLANS
Oh, crap.
For the past several days I’ve been talking with my wife Bonnie, friends, and other writers about a dilemma this writer is in.
For almost 20 years I’ve been chronicling my family life in the pages of Letters from CAMP Rehoboth. But what if the news is not as good as getting a puppy? And, small town that Rehoboth is, word gets out when there is trouble. As a writer, what do I do? There really are only two choices. Ignore what’s actually going on and write fake sunny, funny columns, or tell the truth.
For me, everything I’ve put in print over the years, no matter how embarrassing, silly, angry, or political has been the whole truth and nothing but. Sure, I embellish with a funny word here and there, but everything’s been honest, though viewed through my skewed sense of humor.
So for me, there is only one choice—the truth, and thankfully Bonnie agrees with me.
Unfortunately, a month ago, my wife was diagnosed with cancer. It’s amazing the changes that can occur to one’s system in just two years. She’d had a clean bill of health in her 2012 colonoscopy. That is no longer the case. So the first message is, if you’ve been dragging your feet, or your ass as the case may be, get the test. Now.
Secondly, Bonnie and I are hoping to be able to make lemonade from this lemon. We will be setting up our lemonade stand outside the RV in a campground near Annapolis, MD. Bonnie is being treated at Anne Arundel Medical Center, where a dear friend of ours is a VP and in charge of her care. It makes sense.
So, throughout this summer, as Bonnie undergoes radiation, chemotherapy, and probably surgery, we will stay true to the title of this column. We will be CAMPing OUT (the actual name of my column in Letters) in the RV five days a week and hopefully getting home to Rehoboth on weekends.
But the lemonade is not all bad. The campsite has a pool, a dog run, and even some dog agility equipment to entertain Windsor. We’ll have a grill and plenty of adult beverages and will be able to entertain there. It’s fifteen minutes from Annapolis for crabs and beer and lots of other diversions, including good friends.
Ah, friends. The words of comfort and offers of assistance have been many and incredibly touching. We hear you and thank you. They say actions speak louder than words, but the words have been mighty loud and lovely. One action, however, is worth a shout-out.
A quartet of friends offered to help us get the RV ready for the Annapolis adventure. Not in use since our snowy, muddy Thanksgiving trip last fall—frankly, the rig was a mess. We were told to show up on a Saturday morning to a friend’s driveway, where other friends had transported the vehicle. We planned, along with some helpers, to spend the entire day in Cinderella drudgery on our hands and knees scrubbing and washing the camper.
We arrived at the appointed driveway to discover that the rig, gleaming in the sun, had already been washed, dried, vacuumed, spit-shined, and otherwise completely made over into a sparkling clean home-away-from-home. Inside our version of the pumpkin-turned-carriage there were new pillows, new runner rugs, flowers, wine (Happy Camper brand, no less!) with new wine goblets, and Rehoboth souvenir artwork to keep the beach with us at all times.
As we say in Yiddish, we were verklempt. Overcome with emotion, all we could do was hug our friends, wipe our tears, and ask if it was too early to get into the Happy Camper wine. It was not.
I will say that Bonnie and I intend to keep our senses of humor through this upcoming ordeal. Last week we stayed in the home of an Annapolis friend, since we don’t move the RV to the campground until this coming Monday, Memorial Day.
