TAKE OFF YOUR COFFIN SHOES AND PARTY LIKE A ROCK STAR

 So, after having relieved myself AND getting the grand tour of FATHER’S CHAMBERS, I grab me a seat just as the bridal procession kicks in and begins marchin up to the altar.  Yup, there goes my hubster in his new shoes looking very sharp indeed, right down to those pesky suspenders.   Praise the Lord.

I sit by myself in the next-to-last pew all the way at the back of the church.  It’s a very long service, all the bells and whistles for this one.  Utter fatigue comes at me in a brutal wave.  I spend the duration of the ceremony with my hands clasped and head bowed.  People must think I’m terribly religious, but what I’m doing is sending psychic messages to Ellie and Herman.  I’m so sorry, my Bubbies, but this could not be avoided.  Mommy is on her way to save you soon.  Please be strong.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you.  

My tears fall in hot, wet splashes onto the polished wooden bench in front of me.

                                                * * * * * * * * *

Reception.  It’s all such a haze now.   Outdoor cocktail hour:  Sauna-esque.  Storm clouds are stealthily gathering.  Chris is off with the wedding party posing for pictures.  I sit alone indoors where it’s slightly cooler, nursing my seriously swollen ankle and a glass of red wine.  By the time I finish this one glass of wine, I feel like I am tripping on acid. 

The Wedding-Band amps are feeding back.  Speeches are made.  Applause.  More speeches and applause.  And feedback.  The sky outside turns black and storm clouds eventually break.  Thunder, lightening, violent downpour.  As people serve themselves buffet-style, I stare out the nearest window chewing painfully on my lower lip. 

Ellie hates storms.  Ever the pro, she snoozes thru them,  snoring luxuriously beneath our bed among her blanket and toys.   But Herman is just so heart-breakingly petrified of thunderstorms.  At the slightest rumble, he always makes a beeline for ME.  He buries his bony, horsy face in my armpit, whimpering as I stroke his silky ears.  

 {{{  I’m coming.  }}}

                                                 * * * * * * * * * *

One thing I can say that works out pretty good – the reception place is just down the road from MARY’S kennel.  It’s about two miles away, tops, and this thought keeps me going.  I mean, Ellie and Herm just gotta be feeling my supportive vibes throughout this rumbling, storm-fueled afternoon. 

Several hours later, I shock myself by how excited and energetic I become as we bid farewell and bon chance`  to all the gay nuptial revelry.   Nearing sunset, it’s cooler out now.  But it’s still uncomfortable – the copious downpour has not done much to improve the general conditions.  The car A/C is still not working.   Who the hell cares – floor it. 

We are still a good city-block away and I can hear Ellie’s bark.  It’s definitely her.  I know, because she barely ever barks but when she does – THAT’S ELLIE.  It’s cloying.  It’s harsh.  It’s shrill.  When Ellie sees fit to bark, it’s because she's being a nag and a shrew.  Or scolding me. 

Sure enough, as we pull up in the driveway at the kennel, we are greeted by the sight of MARY standing at a side gate and at her feet is Ellie.  Leaping.  Barking.  Extremely hoarse.  Eyes flashing at me with panic, indignation and – yes – joy. 

 Mary shakes her head, calls out to me: “Oboy.  She was something else.”

I approach the gate: “Ellie…Ellie…”  She won’t stop barking and is trying to literally walk thru the fence to get to me.

It’s then that I hear Herman piping in for the first time, his voluminous bellow coming from around back somewhere:

“Roww… Rroowwwr….. ROOOWWW- RAUUUUUUWWWWWWWRrrrr…..”

Mary: “That’s Herman.”

Me: “Yeah, I hear ‘im!”

Mary: “He’s such a nice fella.  Hardly made a sound.  Just stood around lookin’ kinda worried all day…” she gestures to Ellie: “But HER…”

I cannot help but crack up because Ellie is being so mental.  That poor kid.  

Handy-Dude emerges leading a whining, sweetly eager Herman along.  Ellie is directly behind, totally dragging MARY (and MARY ain’t no little kid).  

I think I had envisioned some kind of big, emotional reunion with these two.  Like – in slow motion - I’d kneel down and stretch my arms out, and they’d hurl themselves at me and knock me down backwards and lick my face and we’d laugh and bark and laugh and bark and laugh…

But that didn’t happen.  Instead, both dogs charge the front door – yanking right past me and Chris where we stand at the doggy-reception desk.  I’m still squaring things away money-wise, so Chris takes both leashes and Ellie and Herm yank him DIRECTLY OUTSIDE TO THE CAR where they PILE IN so fucking fast it could make your head spin.  Together they sit, panting like lunatics - side by side in the back seat, where it’s totally over-crowded with too much crap that we haven’t been able to organize properly yet for the big drive home.   They are staring straight ahead like zombies and they are not getting out of this car.  Never.  Not ever again.  NO.  DAMN.  WAY.

So I say good-bye to MARY and Handy-Dude.  I tip them handsomely, at which they seem taken aback and reluctant to accept. 

Me: “No, no.  Thank you for everything.  And Mary, I hope your doggy heals up fast.”

Mary: “Me, too.  Thank you.  Oh, and before I forget…Herman and Ellie…they both seem to be experiencing stomach distress.  You may need to watch their diets a little bit.”

