by Fay Jacobs
Coincidently, it was time for our quarterly exterminator visit (I live at the beach, ergo I have ants). As luck would have it, the bug hunter was getting into the lucrative field of crawl space remediation. Spiderman saw dollar signs.
He said there were no cats, but we had more than ants in our pants. We had under-house white water rapids and hazardous black mold. He recommended digging a maze of French drains and installing a giant sump pump. When his mold remediation credentials turned out to be a certificate for snuffing creepy-crawlers, I told Spiderman to take back the night and go home.
Then I called a company advertised as crawl space experts. Well, the second opinion was just as terrifying. They wanted to rent a giant dumpster, rip out all our under-house insulation, install miles of moisture barrier and dig up the circumference of our foundation.
I would have instantly posted a For Sale sign on the house, but realized that potential buyers would have to be willing to wear gas masks and bio hazard gear while watching TV. So I got the name of a highly recommended firm specializing in crawl space solutions.
These people not only emerged from under the house with good news, but with—here’s a concept—good pictures. I could actually see what was happening in the forbidden zone and the answer was nothing much. No Lake Superior, no procreating mold, no Hello Kitty.
“You probably had some dampness under here with melting snow or after very heavy rains. And yeah, when insulation gets a little wet it smells just like cat pee.” Aha! I knew my schnozz that could tell Merlot from Beaujolais couldn’t mistake cat piss.
Okay, so we had a little mildew, a trickle of moisture now and then and our 14 year old moisture barrier was a shredded mess—probably from my spouse crawling on it every time I whiffed Sylvester and friends. Or, from Spiderman working in golf cleats.
We didn’t need drains, sump pumps, or insulation ripped out. It was suggested that like 1950s ads with doctors endorsing Marlboros, our expensive crawl space vent system, sucking in air had seemed like a good idea at the time, but was no longer a remediation of choice.
“Actually, it’s pumping cold air inside in the winter and hot air in the summer and boosting your heating bills.” Ugh.
So our experts sealed up the vents, installed a silent dehumidifier and entombed the entire crawl space with a moisture barrier to keep water out, appropriate temperatures in and mold from forming. And when the insulation dried, the phantom cats left, too.
Photos of the finished job look amazing. The floor and four-foot walls are covered in clean, white vinyl material, the vents are gone, and a small, moisture-activated dehumidifier sits quietly off in a corner. It looks so lovely down there I’m considering setting up my laptop and a coffee pot and going into the cave to write.
But stay tuned for the next installment of Home Sweet Crawl Space, when some enterprising company figures out that crawl space encapsulation, like Asbestos before it, seemed like a good idea at the time. Cue the scary music…
January 2012
CONTAGION!
Thank goodness the cruise I took this winter was not the one that wound up on its side in Italy.
There’s something to be said for being able to afford the Caribbean but not Europe. Watching that disaster unfold right after debarking from a cruise was very, very unsettling.
However, our own cruise was unsettled by the threat of the dreaded Norovirus or 24 hour flu, familiarly known as the trots. Picture this. We line up at the pier to board and nattily dressed cruise officials start squirting our palms with antibacterial gel. What is this, 1912 and I’m at Ellis Island being deloused?
We stand there, with thousands of other cruisers—a cornucopia of screaming babies, people coughing into their elbows, and suitcases having rolled through heavens knows what to be there—and wonder why, when picturing our dream vacation, this scene never came to mind?
Then we get the warning flyer. The previous ship had suffered an outbreak of Norovirus and over 400 people got sick. However, we’re assured that the vessel has been thoroughly swabbed and disinfected and we are merely being cautioned by the Centers for Disease Control. I’m going on a cruise. I expect to be cautioned by Weight Watchers, not the CDC. The flyer warns me to wash my hands incessantly and take precautions against touching contaminated doorknobs and railings. What precautions? I’m going to Cozumel, I didn’t bring mittens.
I flash back to my health conscious friends warning that effective hand washing requires 30 seconds in soapy water, which is roughly equivalent to the time it takes to sing the Birthday Song. Okay, I can do that.
