Time Fries!

by Fay Jacobs

  So the traveling circus, me and Bon, the pups, the RV and the Jeep in tow, lumbered home down I-95 just in time to hear that Reho was being evacuated. Great. With thousands of cars pouring outbound on Route One, this was no time for us to be driving the Hindenburg head-on into the mess.

  Quandary. Is there an insane pal along the route willing to harbor us, our dogs, and our rolling house for a four-day minimum? Luckily, there was a brave and generous soul in New Jersey. So we headed off road, pulling our convoy into the driveway, and descending, like refugees, with two weeks of laundry, two freaked-out dogs, and two women fearing for the Reho home front.

  Our quartet spent the first day of our double date engaged in grocery store hand-to-hand combat. Too late for toilet paper, bottled water and “D” batteries, we stocked up on critical supplies like wine and chocolate pudding. Then, not homebound yet, we went to see Rise of the Planet of the Apes. I’d always wondered how the Tea Party got started.

  Over the next three days we stayed glued to the gusting weathercasters. One hapless Jersey anchor reported a Code Gray situation. That seemed a bit, well, bland to us. What’s a Tsunami, Code Beige? Dive! Dive! Dive! It’s Code Taupe!

  The reporters did a masterful job of reporting absolutely nothing new for three days running. Wind was coming, water was coming. Code Gray!!!

  Frankly, I tried to avoid Code Yellow. I know how my dogs hate wind and rain, and feared they would befoul the carpets so I put them in Huggies. Moxie has such a biscuit belly that the Velcro tabs sprung and he looked like he was wearing a tutu. Imagine his humiliation.

  On the Thursday and Friday night before the projected perfect storm, my family huddled at home in the RV on the driveway. But by Saturday morning, with ominous tornado warnings afoot, we fled to the brick and mortar house. Our first clue to the severity of the situation was that none of the piercing warning sirens coming from the TV offered the statement “This is not a test.” Tornadoes were spotted all over Delaware, Jersey, and points north, and they would continue overnight Saturday.

  Heeding advice, we ruled out second floor sleeping and pitched base camp in the windowless side of the living room. A sofa and loveseat would do for me and Bon, and we’d bring a blow-up mattress downstairs for our hostesses. Rise of the Planet of the Idiots. Laurel and Hardy should have deflated the inflatable first.

  Upstairs, we wrestled the awkward queen size balloon onto its end, coming within millimeters of slicing it in half with the ceiling fan. Lunging to get it out of the way, we nearly put the mattress through the window. By this time we were gasping for air and crying from laugher, sure there’d be a flood, and not from the hurricane.

  When we finally slid the amoeba down the staircase and situated it in our make-shift refugee camp it was time to hunker down and say Goodnight, Irene. That’s when we learned that even if you mute the TV, the warning siren does not mute. Tornado be damned, we turned off the television.

  Come dawn, a clown in the group woke us to strains of “There’s Got to Be a Morning After.” Very funny. All was quiet on the western front, as the storm had missed us entirely and headed for the unlikely target state of Vermont. The Poseidon was still in place on the driveway and we were all above water.

  That’s when the comedy show began. Those poor on-air bastards had been broadcasting live for days and now they were left to report that pretty much nothing at all had happened. News anchors stood in half an inch of water, hairdos askew, as gawkers stood off left on perfectly dry land. Talking heads begged people to send photos or video of any storm damage. We had reports of twigs down, lawn chairs overturned. Such was the dearth of reportable information.

  But that was a good thing. That the hurricane missed us and Rehoboth was grand news. I am not one of the folks who complained about overkill regarding the evacuation, the dire warnings, and the calls for preparedness. It’s great to know that city and town governments, all up and down the East Coast, were ready, locked and loaded, to provide bailouts, and this time it was the literal kind.

  And ya know, if the BIG ONE, an earthquake, hurricane, or tornado had hit, those anti-government Tea Party Poopers would have been right there in line, waiting for the government to rescue them and provide services. Hypocrites heal thyselves.

  So I hope it’s bye bye hurricane season real soon. I’m glad Rehoboth was spared and sorry for the devastation in Vermont. But following the earthquake, hurricane, and tornado scare, I got home just in time for the ensuing pestilence of Labor Day traffic.