I stare at her for a moment, contemplate saying: ““Well, actually, MARY…their diets are quite exceptional if I do say so myself.  But I do believe that what they MIGHT be experiencing is actually something called: “It-seems-that-we-have-been-ABANDONED-to-some-sort-of-DOGGY-ASYLUM-and-we-are-so-FREAKED-OUT-about-it-that-it’s-all-we-can-DO-to-SHIT-OUR-BRAINS-OUT-SYNDROME.”

But of course I don’t say that.  I just say:

“Okay, thanks MARY!  And if anyone I know ever needs a kennel in ALBANY, I will TOTALLY recommend you guys!”

Then I go pile in, too.

And then me, Chris, Ellie and Herman…

We’re all GONE.

                     * * * * * * * *   

One day, once a little more time has passed, I’m gonna get a T-shirt made that sez:

“We Survived Albany.”

                                                                                * * * * * * * 

…And Get Me To The CAN On Time… Pt. 7

COFFIN SHOES.  That’s what Rita (my dear friend and co-worker) calls those troublesome monstrosities that nearly gave my husband a stroke on the morning of his brother’s wedding. 

To get a little ahead of myself here:  Days after this whole Albany fiasco, I’m telling her the whole story. 

She sits back and states simply: “Coffin Shoes.”

Me: “What?”  But even before she explains, it sounds right to me.

Rita:  “Coffin shoes.  They bury people in ‘em.  Well, they USED to bury them in ‘em, anyhow.  In the old days.  Nowadays I guess most people go with the half-closed casket...” 

Me: “Really!  COFFIN SHOES!”

Rita: “Yeah.   They’re not meant to be WALKED IN of course, so the soles aren’t real.  They’re just for show.  You know.  Before they slam the lid...”

We’ll never know for certain what the deal was with those ungodly shoes.  But again, Coffin Shoes sounds about right.   

                                                            * * * * * * * * *

Anyhow - YES - true to my deepest womanly intuition, there is indeed a PAYLESS Shoe Emporium back near the thruway.  After a gut-wrenching drive, the first thing I see as we approach a big shopping center is the familiar yellow and orange PAYLESS sign glimmering in the sunlight’s glare.  Surreal,  it practically shimmers, made wavy from the heat rising off the asphalt. 

Chris is in and out of that PAYLESS like a whippet.  It’s undoubtedly the speediest shoe purchase on record in the entire history of the human race.  He gallops triumphantly back to the car already wearing his new shoes which are slightly loafer-ish but BLACK and perfectly adequate under these dire circumstances. 

According to our calculations, we have less than one minute to get to the church.  While we know there’s no chance in hell we’d ever make it, this does not stop Chris from trying.  The resulting ride is the most harrowing yet, with the added charm of the fact that my bladder is now bursting.  And why not?  I’ve sucked down about 15 gallons of water over the past several hours.  Every stop, bump and turn is a dagger piercing my groin. 

Now, I’m a Forest Park Gal.  I ran with a hardcore partying crowd from way back.  Shorthand for this: I can pee just about anyplace and do so quite skillfully and undetected.  But alas!  Apparently, I cannot flaunt this particular talent while in Albany.  I had thought that once we got to the mall parking lot, bingo - piece o’ cake.  Million possibilities.  Hell, whiz right outside the car door if need be…  

No, nope and nuh-uh.  This parking lot is CRAWLING.  Not one instant passes when there aren’t 9 or 10 jackasses leisurely strolling by from every possible direction.  I can’t believe it, but I never get my opportunity.  Then Chris returns like lightening wearing his new, normal shoes and we’re back on the road.

* * * * *

This church is pretty gigantic, and there are no parking spots anywhere in sight.   Chris literally flings himself out of the car while it’s still moving, leaving me to my own private hell.  Which strangely enough is a small relief.  Let the wedding party have a go at him now.  My work with him is - for the moment - done.  Now my only priority is finding a way to relieve myself without soaking the entire lower portion of my ensemble. 

I circle and circle the church in search of both a parking spot AND a pissing spot – I’ll take either, preferably the latter.  But no – I find a parking spot first – one opens up directly across the street from the church.  There are about fifty gazillion people milling around, so there’s no way I can even think about attempting a car-side whiz.  

I think: There’s GOT to be a restroom inside the church itself.  You can make it.  Just a little longer, you can make it…

I park the car, grab my walking stick (because my bad ankle is now ON FIRE), and lurch up the church stairs, into the lobby.  The organist is noodling.  Pews are full and steadily filling, much like my bladder.  I don’t see Chris, but then it’s not really him I’m looking for.

A pious-looking woman strides near me and I quickly ask her: “Excuse me.  Where can I find a ladies room?”

She raises an eyebrow slightly then says: “You’d have to go to the basement.  Thru FATHER’S CHAMBERS.”  She points.  My eyes follow her pointing finger.  FATHER’S CHAMBERS appears to be thru a doorway, just next to the altar at the front of the church.  About sixty million miles away. 

My own voice sounds far away, muttering sickly: “Okay.  Thank you.”

