So, as previously described, the weekends out here with their Teas and such are quite busy. Honestly I've been told at the height of summer we're talking roughly four to five thousand people out here from Friday to Sunday drinking, dancing, and fornicating all over the place. Unfortunately, right now we're talking about four to five hundred people coming out over the weekend, which means that during the week we're talking four to five. That said, the little excitement the weekends have held so far leads to even littler excitement on the weekdays. Again, that's just for now, but as such, what the hell do you do from Monday to Thursday?! Dinner parties. That's what you do.
So, at the end of the day some lovely boy comes down your walk with a scented invitation wearing a chastity belt and a smile. He nods and asks for the man of the house so as to kindly invite him over to a dinner prepared by his Mrs, or Mister as it were. His curtsy and invitation presentation are spot on and as he giggles himself off to finish dinner plans you toss yourself in the shower and hope that yesterday's stink comes off with enough Dial. That's exactly how it happened just three days ago, and if only it could've stayed that way. But I've given this an ominous setup for a reason. You'd best sit down.
So, the lovely B and B that I've mentioned before out here, The Madison, has an errand boy. He's adorably petite and super spry. Even at fifty he'll still look 20. Ergo, we'll call him PP. That's for Peter Pan of course. So, PP and I are invited to one such house party and being the superb homosexuals we are, within 45 minutes we've made Hors D'oeuvres to bring (store bought Hummas and chips) as well as unearthed a bottle of our finest red (a screwtop Malbec that I've already siphoned a glass out of). After showering and shaving, spritzing and sprinkling ourselves with cologne, we're off with our dog, Bosco (who is actually the dog of the owner of half of Fire Island, again someone that I refuse to discuss for the sake of my career, that we've been entrusted to take care of for 48 hours).
So, Bosco, PP and I are off on our merry little way to this festive dinner party at the home of a couple here on the island. They are one part the head chef of the restaurant I work in, again someone I'm not discussing, and his lovely partner, again you get the drift. They have made an amazing display of snackables, against which our Hummus pales in comparison. It ranges from thinly sliced chorizo to an actual handcut veggie tray, not just purchased in the store. It would take 6 bottles of our 9 dollar partial bottle of wine to account for one of their artsy bottles. None of this is to say that i am embarrassed by any means. I have no problem being a mooch. I feel that what I lack in finances I make up for in personality... I hope.
At any rate, things are running smoothly, the wine is flowing, I'm drunk in about 6 minutes, which is when my personality flows the most. An uninvited but more than welcome guest comes, still yet another nameless owner who shall remain secret. I enjoy him a lot because he's sweet, funny, Jewish (always a crowd pleaser), and loaded. Lovely guy. So, he's formally apologized for showing up without an invite, and then informs everyone that he paid for the hummus and chips that PP and I brought... hmm. Again... I'm just here to provide personality and take all I can fit in to these fashionably, yet terribly skinny jeans. Regardless, it's fine that he's come and we're happy to have him. He then apologizes ever further because he's thoughtlessly invited another friend along, someone sure to entertain us all with stories from his past and better yet, he's got a cute little weiner dog. Wonderful. How could anything... possibly... go wrong? Right? Right.
Okay, I'm wasted on Grey Goose and Pom juice by the time the old bugger arrives. The images are blurry but I still recall a squat man whose eye live as close to either side of his nose as possible. Beyond that his demeanor and build seem oddly familiar, I just can't quite place it. As he wafts his way into the home behind him comes waddling the world's first weiner dog. By that I mean clearly none existed before this one, because if they had, they'd be dead. This ancient little creature, who probably as a pup hobnobbed with the dodo, skulks its way into the kitchen and plops, waiting for food to come to it as age and time already have. The geezer does much the same and I'm still mildly perplexed as to who it is he reminds me of...
