If I want to make a good impression at Authors Night, my renaissance needs to be genuine, and I have to stop worrying about the class part of the equation. I mean, I’m not going to outclass a bunch of millionaires—particularly with eight dollars in my purse—and trying to would be an exercise in futility. I need to find a way to be a kinder, gentler, more articulate me. I want to be the kind of me who doesn’t have to recount a reality show moment to best capture my feeling on a particular subject. And I don’t want other authors to roll their eyes after it’s over, saying, “What was up with that Lancaster chick? Obnoxious!”
So over the next month, I need to figure out how to better myself without losing what defines me.
I can start by not benefiting from my own bad behavior.
I decline the opportunity for a free dinner and later, when it’s time to eat, we end up at In-N-Out Burger.
It’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had.
When we get home from Las Vegas, I set my bags down by the back door and check the voice mail. There’s a message from the vet, who in a very matter-of-fact voice tells me that Maisy’s cysts—you know, the ones they’d been saying for years are nothing and they only aspirated at my insistence—are cancerous, and I should probably make an appointment to schedule surgery.
I feel like I’ve just been kicked in the heart.
While I take to my bed in hysterics, Stacey helps Fletch find a new vet, one who won’t blithely write off a spate of cancerous tumors as “Eh, just doggie zits” for three years.
Honestly, it’s a good thing it’s Sunday and my vet’s office is closed, because I’m not sure I can trust myself right now not to do something stupid. I mean, I always joke about stuff like bludgeoning the contractor and punching bad drivers in the neck, but I actually feel like I could commit physical violence right now against a doctor either too lazy or disconnected to take proper care of my baby.
The worst part is the kennel’s closed, too, and we can’t even pick her up until tomorrow morning. Fletch tried to contact them about getting the dogs early but kept getting the answering machine.
On our last night in Vegas, Fletch and I sat by the hotel pool and split a bottle of wine while we watched the fireworks. We were both pretty melancholy about Maggie, and somehow over the course of the conversation, Fletch agreed that we should take one of the kittens from Gina’s backyard.
But I wondered how we’d take just one kitten out of three. How would we go about deciding who’s going to get spoiled rotten with all the ottomans they can shred and who might perish on the streets? And wouldn’t they miss one another?
While Fletch decided he’d get us another bottle of wine, I decided we’d take all three and sent Gina a tipsy e-mail saying as much. Fletch eventually agreed to my idea, but since I first plied him with liquor, I’m not sure his acquiescence would hold up in court.
My face firmly planted in my pillow, I beg Fletch to call Gina and find out when we can get the kittens because I desperately need something else to occupy my thoughts. We make plans to stop by tomorrow night.
I spend most of the next twenty-four hours hugging my dog and crying. I also Google Canine Mast Cell Disease and almost throw up when I find out the typical life expectancy after diagnosis and with treatment is one to two years, if we’re lucky.
Suddenly, my baby dog, my best friend, the greatest gift I’ve ever gotten other than my husband, comes with an expiration date.
While I’m waiting for Fletch to get home from work so we can pick up the kittens, I furiously start scheduling cultural activities to keep me occupied. I sign up for foreign cooking classes, wine appreciation courses, and cheese seminars. I buy tickets for dance recitals and theater performances and book dinners at molecular gastronomy restaurants. I’m trying to be as show-must-go-on as I can, but I wonder if I’m going to be able to focus on anything in the near future.
Gina greets me with an enormous hug and a million words of encouragement. She’s baked us one of her world-famous pound cakes, too, which really touches me. I’m not close to my family anymore—let’s just say big, fat, thoughtless mouths are a genetic trait—so it feels really good to have friends filling these roles.
Gina leads us down to the basement, where the kittens are currently being kept. “How’d you catch them?” Fletch asks. When we saw her a couple of weeks ago, Gina told us the shelters instructed her not to touch them, as her scent might turn their mother against them. As far as we know, no one’s ever laid a human hand on them.