I lurch on along the far left-hand side of the church, my eyes glued to the wall and the pictures of THE STATIONS OF THE CROSS.  I feel just like Jesus Christ.  At this moment, I AM Jesus Christ.  I can feel many eyes on me as I make my way:  Where does that woman think she is going?  Goodness.  WHO is she and WHY is she invading FATHER’S CHAMBERS…”

I make it up to that altar pretty quick, amazing myself.  Let’s hear it for “Feats of Needs-to-Urinate-Strength”!  I burst thru a linen, curtainy-thing right into FATHER’S CHAMBERS.   Father is not in right now, but the groom’s teenage son is. 

Me: “Hey, _ _ _ _!  Don’t you look nice!”

Sonny (Smiling):  “Lynn!  What’re you doing in here?”

Me: “Uhhh.  You cannot believe what I have just been thru.  I need the bathroom.”

Sonny (Looks concerned): “It’s all the way down these stairs…”  he motions with his chin to the corner of the room where I can see the beginning of a spiral staircase, “Please be careful, Lynn.”

I walk over to the staircase and look down at what appears to be 2 full flights of nonstop, rickety, narrow Hades.  For one brief, dizzying moment, I consider dropping trough and pissing right on the floor – yes – right here in FATHER’S CHAMBERS.  Now wouldn’t THAT be something!

But no.  I resolutely begin my descent.  It is endless.  At the bottom of the staircase, I glance quickly around.  One phrase resonates in my mind: CHURCH DUNGEON.  Ultimately, I am victorious with nary a leak nor a drip to betray me.  I can hear the intro music kicking in upstairs.  Up, up, UP…I go. 

Back in FATHER’S CHAMBERS and it’s gotten a little busier in here!  Not only is my nephew still in attendance, but FATHER is here, along with the groom.  Just me and THE BOYS! 

Chris was right – this priest IS scary!  He is frowning at me in such a state of consternation that I can’t even begin to think of what in hell there is to say right now.  So I just say: “Hiya!  You guys all look great!”

The Groom (Big grin): “Hi, Lynn!  How are ya?”

Me: “I’m good!”  We stand there facing each other, both smiling vapidly, “Ok, well you’re all busy here…so…GOOD LUCK out there WITH THE BIG SHOW!”

YES – I ACTUALLY SAY THESE WORDS, with FATHER looking on.  VER BATIM:  GOOD LUCK OUT THERE WITH THE BIG SHOW.  

As I flee FATHER’S CHAMBER’S, I hear my nephew burst out laughing.

ON WITH THE SHOW! 

TO BE CONTINUED...

                                                             * * * * * * * * *

HAPPY TRAAAILS...TO US! - Pt. 6

SO…I grab my trusty knee-scooter and gets ta wheelin’ to the hotel lobby desk to officially check us out of this dump.  Chris, decked out in his tux and the incredible disintegrating shoes, heads out to the parking lot and waits for me. 

After squaring things away with the desk clerk, I cut back thru the hotel corridor since it’s the shortest way to get out to the parking lot.   As I approach the room we just checked out of, I see a bunch of hotel custodial-type dudes and gals gawking at the hallway carpeting.  It, too, is covered in the inky, tar-like streaks from the dissolving shoes.   Chris has left a long, dark trail behind him going from the room to waaaay on down the hall to straight out the back exit and into the parking lot.

Janitor Dude # 1: “What the FUCK is THIS SHIT?”

Janitor Gal: “I ain’t NEVAH seen NUTHIN’ like d’at.   D’atz jus’ NASTY.”

Janitor Dude # 2: “Well, I ain’t even gonna TRY cleanin’ THAT shit!  THAT shit ain’t NEVER comin’ out!”

Janitor Dude # 1 (peering into recently evacuated room): “And LOOK – it’s all over the floor in HERE, TOO!  DAY-UM – what IS that?!”

I scoot past as furtively as possible, head ducked.   Finally outside, I immediately spot Chris in the middle of the parking lot.  He’s leaning against our car in the blazing sunlight, tux all askew.  I scoot up to him.

Me: “Why don’t you get in the car and put on the A/C?  You look like you’re dying… Wait.  Don’t tell me…”

Chris: “The A/C died again.   IT’S AN OVEN IN THERE.”

My heart sinks at this horrid (yet unsurprising) bit of news.  I look down at THE SHOES.  Truly magical, these shoes.  All kinds of twigs, gravel, bottle caps and cigarette butts have attached themselves to their melting, gummy bottoms. 

Me: “Listen, we should truck the hell outta here, man.  The whole cleaning crew’s in there cursing about the black shit all over the hallways...”

Chris: “O, my GOD.  It’s all over the hall?”

Me: “Well, what do you think?  HELL YEAH, it is!  It looks like blatant vandalism,” I point at the ground, “LOOK!  It’s all over the parking lot, too – a trail leading directly to The Culprit.  You know, honey, you probably shoulda worn your old shoes until…”

Chris: “YEAH, YEAH, YEAH.   ALWAYS LATE WITH THE BRIGHT IDEAS, THANKS A MILLION.”

Me: “Hey,  I’m just sayin’…”

Chris: “CHRIST.  I don’t even know what the hell is up with these goddamn SUSPENDERS…”  He’s whipping around like he’s chasing his tail - the dopey suspenders snapping just out of his grasp.   I make a move to help but he frantically slaps my hand away:

Chris: “FORGET IT.  WE’LL DO IT LATER.  I GOTTA GET TO A SHOE STORE RIGHT NOW.”

