It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth (6 page)

March 3, 2006 -
FOOD SHOPPING.

I can't cook and if you don't believe me ask my beloved Estelle Harris. But what I didn't tell you was what happened the day before Estelle came to dinner when I went to Ralph's to buy the food. What I hate more than cooking is shopping for food.  I hate the parking lot. I hate the aisles. I hate the women on their cell phones,  " Do we have oregano?"  How insecure can you be that you have to call home for reassurance on spices??? So I hate the whole shopping experience. I wish I could just take a pill and that would be dinner.  However, if you HAVE to food shop I have discovered that if you shop at six a.m. you have the store to yourself and you can get in and out in ten minutes.

This particular morning Ralphs is completely empty. It's like there is a Ricin scare and nobody told me. It's 10 thousand square feet of Pop Tarts and anti-itch cream and it's all mine... just me and this 189 year old woman with a walker.  I do my shopping in five minutes and this includes coupons. I head for the check out at the exact time the 189-year-old lady gets to the check out.  She has a gallon of milk and preparation H. Being a gentleman I say, "After you." And she shuffles ahead of me. Now what I am about to tell you is the God's honest truth... on my father's grave.

The checker totals the two items, "That'll be $9.07" and Grandma Moses gets this look on her face like she's the poster child for Alzheimer.  "Ah... ah... did I get a lettuce?"  Checker says "No"... old lady..."Oooooh I need a lettuce".  And she takes her walker and begins the mile long trek back to produce. Checker into microphone,

"
Over ring!" Me, "Can't I just scoot in and buy my stuff?" She shakes her head "no".  The manager shows up with "the key" they sign the paperwork, they reset the register, they recount the money, throw a rattlesnake at the moon and face Mecca.  I bought my house with less red tape. Meanwhile back at produce Mrs. Senile is thumping lettuce heads. I scream at her across the store.... "It's a lettuce not a heart and lung machine!!!!"  She heads back to the check out stand, lettuce in hand.  The checker totals the three items it's now 6:29 a.m. "That'll be $10.18". The woman reaches into her purse and pulls out a hundred dollar bill. "MANAGER... CHANGE!!" Now it's 6:45 a.m. and the manager comes with the change for a hundred. The checker counts out the dollars and the woman hands her back a twenty. " I need two rolls of quarters". "MANAGER... CHANGE". 6:55 a.m. He arrives "Sorry we're out of quarters." The woman begins a long dissertation, "You see I do my laundry at that nice place on Westwood Blvd. and the last time I was there the change machine was broken. I told them it was broken but the kid who services the machines doesn't listen to me. I'm not the only one who complains... Mrs. Lathem also told him and I think..." KA- BOOM!!!!  The top of my head blows off. "For crap sakes will you buy your food and let me get out of here. It's Ralphs not the Federal Reserve. Do you go to the Bank of America and ask them for DEPENDS?????!!!!!"  And this sweet little old lady, with grey hair and a walker looks at me and in complete innocence says, " Oh blow it out your ass." 

And that is why I don't like to cook. 

March 4, 2006, 6:50 a.m.
- KITTY CARLISLE, THE CAT

Well you can see the time, 6:50 a.m., and it's already started. I woke up to a steaming pile of cat vomit on my brand new country pine, custom built, kitchen counter tops.  Now I haven't mentioned my cat, Kitty Carlisle, in the hopes that if I don't mention her...she'll just go away. You see, I never wanted a cat. I never needed a cat. I am NOT a cat person, my dog is.  About nine years ago my little dog, Tori Spelling, walked into the den with a chew toy in her mouth. She wouldn't put it down, and then it was dinnertime. She put the toy in her bed... and it moved.

After changing my pants, I walked over to inspect what my little terrier had brought home... a kitten? Oh no!  Here's my first thought, "I wonder if it'll fit in the garbage disposal." I have visions of shredded furniture and scratched molding.  I see watery eyes and hacking coughs. I see kitty litter everywhere. I am NOT a cat person... But when I pick up the kitten, with it's eyes closed and its umbilical cord still attached, Tori went insane. "PUT DOWN MY CHILD!!!!"    And so Tori had brought me a feral kitten... one that I had to hand feed every three hours from midnight to six a.m. while Tori slept in her bed. I thought, "This cat will never survive." How wrong I was. Soon, Tori started producing milk and fed the little fucker every day. It began to grow and crawl up my leg so it could pee on my shirt.

