by Fay Jacobs
So here I sit, shocked and appalled that my goody-two-shoes reputation is shot. I am police-record eligible. How can I plan my calendar if I don’t know if I’ll be away at the big house? What’s a wife to do? Pay the fine? Not me.
In the interim, I must tell you about my annual parental visit to Florida, where, when we weren’t sitting in the sun or dining out with the folks, we spent much of our time watching the talking heads on the tube pontificate about gay marriage.
Happily, my family shares my political ideology as well as our personality genes. Which means we were all screaming back at the TV about the prospect of a Constitutional amendment codifying discrimination. My 85 year old father called Rick Santorum an (expletive delete).
Bonnie and I did take a side trip from Sarasota to North Ft. Meyers to check out the community called Care Free. It’s a gated community, with well-manicured grounds, a pool, tennis courts and club house that’s home to 500 lesbians. Some live there year round and others buy property as weekend or vacation spots. Folks rent out their units too, like our beach resorts, and lots of folks visit Care Free for a week or two each year.
While it was all very pretty and, well, care free, Bonnie and I couldn’t see living in an all-girls-all-the-time environment like that. We love the diversity of Rehoboth and certainly feel as care free here as we can be. Or at least we did until we learned we’re scofflaws and could possibly become jailbirds. (I know, it’s waaay too late for jail bait) We did the crime, will we do the time?
Which brings to mind more questions. Is Queen Latifah still the warden? Will there be women in prison that look like Charlize Theron? If so, I can take 30 days. Will Martha Stewart be there, decorating my cell?
Gee. Will I be sentenced to time in the prison laundry and have to confront my fear of ironing? Will HBO want my story for The Jacobs Redemption? Can you really dig through a cell wall with a spoon? Being taken away in handcuffs should make a nifty front page photo in Letters. In the meantime, just call us Bonnie & Snide.
October 2003
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
AMNESIA? I FORGET WHAT THAT MEANS…
Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa. I can no longer keep up the charade. My fear of being found out and thoroughly humiliated is giving me the vapors. So I’ve got to come out of the closet. The truth is, I don’t know your name.
Now it’s true that I’ve never been formally introduced to many readers of this column, so of course, I’m to be excused for not knowing everyone on a first name basis. But quite frankly, when I see some faces around town, day after day, season after season, and I know we’ve been introduced a couple of quadrillion times, it makes me positively nuts that I can’t remember people’s names.
And while there’s a certain amount of slack to be cut for waiters I see occasionally—before, during and after Cosmopolitans—I’m talking about people I see all the time. People I’ve had dinner with. Sometimes at my own house. I mean I know who they are, I just can’t remember what to call them. “Hi, Hon” only works if you’re in Baltimore.
I realize that I’m not the only person in my age bracket having this problem. But, by virtue of my mug being in a magazine (okay, I know it’s a picture from one of my sporadic thin days, but people on the mailing list from Idaho don’t know) a lot of people stop me around town to say hello. I love this, and it’s great to meet Letters readers, but the problem is that I never know if I’ve actually met the people before or they’re asking about the dogs, Bonnie or some issue I’m in a lather about from reading my column. Half the time even the initial conversation doesn’t give me a clue to the person’s age, rank or serial number.
Mostly I just sweat and stress out, hoping I can horkle up a name from my hard disk before somebody else arrives and I have to do introductions. Failing an identification, I just stand there like an etiquette moron, while introductions swirl around me. When I do hear a name, it circulates in my ears for about two seconds and then bang, it’s sucked up into my cerebellum never to be heard from again.
When you think about it, remembering names may be tough everywhere better baby boomers are found, but it’s even harder in Rehoboth. I mean out there, in the rest of the world, when you meet couples at an event or party, many of them are heterosexual. Hell, if you can remember that they’re Fred and Ginger or Scarlet and Rhett, it’s not hard figuring out which is which. Pairs of Toms and Tims, Sues and Debs, and Gertrudes and Alices are a knottier problem altogether. In fact, some couples become proper nouns, like FayandBonnie, SteveandMurray, RobertandLarry. Lots of people remember the couple, but who’s who gives them fits. I call it couples dyslexia.
Now all this wouldn’t be so totally bothersome if it weren’t for the latest research which shows that stress causes memory lapses. I can’t remember a name so I get stressed so I can’t remember a name so I gets stressed…it’s a chicken/egg thing.
But why is it I can remember the complete lyrics to “Jubilation T. Cornpone” from the Broadway bomb L’il Abner but I can’t remember the name of the maitre d’ who gets me the great eight o’clock reservation?