And once again, it’s GO TIME.

* * * * * *

So!  THERE ARE NO SHOE STORES IN ALBANY.

That’s probably an exaggeration, but damned if we can find one.  The church is a good half-hour away and we pass every kind of store and shop imaginable along the way and NOT ONE is a SHOE STORE.

I have become Herman, my head dangling out the car window, ears flapping.  I ask about four thousand pedestrians along the way: “EXCUSE ME!  Can you please tell me where the nearest shoe store is?” 

I get nearly the same exact response every time.  The person stops and squints at me, mouth hanging open like a trout.  Then: “SHOE STORE???”   They look up and down the street as if a fucking shoe store is gonna pop up out of the ground.  They look back at me, head shaking woefully: “Uhhh…I don’t remember seeing any shoe stores around here…”  Each time, impossibly saddened.  As if they, too, have only just realized how pathetic this frigging shoe-store-less town is. 

Chris is driving and it’s making me really, really nervous.  I keep begging him to let me drive but he refuses.  We’re losing time here and he doesn’t want to waste ONE SECOND changing seats.  So I’m the co-pilot – screaming out barely-heeded warnings:

“HANG ON – WHAT’S THAT?  NO – FORGET IT.  IT’S JUST A HARDWARE STORE.”

“WATCH OUT FOR THAT WOMAN WITH THE STROLLER.”

“STOP!  STOP!  YOU’RE RUNNING ANOTHER RED LIGHT!!”

Then:  “WAIT!  AN ARMY-NAVY STORE!  MAYBE THEY’LL AT LEAST HAVE SOME BLACK WORK-BOOTS OR SOME SHIT!”

Chris screeches to a stop in front of this huge old-fashioned army/navy store.  He goes inside and emerges seconds later, giving the thumbs-down:   Nothin’.    Now he is strutting back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the store, putting on an impromptu fashion show for me and whoever else is passing by, preening and grinning deliriously.  I’m starting to get more than a little worried here.

Chris: “So what do ya think,  hon?  Can I pull it off with these bad-boys at the church?  Maybe most of the bottoms have worn off by now…”

The entire sidewalk around him is turning black, like two or three dirt-bikes have been doing wheelies.  The shoes are as flattened as cardboard and from where I’m sitting in the car I am nauseated by their boiled-rubber stench.

Me: “No.  You cannot pull ANYthing off in those fucking things.  Get back in the car.”

I’m immediately cursing myself as he climbs back into the driver’s seat, because I really should have taken over the wheel while I had a small window of opportunity.  Once again, we’re careening madly thru Albany’s unfamiliar streets and intersections. 

“SALVATION ARMY!”  We both scream when we spot the building.  SCREEEEECH. 

I shall never forget the sight of my husband bounding from the car, in his tux, running up to the Salvation Army center.  There is a black man who looks utterly destitute sitting at the doorway wearing a dazed, hot expression of hopelessness.  He glances up at TUXEDO MAN

Salvation Dude:  “Kin ah help you, brother?”

Chris: “I NEED BLACK SHOES – SIZE 13.  OR MAYBE EVEN A 12.  MY BROTHER IS GETTING MARRIED…I’M GOING TO BE LATE…”

The dude shrugs: “Well, go ‘head on in and see whut d’ey got…”

Chris comes out a minute later, empty-handed.  He trudges to the car, gets in.

Chris: “Can you believe?  They actually HAD a pair of black shoes in my size.  Some guy JUST bought ‘em for $5.00 a minute before we got here.”

I want to laugh, but I also want to scream.  And I also need to pee, because I’ve been drinking water like a nut because I’m so goddamn dehydrated.  

Suddenly, I have a brainstorm… “PAYLESS.  There HAS to be a PAYLESS store around here.”

Chris: “Really?  Why?”

Me: “Because they’re EVERYWHERE, that’s why.  And I definitely saw some big mall-centers when we entered Albany yesterday, back near the thruway.”

Chris: “SHIT!  So we have to go all the way back to the thruway …?”

Me: “It’s our only hope.  I think we can do this thing, honey.  But we gotta keep our heads...”

Chris: “Okay then.  BUCKLE UP.”

* * * * *

 TO BE CONTINUED…

THESE SHOES WAS MADE FER MELTIN’~!!!– PT. 5

I know I mentioned my BAD ANKLE earlier.   So here we’ve left our dogs at the kennel with some nincompoop who is NOT MARY, and as we trudge back to the stifling, boiling hotel room to FRESHEN UP for the big wedding, my faulty limb is throbbing in the most hellacious way.  The throb mingles with intermittent white-hot bolts of razor-sharp nerve pain.   They say that stress worsens any existing medical condition that one might have.  I am here to tell you that THIS IS 100% TRUE.

So anyhow, I’m still crying.  Not 'cuz of my ankle, either - it's all about the dogs.  In fact, despite numerous tries to pull myself together,  it seems that I am physically unable to stop crying - so much so that I am beginning to scare myself.   I know that Chris feels just terrible.  He is mostly silent, reaching over occasionally to pat my arm or my back and murmuring forlornly:  “I know that was a bad scene back there…I’m sorry this is happening, hon…  It’ll go fast…  They’ll be okay.”