“I lured them into my gingerbread house,” Gina replies. “I opened a can of Trader Joe’s tuna, set it in the cat carrier, and then shut the door on them. Then I brought them into the basement and essentially dumped them into this.” Gina points at the largest dog carrier I’ve ever seen. Both our old dogs George and Ted could have fit in there together. Nixon, too. Possibly even Spiro Agnew.
“Why do you have this? Did you have a Malamute I didn’t know about? Or a pony?” I asked.
“No, when I brought Bailey in,168 he needed to be separated and contained while the abscess on his leg healed, so I bought this for him to live in. That is, until he took over my whole guest room.”
The plan is for Fletch to reach in the enormous doggie condo, grab the kittens, and deposit them in our more portable cat carrier. Before we do, I want to take my first peek at them. I peer into the doggie condo, which we’ve tipped on its side so the kittens can’t escape through the open door. There are three tiny gray bundles of fur, all hunkered together in the very corner of the carrier. “Oh, my God, they’re adorable!” I squeal.
“I’ve been calling them the Cherubs because they’re so stinking cute,” Gina replies.
“We’re going to call them the Thundercats until we figure out what to name them. Also, that’ll help me not get too attached in case they test positive for feline diseases, you know?”
Gina muses, “I was really surprised to get your note Saturday and then to hear from you, Fletch. I thought when we were at brunch, you made your thoughts on new kittens pretty clear. You’re really behind this?”
With an entirely straight face, he says, “Absolutely. This is the very best idea I’ve heard since you, Lucy and Ethel, got all the cats together for a playdate. I mean, what could possibly go wrong incorporating three feral kittens into our household?”
“You’d prefer I start crying again?” I challenge.169
“No, no, certainly, let’s collect our precious kittens and go home. Maybe we’ll find some stray dogs on the way and bring them, too.” The thing is, he argues, but if he didn’t want to be here, too, even a little bit, he’d never have agreed to this.
Fletch bends down and places his hand in the condo to retrieve the first kitten. I can’t wait to get a closer look at them! They seem so tiny and perfect, cuddled together. One’s all gray and white and extra fuzzy, one’s sleek and small with black tiger stripes on slate-colored fur, and one’s a blend of stone and tan colors, spots and stripes. Their eyes are huge in shades of blue and green, taking up most of their tiny faces. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything cuter or sweeter or . . .
“AAAHHHH! I’m bitten! One of them bit me! Look at this—blood!” Fletch shouts.
“What? That can’t be,” I say. “Their teeth are tiny.”
“Their teeth are tiny razors,” he snaps.
“Try it again,” Gina suggests. “Go in more slowly this time. You probably just scared them.”
Resigned, Fletch takes a deep breath and slowly lowers his hand back into the condo. He lingers with his arm in for a second before yanking it out and flailing backward. “OW! Jesus Christ, ow! They’re like piranha in there, a carrier full of fucking piranha! They just tore the shit out of my hand.” Fletch holds up the bloody stump attached to his wrist.
“Oh, no!” Gina exclaims. “I have rubbing alcohol; we can put it on your cuts.”
“Yes, because THAT will stop the rabies,” Fletch responds drily.
At this point, Gina f
inds a gardening glove that barely fits over his fingers. We try to help him retrieve the kittens, but it’s kind of impossible, considering how hard she and I are laughing.
Every time Fletch thrusts his hand in to grab one, a different kitten attacks. At some point, one of the kittens begins to panic and sprays diarrhea, and then Fletch has to navigate through that, too. He shoots me the world’s dirtiest look, to which I reply, “Hey, I can cry again,” and he continues his mission.
We finally get them all gathered up, and while Fletch gets a bleach-and-antiseptic bath from the elbows down, I eat some pound cake. (It’s delicious!)
As we drive back up the expressway, I feel hopeful.
I figure nothing that starts out this bad can end any worse.
Gina had never gotten a real look at the little guys, and when we finally do see them up close, we notice they’re in rough shape. Sneezy, rheumy, wheezy, itchy, and one of them has what appears to be a giant pink balloon attached to his butt.
This can’t be good.