Soon, Kitty Carlisle was bounding all over the house and I was becoming attached to her. She is a Tuxedo cat with a Hitler mustache. (Should have been an omen.)  The cat continued to grow and soon it was a regular member of the family, until one day when a neighbor came over and the cat began to growl. GROWL. Helen tried to pet her and Carlisle took a swipe at her leaving a four-inch bleeding gash.  And that was the first of many scratches that strangers would have to endure when visiting my home. The cat was a holly terror, more vicious than any pit bull.  I once had a 6'3", 350-pound carpenter frozen in his tracks with Carlisle on the stairs above him preventing him from access. This isn't so much a cat as Satan's Love Child.

Tori and Carlisle were close friends for about 3 years. They slept together, played together did everything together until one day Tori looked at Carlisle and said, "Who the fuck are you?" and chased her out of the room. This left yours truly, the one who hates cats, as the only living thing Carlisle would let touch her. That is until I moved into this house.  The day we moved in Carlisle started hissing at ME. " I DON'T LIKE IT HERE. I DON'T WANT TO LIVE HERE. TAKE ME BACK TO THE VALLEY."

The change was too much for her and she couldn't adjust. Friends say, "Give her away" to which I would say, "To whom, Charles Manson?" The cat now lives in my kitchen window and refuses to have anything to do with me unless I move back to my first house.  I put her bed and food in the window as well as plants and water. It's sort of like my own Wild Country Safari right over my sink. She will not come near me and only leaves her self-imposed prison at night when she ventures out to vomit on the counter tops.  It's like having an abusive parent, who is too old to live alone, move in with you. There is love there but who wants it.

The first thing any guest entering my home notices is the "BEWARE OF THE CAT" sign over the doorbell. "God, that's so funny." they say. "You think so? Let's go meet Carlisle."  tee hee-hee, "You're not a bleeder are you?”

March 6, 2006 -
THE OSCAR PARTY

I'm beginning to think I was Adolph Hitler in a past life? Why? Who else would have a life like mine? Here's last night.

So I'm invited to the same party every year. It's a black and white Oscar Party...where everyone has to wear black and white. Hence the name, "black and white Oscar party." Duh. It's really quite a great event.  You arrive at the house and there is limo parked in the driveway. Behind the limo there is a scenic backdrop of a movie theater and photographers are hired to photograph you as you "step out of the limo."  It's a lot of fun, especially if you're from Ohio and don't get out a lot. But I'm telling you, I love this party and the people who throw it, so like Estelle Harris...I make do. Sooooooo, I have been looking forward to this party for weeks.  I even bought a new sport coat at J. Crew to the tune of $350.00 for the occasion. The party is called for 5. I'm meeting friends at my house and we're all going together.  Around 4 I step into the shower and immediately cut my foot on a razor left in there by "Juanita", my homicidal housekeeper. It looked like a scene from Psycho.  I shut the water; I bandage the foot. I go back in. No hot water.  I wait for the water to build up... I take the shower.  I have done one  "S" of the  "3 S's" of manly grooming (shit, shower and shave) and am heading for the second "S" when the phone rings. It's my friends...they're gonna be late. Why? They're at the Geary's sale. THE GEARY'S SALE AGAIN.

So I  "S & S"... no problem. I'm getting dressed when I notice the jerk at J. Crew has left the security tag on the hem of my new jacket.  It's not one of those little ones you cut off...it's the big one that needs the machine to remove. However, I am delusional and think I can get it off. My first attempt is with a hammer. I lay the jacket on the kitchen counter and give it a whack. It bounces; dent one on the counter top. Not being of sane mind, I do it a second time... dent two on the counter top. Matching dents, just what I always wanted.  Now I try to remove the tag with a screwdriver. Slam Bam....  a six-inch hole in the brand new, never worn jacket.  Steam is pouring out of both ears. It's a Roger Rabbit moment. I call J.Crew "BLAH,BLAH..BLAH-BLAH...BLAH...BLAH...BLAH"  "And what would you like me to do, sir?" she gurgles. I'd like you to shove this jacket up you ass and remove the security tag. Is what I'd like to say, what I actually say is... "Will you please exchange it?" I am such a wus.   Bottom line. Tomorrow, 45-minute drive to return the jacket some teenage airhead sold to me with a security tag as a bonus. The question arises..."How did I get out of the store with the security tag on?"  The answer, "Just lucky I guess."