Chris gets in the shower first.  So this whole time I’m trying to phone the kennel and get a progress report on MARY’s whereabouts.  But nobody’s been answering – not even a machine – it just rings and rings and rings and rings.   I am now sitting on the edge of the rotting, putrid, revolting hotel bed.  Absolutely wild, I fling the phone at the wall.

I imagine Ellie and Herman shooting out of their improperly-latched pens.  Being unsuccessfully pursued by the ineffectual Handy-Dude, they dash down the unfamiliar country road in search of MOMMY and DADDY’S CAR.  And of course,  The Grande Finale:  Both dogs bolt out onto the NYS Thruway and immediately getting flattened by an 18-wheeler.  Carnage everywhere.   All my fault, all my fault…Oh, My Bubbies.   My sweet, pretty Bubbies… How could I have left You in that nuthouse with a hapless imbecile…a STRANGER…

Me (thru a torrent of tears):  “WHAT THE FUCK – NOW I can’t even get the goddamn DIM-WIT on the line?!?  WHY IS NOBODY PICKING UP!??  WHAT’S GOING ON OVER THERE AT THAT FUCKING PLACE????” 

Chris (Just coming out of the shower): “Ok, honey?  Listen.  I am 2 SECONDS away from calling an ambulance for you.  You are giving yourself an aneurysm. Get in the shower and get in there now.  It can only help you.  A nice, cool shower.” 

Me: “CAN YOU KEEP CALLING THE KENNEL WHILE I AM IN THE SHOWER?  PLEASE?”

Chris: “Yes, I will keep trying them.  But I will also be getting dressed.  So please just get in the shower.  The sooner we move, the day will go by and before you know it we’ll be picking up the dogs, okay?”

Me: “Yeah,  or picking up their REMAINS…”

Chris: “LYNN.  THAT’S ENOUGH.  GET IN THE SHOWER.”

I get in the shower.  The only thing I can tolerate is freezing cold water.  My body feels so over-heated that I am feverish.   As the water pelts down, it occurs to me that my complete lack of sleep and hormonal state are playing a big part in doing me in psychologically.  I hold onto the shower walls, take a deep breath, thrust my face into the cold spray and finally…slowly…I stop crying.  It feels like I could collapse - right here in the shower - and sleep deeply for 8 hours straight.  But of course, we all know THAT ain’t gonna happen!  WE  GOTS A  WEDDIN’  TA  GIT  TO!

I emerge from the shower.  I note that Chris is nearly dressed in his tux.  The room is so muggy and stuffy, the thought of how gross it must feel for him to have to be wearing that mess fills me with sympathy and concern.  I refrain from asking him if he’s called the kennel again.  He doesn’t need that right now.

Me: “You look nice, honey, but you look so hot.  I’ll get dressed quick so we can get out of this place.”

Chris: “That’s all well and fine, hon – but can you tell me something?”

Me (toweling my wet hair): “Sure, what is it.”

Chris (Sounding unhinged): “Ahhhm...  I’m…I’m just…wondering…WHAT  in HOLY HELL is the DEAL with these SHOES???”

Chris actually got these shoes from his older brother (yup, the groom of today’s wedding), who apparently had no use for these gleaming black patent leather beauties.  So they’ve been up in our closet for a few months now, saved especially for this occasion.  But the shoes are not the first thing I notice when I glance down at the floor – it’s the carpeting.  The carpeting where Chris is standing is covered with stripes of what looks like thick, black melted tar.  The toxic odor of petroleum fumes has begun to permeate the room. 

I feel my eyes bulge in astonishment: “What the…?”

Chris: “What’s going on… Are these shoes exploding?  What the FUCK??”  He is staring ponderously at his own feet,  pacing back and forth, his shoes making sucking, sticky sounds as the rug hastily gets blacker and blacker with each noxious goopy step.  The heels and the soles are nearly completely flattened out so that these look like weird, shiny Male-Genie Shoes or some damn thing.  Never mind what the hell the carpeting looks like.  That shit’s just destroyed.

Me: “You can’t wear those.  You can not wear those things for your brother’s wedding.”

Chris: “What??  What the hell am I supposed to wear?  I don’t have time to find new shoes!”

Me: “We have no choice.  Those things are self-destructing.  If you walk into that big, fancy-ass church wearing those things it’ll look as if Satan himself has been dragging his heels all over the place.”

Chris: “Oh my GOD.  Oh my GOD.”

Me: “We gotta move.  We gotta find a shoe store quick.”

Miraculously, as often happens within the dynamics of a relationship, the tables have turned:  One person has a melt-down while the other keeps the terrors at bay.   Crazily enough, I have become (sort of) the voice of sanity in our little collaborative. 

My cell phone, still laying where I winged it against the wall, starts ringing.  I lurch for it.  It’s Handy-Dude!

Handy-Dude: “Hello, is this Mrs. ..______ ?” 

Me: “YES!  HOW ARE MY DOGS?  ARE MY DOGS ALRIGHT?”

Handy-Dude: “I’m sorry I didn’t answer the phone…I can see you’ve been trying to get thru…  But I’m alone here and I had cages to clean and morning snacks to give out…”

He sounds so upset.  I feel horrible all the sudden.