Well as it's been only hours since the Betty White episode of SNL, something we gays will talk about until there's another minority president, weiner geezer man perks right up. He proudly starts name dropping with the best of them and out falls none other than Bea Arthur, gender nondescript star of stage and screen. Well, needless to say he'll be getting referred to as Bea from here on out. He regales us with stories of his last time having dinner with her where, and this is hand to god truth, all they did was tell Jew jokes., the best of them all being:
"Why are Jewish men still circumcised?"
"I don't know. Why?"
"Because Jewish women won't touch anything unless it's 20% off!"
So at least the old broad can tell a good joke. We're sitting there, enjoying Bea's tales of Bea when all of a sudden a clamor comes from the kitchen and a doggie tiff breaks out. Little weenie and Bosco are clearly having it out over someone's table scrap and being that Bosco is only one year old and a golden retriever, where weenie is well... just that, Bosco wins.
Weenie waddles his way out of the kitchen, crestfallen but not in any serious pain and finds his way to papa Bea for comfort. While holding Weenie, Bea comments that the last time he was in the hospital (Weenie that is), he cried more than when he lost his parents, which I'd place somewhere in the Paleozoic. That's when I make a mistake. A big, fucking, mistake.
"Is Weenie alright?" I say. "It looks as though she might have a little cut right..."
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH MYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYy GOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDDDDD!!!!!!!!!!"
.
.
.
*Dog is thrown to the floor*
.
.
.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"
"HE BIT HER! SHE'S BLEEDING. SHE'S DYING. OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. OH GOOD GRACIOUS GOD. MY GOD.... AAAHHHHHHHHHH!" Bea says calmly.
During the final part of the Bea's rant, a sensible adult has picked Weenie up, placed her on the table, and is checking out the wound. It is, in fact, a small cut about the 2 inches in length, and isn't even bleeding at all. As a matter of fact the dog has yet to even notice the cut due to the fact that it's face is muzzle deep in pasta salad. Delicious pasta salad I might add.
Yet the ranting continues... Is she gonna die? What do I do? Is there blood on my blouse? Over and over and over until someone thankfully tells Bea to shut her trap because the tone of his voice is distressing the animal. After composing herself a smidge and unclutching the pearls Bea sits opposite the pup and strokes her head while the while the fatass continues to chomp away.
Bea seems to have composed a bit and we all realize that while the cut is minor, it should probably be looked at by a professional. The only way to do that is to call someone with a boat and have them take you, namely, the police. So, after calling the animal hospital to verify that they're available, and the police to get their boat ready, Chef man, Young Jewish Owner man, Bea and Weenie are on their way to the dock. The instant the door closes drinks are already being poured. Music has been turned up and mirth is on the rise. Luckily we are in fact in the clear, however, Chef man and Young Jewish Owner man are not. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until they got back, an hour later, after Bea filled out a police report... yes... a police report, that they were able to tell us of their leg of the trip.
First of all, on the walk to the harbor, which takes about seven minutes, they stopped twice, each time Chef man was convinced that Bea was having a heart attack. Beyond that, Bea refused to carry the dog. The dog he threw to the floor when I mentioned that Weenie had a cut. The dog that means more to him that the passing of his dinosaur parents. Wow.
Well after another hour we hear that the dog has been given a couple of staples, and in true Long Island fashion, a prescription for pain killers. I intend on buying a few from him later this week. I'm sure they work just the same right?
Anyway, you'd think, or maybe like, this story to be over, but no. Not quite yet. How you ask? Why not? Please, you beg? Well, while working at the Canteen this morning who should saunter in but Bea. Bea and her weenie. Well Bea, who has forgotten I was even at the party, asks me if I'd heard what happened to her precious pooch. I answered that I had in fact, because I was there. She apologized because all he can remember of me is my chest in a v neck t-shirt. Lovely. Just lovely.
Well after serving her a coffee and an egg sandwich I continue to stock the shelves and laugh to myself. Meanwhile, she proudly sits as close to the entrance as possible, brandishing her busted Weenie, asking anyone who passes by if they've heard about it.
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