My friends arrive an hour late, which is perfect because with the security breach at my house I'm still in my bathrobe. I pick out the closest thing I have to black and white... Red and Green and am prepared to hear 300 times..."Didn't they tell you it was a black and white party?"  We get to the party late and the food is being packed up. I run into the kitchen and grab the serving tray, as the maid is about to dump it in the disposal. So we're eating drippings and crumbs and look like homeless people by the Freeway.

The Oscars were interesting (yawn) and so entertaining. (yaaaawn) I don't know how anyone could zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

We leave with the perfect parting gift provided by our hosts, a full sized chocolate Oscar.  These people thought of everything. I wish they had worked at J. Crew.  We say our good byes and as I enter my car.  I slam my head into the car door. I wanted to see stars and I just did.

Now here's the best part of the night. This is one of those God shot moments. Remember that gig I didn't wanted to do and was so happy when it was cancelled. Well it was a cruise ship. I never wanted to do cruise ships...ever...they are the Wal-Mart of Comedy. But they offered me so much money I couldn't turn it down. It's that old joke... Jewish dilemma... pork at 29 cents a pound.  Well, when I got home and turned on the TV the first news story was...  "Ship comes into port early as entire crew and 1250 passengers get stomach virus."  It was the ship I was supposed to be on. Giggle. Giggle. There is a God and he does look out for me.  Maybe I wasn't Hitler in a past life... maybe just Himmler.

March 8, 2006 - 
TAKING MY MOTHER TO AUSTRALIA

The following story is true and infamous amongst my friends. Whenever a group of us get together and there is a new member of the group, eventually someone will say, "Hey Steve, tell so-in-so about when you took your mother to Australia". And then I am forced to relive one of the biggest nightmares of my life!

FIRST YOU HAVE TO KNOW MY MOTHER

When YOU think of Mom you think of that sweet lady who is baking cookies in the kitchen. When I think of Mom I think of a Staff Sergeant with all the tenderness of an acid burn. I didn't really have a mother; I had a Vice President in charge of maternal affairs. She is a wonderful person, she's a horrific mother... she's the kind of woman who should have never had children and has zero mothering skills.  We have a love hate relationship that seesaws because both of us never get our needs met. We live in a constant state of battle. She has one finger that she uses just to push my buttons and apparently I do the same to her. But she's my Mom and I've learned to deal with her... if you call two nervous breakdowns and a failed marriage dealing with her.  So that's my mother. Here's the

BACK STORY

In 1985 I starred in a show in Sydney, Australia and fell in love with the country, the lifestyle and the people, especially one Judy Robertson and her entire family, whom I adore. Judy was the most insanely wonderful person I ever met. (She passed a few years ago and I still grieve the loss.)  I worshipped the ground she walked on, she was wise and funny and talented and adored me unconditionally. (Does anyone know how to spell Freud?)  So, it was important to me to make several trips to Australia to see my adopted family, The Robertson's.  About 1990 (I'm foggy on the dates) my stepfather died and my mother was beside herself. I was making my weekly calls to my Mom, trying to be supportive, trying to tell her it would be O.K. Time heals all wounds...blah, blah, blah. However, it's like trying to be supportive to quicksand. She sucks you in and pulls you under.

I was making idle conversation when I said, "Guess what!  I just earned enough miles on American Airlines for two first class tickets to Sydney." I was about to say. "I'm going to sell one ticket and use the money for a vacation in Australia."  Before I could get that sentence out my mother jumped in with, "I'd love to go."  HUH? "No one has ever done anything nice for me in my life...and I would love to go to Australia." I hear the sound of a prison door slamming.  My knees began to shake. She goes on like a martyr,  "I won't mention it again. I'll just wait for someone to make me happy. " I think, If I don't mention it again... she'll forget.  For the next four months she mentioned it every time we spoke, "Did you make the reservations?" "When do we leave?" "Do they keep kosher in Australia? Should I bring meat?"