  This is Fay J. reporting live from the beach. Code Tan.

  October 2011

  IT STARTED WITH A SPECIAL KIND OF DISCOUNT

  As I sat at Womencrafts Bookstore in Provincetown during October Women’s Week, signing books and chatting with the proprietors, I learned it was the 35th anniversary of the store. WOW. Time flies when you’re having fun out of the closet.

  Women poured into the shop to meet authors Georgia Beers, Marianne Martin, and Sally Bellerose—and I was honored to be sitting among them, signing books. As women went to the cash registers to pay for their books, we heard Karen, from her perch across the counter, totaling the purchases.

  “Thanks, that will be $36,” she told one woman, “but I’ll give you the lesbian discount.”

  Lesbian discount. Instantly, it was more than 30 years ago and my first visit to Womencrafts.

  I was an emotional train wreck that summer, newly divorced and perpetually confused. My former college roommate, straight as an arrow, invited me to spend a week in Hyannis on Cape Cod with her family. She knew I was happy to be out of the suffocating marriage but also knew I had no idea what to do next.

  Always more perceptive and brave than I was, Lesley decided to take me to Provincetown for a day. We had lunch atop Pepe’s, overlooking the bay, walked along Commercial Street and people watched. I saw sights that simultaneously intrigued and panicked me. I said not a word.

  A happy-looking young woman pedaled by, her T-shirt proclaiming, “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.” Really?

  Then came a tall, muscular gal with a big button on her man-tailored shirt saying, “I’m the woman your mother warned you about.” Shit. I was quieter still.

  All ages, shapes and styles of women walked past, two by two, and many, hand in hand. We passed The Boatslip bar, where the boys were dancing to “Enough is Enough.” Strains of “Hot Stuff” by Donna Summer and “Reunited” by Peaches & Herb filtered into the street.

  When we got to Womencrafts, I went up the brick steps and inside while Lesley went down the steps to see about ear piercing. I poked around a bit in the shop, half-looking at, but not really absorbing the book titles. I decided to buy a ceramic tile with the image of Provincetown’s Pilgrim Monument on it.

  The friendly woman behind the counter wrapped up the tile, took my money and returned my change as she said, “And I gave you the lesbian discount.”

  Excuse me??? I could not get out of the store fast enough. Sweat welled on my forehead and my knees went to jelly. I practically ran down the steps to the street, where Lesley was already standing. I must have looked like a zombie.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t look okay.”

  “Well,” I said, guiding Lesley by the elbow into an adjacent alleyway. “In the store,” I said, hushed, mumbling and pointing, “um…they gave me a…,” getting quieter still, “lesbian discount,” I whispered.

  God bless Lesley for keeping a poker face and acting as if I’d said, “They gave me a ten percent discount.”

  She paused a minute, looked me in the eye and said, a hint of a smile forming, “You might want to think about that.”

  I stared at her, then past her, to a women with short, short hair and silver earrings all up and down her ears. Beyond her, two skinny men kissed on the street.

  “You took me here on purpose, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, now you have to buy me a big
drink on purpose.”

  Which she did. And as we sat at an outdoor café along the busy, funky, noisy street, with straight couples pushing baby strollers, outlandishly dressed drag queens, handsome gay men, and to my mind, even more handsome lesbians flooding by, we had the conversation that started to change my life.

  To a subliminal soundtrack of Sister Sledge and “We are Fam-i-ly,” we talked and talked. No, it was not the first time I’d thought about my attraction to women or wondered when I’d have the guts to do something about it. But it was the first time I’d said any of it out loud, either to myself or to another person.

  Four hours later, as we left the tip of Cape Cod, with its artists, tea dances and lesbian discounts, for the very first time in years I knew exactly what direction I was going. And of course, since then, it’s been quite a ride.

  Lesley’s gone now. The unspeakably cruel Huntington’s Disease took her some years ago. But not before I’d settled down with Bonnie and we got to spend lots of cherished time and many adventures together. And I will always credit Lesley with the insight to give me that great big shove I needed.

