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that Phyllis had converted into a private phone booth she had dubbed the John Wilkes Booth; and at the back of the house was a sort of rumpus room all done in red-and-white stripes and sporting a soda fountain—the Doris Day Room.
    Phyllis rattled off a list of people I would be dealing with: her agent, Fred; her publicist, Frank; her attorney, Mr. B (whom I’d already “met” over the phone); her travel agent, Jimmy; and the names of her designer, decorator, children who weren’t living there, and a dozen others. I scribbled frantically. She also confirmed something Karen had told me: “If Warde tells you to do anything, you check with me first. He sometimes likes to think he’s my manager, but he’s not.”
    I nodded, perhaps too enthusiastically.
    “There is one other thing,” she said as she sat down and motioned me to do likewise. “He often does things that are annoying, and he may try to interfere with your work. If he does, you come tell me. But if it comes to a showdown between the two of you, I’ll side with him. You are my secretary, but Warde is my husband.”
    At least I knew where I stood and was glad that she had laid it out in the open. I realized that he was in a difficult position. Not many men like to live off of a woman, but she wanted a husband who would travel with her, so it was impossible for him to have a “regular” job. I suppose that throwing his weight around made him feel important. At that moment, however, I was glad he wasn’t around. He was going to meet us in Pittsburgh.
    By the end of the first week, I had a hazy picture of what Phyllis Diller was really like. She was smart and focused. She was exacting but not unreasonable, nor did she have a temper. I figured that someone who had made it to the top of that strange business and could keep her humanity, her perspective, and her dignity had earned every right to be demanding. I had no problem with that.
    She was also something of a paradox. Although she seemed determined to establish a definite employer-employee relationship, at break time she often came into the kitchen and told jokes until we were all in stitches. She particularly liked jokes about food. My favorite was: “My idea of the perfect hostess is one who can convince her dinner guests that caraway seeds have legs!” Then she would laugh that full-throated, raucous laugh, and how could we help but all laugh with her? However, I had the impression of someone who, in spite of her fame and her wealth, was perhaps a little lonely.
     

5
     
    P hyllis liked to get her work done in the morning. Usually, sometime around 10:30 or 11:00, she’d summon me by saying, “Come down and bring your notebook.” From the beginning, she delegated the routine correspondence, and it wasn’t long before she would simply hand me a contract and say, “Make the arrangements.”
    Some things Maria took care of, but I personally talked to the people we’d be dealing with. I wanted to confirm rehearsals and publicity appearances and nail down details. The first person I’d call was Phyllis’s agent to find out anything that might not be obvious.
    “Hey,” he told me one time, “that promoter is going to try to get Phyllis to do some personal appearances. That’s not in the contract. Tell him no.” Or, “There’s a radio station that does promos for the theater and Phyllis has agreed to record something for them. Give them a call when you get settled and Phyllis can do that over the phone.”
    While Maria talked to the travel agent making airline and hotel reservations, I’d call the limo company both in L.A. and at our destination. In New York and Chicago, Phyllis not only used a particular limo service but had a favorite driver that I learned to ask for. Phyllis told me that small cities and towns often did not have limousine companies, so I should contact the local mortuary—they had limos for funerals and were perfectly happy to rent them out.
    “Be sure not to book the