As I board the ship I am again squirted with complimentary disinfectant. I’m surprised the gangplank photographer does not include the squirter patrol in each souvenir portrait. The ship is massive, like cruising in the mall. I need GPS to find my stateroom.
After unpacking, I head upstairs to the lounge, touching the elevator button with the hem of my blouse. Going to the 12th floor, raises my shirt practically over my head. Which is worse, the trots or being a flasher? Looking down to avoid stares from the crowd I see that the elevator floor has a panel reading Saturday. They must change it daily. I’m facing six more days of epidemiological gymnastics?
From the lounge I visit the casino, where, to humor the CDC I keep a cocktail napkin around my Rum Punch glass. Then I stretch my shirtsleeve over my hand, pulling my neck and head to my shoulder, as I crank the one-armed bandit. Quasimodo at sea.
We go to dinner, getting squirted with the ubiquitous antibacterial gel on the way in and the way out. Thousands of people rub their hands together like mad villains planning nefarious deeds.
The next day, the unthinkable happens. I have to use a hallway rest room. Okay, primary mission accomplished, I go to wash my hands. I can do this… “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Norovirus, happy birthday to you.” Adjacent hand washers step away from the crazy lady.
It’s a logistical cruelty that after banishing bacteria and blotting with a paper towel, you are forced to touch and turn the germ-riddled, outbreak-threatening, horror story of a door handle just to leave the bathroom. So I keep the soggy paper towel in my hand, open the door, hold it ajar with my ass and extend my too-short body toward the trash receptacle to dispose of my paper towel. A 7-foot NBA star couldn’t sink it, if you’ll excuse the word sink in a cruise article. Finally I give up, tuck the sodden towel in my pocket and exit.
Minutes later, lounging by the pool, contorting to hold a book while keeping my elbows and wrists off the infectious arms of the chair, I see that the wet paper towel has made a very unattractive wet spot on my shorts.
I get up to go change, heading for my room, when the boat hits an ocean swell, and I lurch forward, catching myself on the towel rental counter. Upright, but open-palmed, hands down on the shiny metal table, a thousand fingerprints look up and mock me.
The hell with it. I go get out of my wet shorts and into a dry martini.
And for the rest of the cruise I do not agonize about Norovirus. I augment the germicides by taking my alcohol internally and throwing precautions to the wind. I eat, drink and make merry. I dunk in the pool with the germy masses, sit amid coughing theatre crowds and touch any damn surface I please. I swim with dolphins, tour the islands, I’m king of the world.
Two days later, gleefully fingering the elevator buttons with my bare hands, I wonder if the removable day of the week panel might say, “It’s Wednesday, do you know where your liver is?”
Then it’s two more days of port visits, unrelenting gel squirts, more Bahama Mama cocktails for disease prevention and a grand time on the high seas. I knew it was time to come home when I looked down at my swollen ankles and realized I was retaining vodka. But thankfully, no signs of Norovirus.
I loved the cruise and didn’t mind dripping with a little hand gel. But like other traumatic experiences, there can be flashbacks. As I watched the festivities after the Giants clinched the Super Bowl, I was absolutely horrified.
/> In a nightmare scenario, one dirty, sweaty, turf-covered player after another reached out with their bare hands to touch, and even oh-my-God kiss that darn Lombardi Trophy. Oh no, guys!!! Get thee to the soap dispenser and water supply. Sing Happy Birthday. Or you’ll be in the bathroom when it’s time to go to Disneyland.
As for me, I just bought stock in Lysol. Squirt, squirt.
January 2012
DINNER FOR SEVEN
While an epidemic on the cruise ship was avoided, sometimes there is just no avoiding the homophobia bug. This particular cruise was a family vacation with my stepmom Joan, our son Eric, and his partner. So we grabbed a Royal Caribbean special, in lieu of our preferred Olivia cruise option and hoped for the best.
Me: “Hello, Royal Caribbean? Before I book this cruise, can I be totally certain our family can get a table for just the five of us in the dining room?”
RC: “Absolutely.” I should have listened for the sound of their pants going up in flames.