I bring them to our cat vet first thing in the morning. Turns out the poor little guys wouldn’t have made it for more than another day or two. They have eye infections, upper respiratory infections, dehydration, ear mites, and fleas. Ten percent of their body weight is worms. And one of them has a prolapsed rectum, which essentially means the little guy had such bad diarrhea that he blew out his o-ring.
Fortunately for Fletch, they don’t have rabies, nor do they have any of the fatal cat diseases, so we authorize treatment, thus incurring the first pet surgery to repair Thundercat One’s bunghole.
There’s an issue with Thundercat Two’s eye and we’re referred to a feline ophthalmology clinic.
Nope, I didn’t know such a thing existed, either.
I find out that Thundercat Two needs to have his third eyelid sewn over the eye if there’s any chance he’ll able to keep the eye. I confirm that even with one eye Thundercat Two will have an excellent quality of life, so I sanction the surgery and name him Odin.170
Thundercat Three makes a complete recovery. There’s nothing additional wrong with him, except that he’s an asshole. He’s such a jerk that the vet’s office has to spend the whole week weighing him in a trash can. The nurse tells me she holds him up in the window of his incubator so everyone can get a glimpse of his “mean face” whenever the staff needs a lift.
Naturally, we name him Chuck Norris.
As for Maisy, our new doggie vet refers us to “the Mayo Clinic for pets” in the suburbs, where Maisy’s operated on by a board-certified surgeon and her follow-up chemotherapy will be taken care of by a canine oncologist.
Yes, canine oncologist.
Apparently they exist, too.
Maisy comes through her surgery like a champ. In the meantime, Chuck, Odin, and Angus171 finally get to come home.
One might think the kittens would show a little bit of appreciation for the people who wrote enormous checks on their behalf.
One would be wrong.
For the first few weeks, they actively hate us, and every time we go into their room, they cower and hide. At one point, Fletch asks me if someone couldn’t get sweet, socialized, nonferal kittens for twenty-five dollars at PAWS.
“Um, yeah,” I reply, “but only if they don’t like a challenge.”
We’re slowly winning them over, one can of kitten food at a time. Now their hissing and cowering is cursory at best.
Maisy’s in fabulous spirits, too, although I have to try to keep her from leaping, cavorting, and frolicking until her stitches come out. She acts like everything was like the season on Dallas that turned out to be Bobby’s bad dream.
As for me, yesterday was the first day in a couple of weeks that I didn’t have to spend hauling pets to specialty clinics or having panic attacks.
That was nice.
Which means now I can get back to the business of culturing up, a task made less easy by being stared at by seven and a half sets of eyes.
To: stacey_at_home
From: jen_at_home
Subject: why you bring home tiny devils?
I’m in the process of rearranging the furniture in my office. As it’s my desire to jam every inch of living space full of as much furniture as humanly possible (at least according to Fletch) there are still some unhomed items floating around the middle of the room. Presently I have a rolling office chair pulled up to the front of my desk and Maisy’s climbed into it.
She’s sitting upright on her haunches and facing me.
We appear to be having a meeting.
I keep cracking up while I consider what we might need to meet about, e.g., “Items on Maisy’s Agenda.”
1. Why U No Give Maisy More Cookies?
2. Maisy Prefer Make Poops in Front Yard and Care Not If U Think It Kind of Ghetto.
3. Maisy Never Forget Time U Drop Pork Chop on Floor and Maisy Quicker Than U.
4. U Hurt Maisy Feelings When U Call Her “ArmpitBull.”
Maisy Not the One Too Lazy Give Baths and Maisy Tongue Only Capable of Clean So Much.
5. Maisy Beg to Differ—Guest DO Want Maisy Jump All Over Them.
Speaking of Maisy, she’s doing really well. Her stitches are healing up nicely and she’s in her usual high spirits. She was extra-snuggly the first night she came home, but outside of that, it’s business as usual.
Now what we need to work on is keeping her from sharting herself every time one of the Thundercats hisses. . . .