  I’ve had some amazing experiences in P-Town over the years, vacationing, visiting with friends, and since 2004, doing readings, book signings, and meeting and greeting readers and other writers. Women’s Week there has a mini-literary festival component and I’ve been having a blast.

  And Womencrafts is still there, alive at 35, still giving those wonderful lesbian discounts. I’m so lucky to have been the recipient of one in 1979, along with the gift of Lesley’s friendship, setting me on my way toward my career as an activist and writer. Happy Birthday dear Womencrafts, happy birthday to you.

  November 2011

  IT TAKES WORK TO RELAX

  “You need to relax,” my spouse warned after finding me pole vaulting over the furniture, screaming about politics, the price of gas and other indignities. “Maybe you need a massage.”

  Maybe, but I confess I’m intimidated by the world of massage therapists and their hot stones and new age music. Let’s face it. Nobody’s surprised I have trouble relaxing. Between my brain and my mouth going a mile a minute, I can’t see myself as a candidate for massage, yoga, or any other calming pursuits. And I’ve tried. Lordy, I’ve tried.

  Years ago we went so far as to install a double Jacuzzi tub at our house, hopeful for long, candle-lit baths, time spent sipping wine and winding down.

  On our first plunge, we hopped in just as the hot water ran out, leaving us in 8 inches of tepid liquid. Our hot water heater was not up to the task. Eager to get to the candles and wine, we grabbed a spaghetti pot, filled it with water, set it boiling on the stove, then dumped the brew into the tub. There hasn’t been so much running with pots of boiling water since Butterfly McQueen began birthing babies in Gone With The Wind. Not, relaxing.

  So next, I tried yoga. My instructor is still laughing. I think she’s laughing.

  Skeptical and scared of displaying physical and mental inflexibility, I went to a Gentle Yoga class—which is a polite way of saying it’s for the elasticity challenged. If I ever did manage to get my feet and wrists on the floor simultaneously, butt toward Mecca, the only thing to get me vertical again would be the winch on a tow truck. Or, they could just bronze me for a lawn ornament.

  But I have to say, yoga is awfully non-judgmental. Nothing is a problem. If you can’t stretch to a specific position, they give you a dowel in your hand to bridge the gap. Can’t reach around your own thunder thighs to pull your knees to your chest? There’s a canvas belt to help. I appreciated the assist, but I looked like a piece of furniture cinched into a Bekins Van. With all our innocent apparatus lying about, we also resembled S&M cultists.

  You know, it is possible to relax too much. Under the heading of “that’s okay, it’s supposed to happen,” certain yoga positions can cause flatulence. Everybody in our class, at one time or another, produced an audible emission. I don’t think that praying you’ll get through the hour without breaking wind is the kind of meditation we’re encouraged to practice.

  From yoga I moved on to mineral baths. My first experience was in New Mexico where it was 114 degrees. You could fry a frittata on the bench in front of the hotel. I got third degree burns of my frittata. But there was a famous mineral spring nearby we were counseled not to miss.

  The rickety old bath house sat amid naturally swirling hot springs. I was led into a creaky closet-like room with a single claw foot tub. Now I know mineral water discolors everything in its path, but this old tub was so rusty and nasty I asked if the last tourist to bathe there had been Wyatt Earp. It was not relaxing.

  Thinking a more modern roman bath might be the key, we traveled to the State Park Bathhouse at Berkley Springs, West Virginia. The newest fixtures in that place looked to be from the FDR Administration. That went for the staff, too.

  After my soak in 750 gallons of mineral water, I was led to an antique massage table, where I was draped in a scratchy white sheet and rubbed down with a traditional mixture of olive oil and 190 proof ethyl alcohol. I felt like a wedge salad. And I was so slippery I began to slide off the table, saved only by the efforts of my 85-year old masseuse.

  “When do you add the balsamic vinegar?” I asked. She was not amused and I was not relaxed.

  A year later, still never having had what I considered to be a therapeutic massage, we went to China—home of the famous foot and full body massage. What the hell, I’d have to try it.

  Our tour bus stopped at a building lit up like the Vegas strip, with flashing Chinese characters and marquee signs shouting Foot Massage! I didn’t know if I was going for a medical procedure or a matinee of Footloose.