On our first night aboard, New Years’ Eve (after our lifeboat drill!), our gussied up party of five arrived at a table set for eight. As you can imagine, I immediately marched off to find the maitre ‘d, who said he’d look into the snafu.
Returning tableside, I found two more travelers seated with us, a man and a woman. They were introducing themselves as recent retirees and newlyweds, from Iowa.
“That’s wonderful,” said Joan. “Congratulations to you. I’m here with my daughter and her partner who are celebrating their upcoming 30th anniversary!”
The newlyweds’ faces went as white and starched as the tablecloth.
“And,” said Joan, oblivious to their gape-jawed stares, “this is my grandson Eric and his partner.”
The couple all but gagged. Happy New Year. What is it, 1956?
At which point, the appetizers arrived and the newlyweds clasped hands, bowed their heads and prayed—perhaps for culinary abundance but more probably for our souls. Either way, what ensued was a most uncomfortable meal, as we learned of the Iowans’ upcoming Priest-accompanied pilgrimage to Rome so they could walk among the saints, countered by our attempt to discuss anything at all without mentioning our entire lives as sinners.
Finally, we gave up and got into the party favors, with Eric donning the Happy New Year tiara and me plunking the plastic top hat on my head. Eventually our contingent fled to the piano bar to await midnight.
Bright and early on day one of 2012, I was at the ship’s customer service desk discussing dinner arrangements, sad that we still needed this discussion in 2012. The clerk stared blankly as I told of the embarrassing table introductions and our companions praying into their soup.
“Look,” I said. “We’re here for a relaxing vacation and this is beyond uncomfortable. I think these people were praying to save our souls. The only thing we need saving from is dinner with them.”
“What?” said a passing supervisor. “Say what?”
I started repeating the story, and the very animated supervisor interrupted with, “Girl! You’re kidding, they did what???”
I had found a friend of Dorothy (and if you don’t know what that means, read on).
By dinnertime we had a private table for five, in a secluded alcove, with ultra-friendly wait staff and the start to a marvelous week of gourmet meals, Bahama Mama cocktails, celebratory toasts, and family bonding.
We’d also been directed to the bulletin board announcing a Friends of Dorothy cocktail party at 6 p.m. that night and every night of the cruise in an upstairs lounge. That evening we met several gay couples hailing from places like Chicago, Utah, Colorado, and even Singapore. We talked jobs, relationships and gay rights, and had a blast.
We did notice that the crowd seemed middle-aged and up. “I bet some of the younger folks don’t even know the friends of Dorothy reference,” somebody said, and I agreed.
So the next day, at the adult pool (thank goodness for that!) Bonnie and I spied some younger FOD candidates and mentioned the get-together. They were delighted, but had no idea that Friends of Dorothy was code for LGBT people.
“Dorothy, like in The Wizard of Oz? Like Judy Garland?” I ventured. They were clueless. Go figure. But they joined us that night, and throughout the week several more couples found us. It was just the addition to cruise activities we needed. And we loved introducing some of the more youthful homos to the secret codes of gay history.
As a whole, the cruise was delightful. The enormous ship had so many activities, bars, and restaurants, it didn’t seem like there were 4,000 men, women and screaming children aboard. We made our own fun, including swimming with dolphins in Jamaica, touring beautiful Grand Cayman (but not spending money there, because we hate their homophobic politics) and soaking up sunshine, tequila and lime in Cozumel.
It did amuse us that the ship scheduled both a toga party and a 70s costume party onboard without advance word to travelers. I’d like to see them try that on a gay cruise. By happenstance, a surprising number of passengers had fashion-backward 70s wear in their regular wardrobes, so all was saved. We traded seeing middle America in togas and bell-bottoms for the ice-dancing show (lots of friends of Dorothy on the ice) and the Royal Caribbean Broadway Review (more boys from Oz).
When we weren’t going metaphorically overboard eating or drinking, we spent the remaining fraction of time at the pool, piano bar, spa, or in our cabin. Joan, Bonnie, and I shared a stateroom and Bonnie was assigned the upper bunk. She won the honor because she, unlike Joan or myself, did not require a 3 a.m. potty break. I know, TMI. But I didn’t want you to think it was random cruelty toward my spouse.