Me: “Listen, I just want to know if Ellie and Herman are all right.  This whole thing with MARY not being there this morning really threw me something awful…”

Handy-Dude: “I just spoke to Mary and she is so sorry about everything.  Her elderly dog was very sick last night with a stomach blockage, and she has been at the animal hospital in town for the last 14 hours…”

Me: “Oh, my.”  Reality check.  “I’m so sorry.”

Handy-Dude: “But Ellie and Herman are fine.  They’re a little confused.  Ellie is barking mostly, not really Herman.  But please don’t worry.  They will be kept separated and they both ate their snacks…”

I look over at Chris, who is still pacing and sweating and making bold, black, gluey stripes all over the room.

Me: “Okay, okay.  Thank you so much for calling me.  I will touch base with you later.   I hope Mary’s dog is alright.”

Handy-Dude: “Yes, she’s doing better now.  Thank you.”

I hang up and hastily start dressing – my sense of purpose on God’s Green Earth renewed.

Me (Gang-Mollin’ it up): “Ok.  You grab the bags and go out the back exit straight to the parking lot.  I’ll check us out at the front desk and meet you at the car.   We’ll find a shoe store real quick, don’t you worry honey.  NOW LET’S ROLL.”

                                     TO BE CONTINUED....

DING-DONG, THE BELLS ARE GONNA CHIME... Pt. 4

We get no sleep.  Well, Chris gets maybe a snore in here and there.  But I get nothing - NADA.  The room service elevator and the accompanying food cart have been relentless.  Despite the fact that I have given Herman a sedative – something I detest doing – he still freaks out completely each and every time the descending elevator sounds its screeching war-cry.  Which is roughly every half hour or so, up until at least 3:00 a.m.

The rank oppressiveness in the hotel room is equally miserable.  The bed is SO fucking uncomfortable that is defies description.  It’s not even a bed.  It’s a ratty old mattress balanced on broken springs with a huge, bucket-like sagging HOLE in the middle.  In fact, I will not go into these ($120.00 per NIGHT) room conditions any further because I truly dislike reminding myself of how skeevy everything was.   I wonder if everyone’s room was this disgusting, or if they just reserve these rooms for the DOG-FRIENDLY GUESTS.  In which case, DOG-FRIENDLY must be the official euphemism for ‘SCUM OF THE EARTH WHO DESERVE NOTHING BUT SHIT’ with the Best Western folks.  We would have been a million times better off pitching a tent somewhere and fuckin’ CAMPING prior to this wedding.  But of course, life lessons are nearly always 20/20 hindsight. 

Sunrise:  Glaringly, scorching-hot.  The sluggish, dripping arrival of morning feels simultaneously unforgiving and taunting.  Morning is HELL.  In a daze of exhaustion, I look over at Ellie and Herm.  They are both snoring now.  I want so badly to just pack us all into the car and hit the thruway – make a beeline for our cabin near Woodstock, never looking back.  We can explain later to the bride and groom that we had an emergency…that I became sick:  Botulism from the ROOM SERVICE.   Surely they’d understand.  (Besides, based upon the way I’m feeling right about now, this could very well be the truth…)

Chris sits up, groans.  “It’s so fucking HOT.”

Me: “I got my period – like - just this minute.  I’m going to go kill myself.”

Chris: “Please don’t start.  Let’s just get moving.”

I think I am in a complete state of shock as I gather Ellie and Herman’s toys and snacks into a duffle bag to bring along to the kennel.  The dogs are both so happy today, in the new morning light.  Ellie wolfs down her morning Pupperoni’s with her usual gusto.  Frisky and playful, Herman nips at my elbows. Eyes bright, he presents his favorite tennis ball for me to toss.  Thankfully, neither seem to notice that I am silently, uncontrollably sobbing. 

We dress and hustle out to the car.  The plan for today was discussed thoroughly the night before:  Drop the dogs off at the kennel first thing in the morning.  Come back to the hotel to shower and dress for the wedding.  CHECK OUT OF THIS FUCKING HOTEL.  Church and reception.  Pick the dogs up from the kennel by closing time,  7:30 p.m. (Originally, we thought we’d board the dogs overnight but between our stress and the putrid hotel conditions, we just can’t see paying an extra cent or  staying in this ‘hood for any longer than absolutely necessary.)   Finally: GET THE HELL OUTTA DODGE.

In a fog, we arrive at MARY’S KENNEL.  We pull into the gravel driveway, the same one as yesterday.  Dogs inside yowling – same ones as yesterday.  Ellie and Herm jumpy…definitely JUMPIER than they were yesterday.  We ring the doorbell and the door swings open.

It’s not MARY.

The guy who lets us in was here yesterday, too, but just barely.  Sort of on the periphery, futzing around and grinning at us in a bashfully vague way.  I don’t like to use the word ‘simpleton’, but that’s what comes to mind.   MARY had referred to him as her ‘partner’.  I had the impression that he was probably a handyman, kept the place hosed down, fences mended and such.  Anyhow, so now here we are face to face with this dude. 

Me: “Hi, is MARY around?”

Handy-Dude:  “Mary won’t be here today.”  There’s that dull smile.

Me: “What?  She won’t be here?”

Handy-Dude (In a measured, labored cadence): “That’s right.  Mary had an emergency and she won’t be here today.”

I look up at Chris and say: “That’s it, let’s get the fuck out of here right now.”  I can feel all the blood draining from my face. 