  First they cooked my feet in herbal tea, then tossed me on a table and started thumping my shoulders, playing me like a bongo drum. Apparently my Qi energy was out of alignment, and that’s bad. While a platoon of massagers pinched and pressed at acupressure points, I wondered if this was how the terra cotta warriors died. They called it Zone Therapy and this pudgy American was not in the zone. I couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel and some Moo Goo Gai Pan.

  Then, a year ago or so I had a sports injury (stop laughing). Due to my ridiculous golf swing I strained some cartilage in my sternum, so I saw a deep tissue massage therapist. While she cured my ailment, I can still feel the excruciating torture of her putting her elbow in my shoulder blade and trying to make it exit through my esophagus. Not relaxing, with a capital NOT.

  So now I’m doing research. Just this afternoon I poured myself a martini and sat down to learn about all the different massage disciplines and what my next move should be. Do I want Swedish massage, Aromatherapy with essential oils or hot stone treatments? How about Shiatsu finger pressure or reflexology? You know, reading about this stuff, Schnauzers at my feet, with a drink in my hand, well, it’s very, very, relaxing.

  By George, I think I’ve got it. I’ve invented the Vodka with Essential Olives Therapy. Ask for the room with the Schnauzers.

  December 2011

  LEARNING TO CRAWL

  I have now spent more money on one room in my house than on any other. And it’s not even a room. It’s the crawl space. Cue the scary music.

  How I came to own a home with something called a crawl space is beyond me. What am I, from the Addams Family? Just the thought of the space and what could crawl in it makes me nuts. And I’m sure nobody is surprised I’ve never actually crawled into the crawl space to take a look at what’s creeping around down there.

  But that scary space beneath my home has, over the years, seen more inspections than Iraq’s nuclear facilities.

  Apparently, in the early 90s, building beach homes atop crawl spaces rather than concrete slabs seemed like a good idea. As with other fads gone bad, like Sir Walter Raleigh’s idea to stick tobacco leaves in your mouth and set them on fire, to the more recent Fen-Phen diet craze, dangerous issues arose from the idea of crawl spaces. In our case we were told a river ran through it and toxic fung
i festered down there.

  The first crawl space incident happened several years ago. Mildew spots appeared on clothes in our guestroom closet. This was odd, as we no longer lived on a boat. My mate, always up for adventure, volunteered to belly crawl under the house to see what was breeding in the Petri dish under our spare room.

  I watched House Detective disappear into the black hole, kneeled at the ground level entrance to the space and read aloud from the newspaper: “three bedroom, two bath CONDO…”

  “Is there a fungus among us?” I hollered into the cavity.

  “The moisture barrier seems okay,” my spouse yelled. What? To me, a moisture barrier is a Totes umbrella.

  “I don’t see any black mold,” came a faraway voice. Is that good? Does it relate to the stuff in Tupperware in my fridge? Eventually my mate emerged, damp and mud-caked, admitting we needed professional help.

  “It’s not too bad. I’ve seen lots worse around here,” said the contractor. Apparently, thanks to bad grading and too few vents, we had Lake Minnehaha under the house. No black mold, so cancel the bulldozer.

  We could have bought a Kia for what it cost for a complex system of electronic vents and fans to blow out the moisture. Sometime later, convinced I’d developed acute Tinnitus or ringing in the ears, I went to the doctor, who assured me my ears were fine. I laughed when, days later, as I stood in my walk-in closet, ears ringing away, I realized I was hearing the incessant hum of my crawl space vents inhaling. I wanted my co-pay back.

  But in no time, the crawl space was dry as a bone, even as the house occasionally sounded like LAX with jumbo jets taking off. Everything under the house was all well and good for a few years, until recently when Schnauzerhaven, a completely feline-free zone for obvious reasons, began to smell like a kitty litter box.

  Clearly, a feral family had relocated to our crawl space. Once again, I sent my long-suffering mate, armed with a flashlight and Friskies, under the house. Nancy Drew discovered no cats. Just the overpowering aroma of Eau d’ Kitty. Upstairs, the dogs went berserk, sniffing at the heating vents like teens huffing aerosols.