Actually, sharing the cabin worked well, and it should be noted that the most chronologically mature traveler among us was the one who wanted to stay up the latest and party the most. Go Joan!
A straight cruise is fine for a visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there. My friend Dorothy would click her ruby red slippers, take us back to Gayberry and exclaim, “There’s no place like home.”
February 2012
MY ANGELA LANSBURY CONNECTION
As a college freshman, in 1966, I went to see the Broadway musical Mame with my high school sweetheart. He was an adorable musical comedy devotee on the verge of leaping out of the closet. I was still more than a dozen years away from coming out and becoming a lesbian anachronism—a female musical comedy queen.
We adored Mame for its humor, style, and most of all, heart. And we loved its star, Angela Lansbury, then in her early 40s, for pretty much the same reasons. We treasured her and Bea Arthur, later TV’s Maude, singing the friendship anthem “Bosom Buddies.”
I was so taken with the show and its star I followed up by watching every old movie—The Harvey Girls, Gas Light, Manchurian Candidate—Lansbury ever filmed.
Then, holiday season 1968, when my mother was working for the Actor’s Fund of America, I volunteered to be a theater “basket passer,” collecting money at intermission for the Actor’s Fund Home in New Jersey. Basket passers got free tickets. In prior years, home for college vacation, I would see eight shows in a holiday week. In 1968, however, I practically camped at the Winter Garden Theatre, passing the basket at eight consecutive performances of Mame. I met the cast between the matinee and evening shows and mingled backstage. I was a Mame groupie before that term was coined. Angela Lansbury was gracious and warm to this star struck teenage hanger-on.
When my mother died from breast cancer the next year, at age 49, it was a shocking and horrible blow. But I didn’t meet it head on. I swallowed my grief, put off dealing with it, and threw myself into my own blossoming theater career. I gobbled up as much live theater and theater lore as I could. That included seeing Angela Lansbury again in the short-lived musical Dear World. It was a showcase for her, but not as the glamorous star everyone wanted to see after Mame. Still, I loved hanging over the back wall in standing room, watching her work.
Grief. Denied. Sexuality. Denied. Life. Making do. Theater kept me grounded while I flailed ar
ound socially, finally marrying a man to prove my normalcy. I fed my emotions with musical comedy humor and happy endings, and made do with intense friendships with the leading ladies I was directing.
In 1971, I was lucky enough to get a balcony ticket to the Tony Awards 25th Anniversary Celebration, where I saw Angela and Bea Arthur in a sparkling recreation of “Bosom Buddies.” Then in 73 Angela came to Washington, DC, in Gypsy at the Kennedy Center. I worshipped at the altar at least twice, maybe three times. A year later Angela appeared with a tour of Mame at a tent theater and again, I was there, soaking up the glow.
When, in 1978, I finally got my chance to direct my own production of Mame, my make-do marriage was crumbling and my whole world was held together by my theatrical adventures. I wrote a fan letter to Ms. Lansbury that summer, telling her about my production and letting her know that my director’s note for the program would dedicate the show to her. I felt silly the moment I put the note in the mailbox.
One week later, just before opening night, I received a hand-written letter in blue ink on light blue Tiffany stationery from Mame herself, wishing me and the cast well. She noted her delight at having the show dedicated to her performance of a dozen years before.
Over the next few years, as I contemplated poking my head out of the closet, I continued directing and listening to Mame, Gypsy, and other Lansbury recordings until the vinyl wore out. I was in New York for a 1979 preview performance of Angela’s Tony Award-winning performance in Sweeny Todd. They hadn’t quite worked out the special effects yet, and sitting in the second row, I was happily splashed with fake blood from the grisly musical. I loved it and listened to the cassette tape of the music all the way home.
Then, in 1980 my life righted itself. I finally leapt from my self-imposed, self-hating closet and dealt with much of my emotional baggage. After some early escapades and laughable misadventures dating women, I finally met a great group of friends. Two years later I met Bonnie.