Chris: “Take it easy, Lynn, take it easy.  I’m sure it’ll be okay…”

Me: “NO, THIS IS NOT OKAY.  I AM NOT LEAVING THEM HERE IF MARY IS NOT GONNA BE HERE.  WE DIDN’T SIGN UP FOR THIS.”

Handy-Dude: “You’re here to drop off the dogs?”

Together:   Me: “NO.”

                  Chris: “Yes.” 

Me (to Handy-Dude): “Listen, no offense to you,  but I’m very nervous about boarding these two.  They’ve never been boarded before and MARY has all the details as to their specific needs.  When will she be back?”

H-Dude: “Oh, not until much later today.  She had an emergency.” 

Me (more to myself than to anyone): “Christ.  O, Christ.  I don’t like this.”

Chris: “Lynn, I have to do this wedding…”  He’s getting all upset again.

Me (Desperately): “Then go without me.  I’ll go back to the hotel with the dogs and wait for you…”

Chris: “No, Lynn.  I want you there with me.”

Handy-Dude: “Please don’t worry, ma’am.  Your dogs will be fine.  We take care of all kinds of dogs. This is what we do.”

I am wringing my hands and fighting off a full-blown panic attack.  My head swivels from Chris to Handy-Dude down to Herman and Ellie, who are both panting and pulling toward the exit, no doubt sensing my alarm along with their own anxiety about being back in this LODGE OF THE HOWLING PRISONER DOGS.

Very near tears now, I look into my husband’s eyes pleadingly. He gently rubs my shoulder, says softly: “It’ll be okay, hon.  Have a little faith.”

Sensing defeat, I fix my gaze down at Ellie and Herm, shaking my head in sorrow. 

Handy-Dude is drawling again: “Maybe … you want to … follow me … and bring them … back to the pens?  It will … probably … be easier for all of us.” 

Numbly I follow, dragging Ellie who has become an impossibly heavy and unwieldy bowling ball. Chris brings up the rear, wrestling a bucking and whimpering Herman.  The long corridor we go down is lined with barking, snarling, howling dogs of all description.   The noise is ear-splitting and I feel like shrieking right along with them. 

We arrive at the pens.  Handy-Dude gestures for me to bring Ellie into one.  I pull her in.  She sniffs the concrete floor, worried.  And then, THE UNTHINKABLE:  Handy-Dude takes Herman’s leash from Chris’ hand and pulls Herman INTO THE SAME STALL AS ELLIE, slamming the gate behind them.  Ellie and Herm are now standing side by side, staring at me thru the chain link fence, wearing expressions of pure disbelief that I can never forget.

“SHIT!!!  WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”  I cry out frantically, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“WHAT?  WHAT IS IT?”  Handy-Dude reels as if I have back-handed across the chops.

“THEY CAN NOT BE IN THE SAME ENCLOSURE!!!  MARY  KNOWS  THIS!  I WENT OVER THIS WITH MARY AT LEAST 50 TIMES!   JEEEESUS!!!  THIS IS NO GOOD!”  I spin around to face Chris: “THIS IS NOT GOOD.   WE ARE NOT LEAVING THEM HERE.”

Handy-Dude moves faster than I would’ve thought possible.  He re-enters their pen, grasps Herman’s collar and hastily leads him into the separate adjoining stall, latching the gate firmly.   But he’s left Ellie’s pen unlatched, and she immediately starts pushing her way out to escape.  

Me: “YOU DIDN’T CLOSE ELLIE’S GATE!  O MY GOD,  SHE WILL TRY TO RUN AWAY IF YOU DON’T PROPERLY CLOSE THESE GATES!!!  THEY BOTH WILL!!!”

Handy-Dude is muttering apologetically as he latches Ellie’s gate, saying such things as: “Please don’t worry.  They will be fine.  You should leave now, it’s for the best…”

In anguish, I look at Ellie and Herm as if for the last time.  They are returning my gaze, both are very concerned since it must seem as tho’ the next stop for MOMMY is the insane asylum.  Chris is guiding me by the elbow back down, down, down the howling corridor.  Now I can hear my own dog’s distressed cries joining the hellish chorus and my heart cracks in half.  I am convulsed in sobs.  I turn to Handy-Dude as we reach the front door.

Me: “You listen to me.  I don’t know what this emergency is all about, but I want MARY to call me, IMMEDIATELY.  I want to speak with MARY myself.  TODAY.  NOW.  Okay??  My cell phone will be ON and I am WAITING FOR HER CALL.  OKAY???”

Handy-Dude: “Yes, yes.  I’m sorry about all this.  But it will be okay. This is what we do…please try to enjoy your day…”

Me (bitterly): “Not a chance.  Not on your LIFE.”

I sob the entire way back to the hotel, literally unable to speak.  Several times I implore Chris to turn it around so we can get Ellie and Herman out of that place.  He’s a little tearful too, but he is resolute and firm. 

Chris: “Let’s just get thru this wedding and we’ll pick them up right after.  We won’t even stay for the whole reception.”

TO BE CONTINUED….

HAIL MARY, FULL OF… - Pt. 3

So this room-service elevator situation pretty much seals the deal that there’s no way we can possibly leave the dogs in the hotel room and attend the wedding rehearsal dinner.  And honestly, I don’t think we ever truly thought it possible from the get-go.   But where there may have been a wee sliver of hope, now there is none.  