ALTGELDSHRUGGED TWITTER:
Watched Singing’ in the Rain today for the first time. Note to self: BUY TAP SHOES.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Either You’re In or You’re Out
Back in the dot-com era, the big thing for newly minted executives was to join superexclusive private clubs. Previously these clubs had been the bastion of old Chicago families and businesses.172 But because everyone was caught up in the glamour of the dot-com lifestyle, these staid old institutions began opening their doors to new members. In fact, they started bending their own rules about income and selection, offering specials to those of us in certain industries.
Fletch and I snapped up a membership at a club housed in the Sears Tower. Instead of making us pay something like five thousand dollars, they let us in for a discounted rate of five hundred dollars. Nothing made us happier than to put on our finest clothes and pop on down to the Tower for some drinks and a quick bite. Didn’t matter that we had to eat at the club because we were both a week away from payday and had no cash for groceries; we could just sign for everything and pay later.
Eventually the dot-com bubble burst, and we didn’t have the means to settle up, so we defaulted on our membership. I suspect we weren’t alone.
My guess is our chichi private club went back to being a quiet place for lawyers and bankers to enjoy a quick lunch before returning to their office to work another ten hours. And I’m willing to bet they don’t miss us and our raucous conversations when we’d prattle on about our go-to-market strategies and sticky content and oh-my-God-how-cool-would-it-be-to-have-an-IPO. I suspect they used to look at us over their reading glasses and think, “Kids, when you stop selling air and start doing real business, y’all be sure and let us know.”
There was one club I particularly wanted to join because they had an enormous outdoor pool surrounded by a giant sundeck. Unfortunately, I didn’t know any members who’d sponsor me—or have good enough credit—to get in. For ten years, it’s been my goal to wield the means and wherewithal to join.
As it turns out, the membership application takes two minutes, it only a costs a couple bucks more than my old gym, and I don’t even have to be friends with anyone to sign up. No one does a credit check or makes me go through any kind of awkward interview process. Pretty much they show me the pool, explain where to park, and that’s it.
I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or overjoyed.
But either way, I’ll finally be tan.
Today’s my first day using the p
ool. I pretty much fly out of bed and change directly from my pajamas to my swimsuit. Then I whip my hair back into a bandanna and throw on yesterday’s gym shorts and I’m on my way.
When I get to the club, I toss all my stuff in a locker, grab my well-loved old Lands’ End boat-and-tote bag, and rush up to the pool.
I’m delighted to finally have a place to wallow, yet the second I walk out onto the sundeck, I realize I’m doing it wrong. Apparently no one got the memo that this club is no big deal, and everyone’s dressed to impress.
Ladies sport the kind of bikinis that are so intricately beaded they’d fall apart if they touched water. And their hair’s done and their makeup’s perfect and no one’s wearing a ratty old gym shirt as a cover-up. Unconsciously, my hand goes to the small patch on the side of my suit where the chlorine destroyed the elastic last year as I work my way over to the corner of the sundeck.
I settle into the chair and spend a few hours swimming and sunning, yet I never quite seem to enjoy myself.
I feel awkward and out of place here, and I can’t figure out why, particularly since I didn’t even fake my way into this membership.
After a week of torrential rain, Chicago’s finally graced us with a sunny day. Today I feel a little more ready to hit my pretentious pool. Instead of wearing my usual gym shorts over my bathing suit, I’ve got on a snappy new gauzy tunic.173 Instead of my usual bandanna do-rag, I’m protecting my hair with the same kind of awesome woven straw cowboy hat you always see the Real Housewives wearing to the beach.
I set aside my old Ray-Bans and am instead sporting flashy sunglasses with sparkles all over the stems. I’ve donned some heeled sandals in lieu of Crocs and I’m carrying a little bag from the Four Seasons and not my tote.174 When I hit the sundeck, I note with satisfaction that I’m done up exactly like every other woman at the pool, except I’m not wearing a spangled bikini, which . . . no. Instead I have on a new understated black miracle suit, with the tiniest bit of decorative trim.
My Fair Lazy: One Reality Television Addict's Attempt to Discover If Not Being A Dumb Ass Is the New Black, or, a Culture-Up Manifesto Page 16