Herman can’t stop bellowing hysterically, and we quickly decide that our next course of action is for all of us to pile back into the car and get to the church.   The rehearsal is set to begin in about half an hour. 

Once we’re on the road, Herman settles down, altho’ he still wears his ‘worried face’.  Ellie is completely disgruntled that we had to leave the hotel room so soon.  The car radio confirms that it’s 98 degrees outside.  During the drive to the church, the air conditioner in our car blows a gasket and starts blowing HOT AIR.

Me: “What joy.  I am going to fucking kill myself.”

Chris (voice raising): “LOOK.  Can you TRY to hold it together?  FOR ME?!?  I’m getting SICK from this whole situation, and you are making it worse with the COMPLAINING…”  He is sweating like crazy.  I feel awful.

Me:  “Alright, alright.  Take it easy, hon.  I’m sorry.  I’ll be good.” 

The church is clear across town.  Nice, sweltering drive.  I am sucking on ice cubes from my little travel cooler, passing cubes into the back seat for Ellie and Herman.  We’re all just sweatin' and slurpin’ and chompin’ away.   The city looks like one big white-trash strip mall interspersed with mini-slums.  I wedge an ice cube between my boobs, deciding that I hate Albany.

We pull up at the church in the nick of time.  Chris dashes inside and I stay with the dogs.  Dunno if being parked in front of this huge religious structure has anything to do with it, but miraculously the car A/C kicks in.   I give a little prayer of gratitude and tilt my seat back to recline and read the newspaper.  After a few moments of whimpering (WHERE DID DADDY GO?  I WANT TO GO IN THERE, TOO…)  Herman finally (and literally) chills out, thrusting his face toward the A/C vents with a grumbling sigh.  Ellie is already napping.  

The rehearsal goes for about 45 minutes.  I stay slumped in my seat, watching as the church empties. Wow, the bride really does have a huge family.  I see Chris explaining to a couple of people that his wife is over there in the car across the street.  Their squinty gazes toward me and my dogs (staked out in our beat-up old Hyundai wagon) register puzzlement and incomprehension.  I wave pseudo-gaily at these blankly staring faces.  Not much feedback with this crew.  What can ya do.

Chris climbs into the driver’s seat. “Hey!  The air conditioner is working again!”

Me: “Yes.  Glory be to God on High.  How’d it go in there?”

Chris: “Oh, fine.  It’s a freak-show, what else is new.  Very scary priest.” He gives a little shudder.

I’ll mention here that me and Chris aren’t what you’d call practicing Catholics.  Chris pretty much considers himself an atheist, altho’ he supports and gets into my spiritual leanings often enough.  I live by a self-stylized form of devotion that borrows from Buddhism and Native American Earth Worship philosophies. 

Me:  “You should go to the rehearsal dinner without me.  I’ll wait for you back at the hotel with the dogs.”

Chris: “No.  We’re all staying together.”

Me: “But you’re in the wedding party…”

Chris: “No.”

Me: “Okay, it’s up to you.”  I’m relieved.  “Honey…I think I want to go check out the dog kennels.”

Chris: “Now?  But we’re only boarding them tomorrow morning.”

Me: “I know.  But I wouldn’t mind seeing the place first.  I want to go there when they’re not expecting us and see them in action.  Is that crazy?”

Chris thinks about it for a second. “No.  It’s a good idea.  Let’s go.” 

                                                            * * * * * * * * 

Well, the kennel is located in a really beautiful country region outside of town.  True to Kennel-Marm MARY’s website photos, here indeed are the green rolling hills and serene pine tree havens.  As we pull into the gravel driveway, the incarcerated pooches inside set to baying and howling in frantic unison:   Mommy, Daddy…is that you?  Have you at last come to rescue me from this place?   I feel a stone in the pit of my stomach. 

We all get out of the car.  Ellie and Herman are both pretty jumpy, no doubt because of the uproar they’re hearing inside the kennels.  The front door is locked and we ring the bell.  A brunette woman with a cherubic face answers.  Perhaps in her early 50’s, sporting a kindly smile.  Ahhh, yes…t’is none other than MARY. 

MARY is mildly surprised that we have come a day early to see the facility, but she is also understanding: “Of course you’re a little nervous.  They’re your babies!  And especially since you’ve never boarded them before…”  She proceeds to show us around, pointing out the two adjacent stalls that are reserved for Ellie and Herman. 

For what feels like the zillionth time, I say: “Now please don’t forget, MARY…I know I sound like a broken record, but I really can’t stress enough how Ellie and Herman MUST be kept in separate enclosures.  He’s already getting very high-strung from this whole trip so far, and he will hassle Ellie if he is feeling neurotic…”

She pats my arm: “I know, I remember.  I even made special notes in your file.  They’ll be fine, please try not to worry.”

The dogs are pulling us to the exit.  They have decided that something smells rotten about this whole setup.  We bid MARY farewell for now, until 9:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. 

Then we head back to that godforsaken, disgustingly hot and muggy room at Best Western, where we’ll order some shitty room service, watch BLAZING SADDLES on the crappy cable station and try to get some sleep before the BIG DAY. 

TO BE CONTINUED…