I’d take some of those over-the-counter dietary supplements, but I can’t remember which ones to take. It reminds me of the old Carol Burnett gag “Amnesia? I forget what that means.”
It’s like the friend of mine, who, having MS, gets asked by her doctor if she’s having memory lapses. She says “How would I know?”
What’s a person to do? Short of encouraging people to provide name tags at parties (thank you, thank you, thank you, those who do…) there has to be a way to improve my memory.
So I turned to a computer search.
The dragnet turned up the Cognitive Enhancement Research Institute, where I found out that a substance called GHB seems to be all the rage for improving memory, but drat it all, its’ use is being criminalized nationwide. If I landed in jail how would I remember my lawyers phone number?
If carburetor additives aren’t the answer, maybe mnemonics is. Whew. If you can remember how to spell that one you’re halfway home. Mneumonic systems are mind tools to help remember things. According to lots of people on the internet who want to sell you stuff, linking names to vivid images makes you able to remember all sorts of complex things.
It works by associating one thing with another. You are advised that associations can be made by visualizing yourself being placed on top of the object you want to remember. Whoa. When it comes to remembering people, this gets into a whole different set of techniques, and, frankly, as a permanently partnered woman, I’m not supposed to be going there.
So we move to the next memory tool: the Roman Room Mneumonic. Here, you’re supposed to be able to remember whole lists of unstructured things, like a shopping list, by picturing a room that you know very well. Then you assign each item on your shopping list to a thing in, say, your dining room. When you recall the objects in the room, you recall your list.
Sure. Not only couldn’t I remember my shopping list, but I forgot whether we had six or eight dining room chairs. All it did was give me a headache and I couldn’t remember if we had Excedrin.
At this point I started to explain to Bonnie the memory tricks I’d been describing. She suddenly stands up, taps her head, points to her chest, slaps her behind, smiles and points to her crotch.
“That’s it,” I said, “You’ve finally gone round the bend.”
“No,” she says, “don’t you remember the old joke where the woman does these things in the grocery store and when she’s asked what in the hell she’s doing she says ‘Shopping list’ and does the routine again saying “A head of lettuce, jug of milk, buns and a little Joy.”
Um, not a helpful system.
Let’s face it, until scientists come up with some magic solution to memory malfunction, I’m destined to wander throughout Rehoboth bluffing my way through sticky situations. Although I did feel somewhat better this afternoon when I had lunch in the CAMP Rehoboth courtyard and two different people (one I’ve known for a while) came up
and called me Bonnie. It really did make me feel better. I’m sure they know that Fay is the one who writes the column and Bonnie is the one who yells at her for publishing some of her most embarrassing moments, but making an I.D. these days is just not as easy as it used to be.
So at the next party, or beach day or stroll through town, if you say hello and a panicked, quizzical or vacant look crosses my face, help me out here. I promise you, I know who you are. Or I want to know who you are. And you can be sure that I never forget a smile, a kindness or a favor. Now your name may be a different story altogether. Mea Culpa.
October 2003
LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
THE CASE OF THE MALTESE SALMON
Like detective Kinsey Milhone says, F is for Fish. Frozen fish. Oy Gefilte. Over the past several weeks, I’ve been snarled in the Search for the Missing Salmon.
To me, fishing is selecting an entrée. Not surprisingly, to my spouse, it’s a sport.
Which is why, on our recent Alaska trip, I spent my morning in Ketchikan on a land tour while Bonnie sought to catch and can salmon. As it turned out, she spent what sounded to me like a disgusting morning playing with chum, and catching a trio of mighty salmon. The Middle Aged Woman and the Sea. Hemingway would have been proud.
But you know how the commercial goes by now: Sport fishing excursion: $170; Smoking and flash freezing fish: $120; Hosting a salmon bake at home with fish you caught yourself in Alaska: priceless.
Only it wasn’t that easy.
First, we worried that the flash frozen salmon would be shipped home before us, to lounge on our doorstep in the August sun, decomposing. Now that’s a Clear and Present Danger.
Assured that the catch would not arrive before we did, we moved to wondering how we’d be sure to get the actual fish Bonnie struggled to land—which, I might add, she did to the envy of the four fishermen also on the boat. I mean, how would we know that our FedExed salmon steaks were from the bug-eyed monster my wife caught? DNA?
Patricia Cornwell’s coroner Kay Scarpetta not being available, we had to take it on faith. Although, it’s mighty tough to take anything on faith these days, what with California voters failing to notice that Ahhhnold had no actual platform and holier than everybody Rush Limbaugh turning up as a druggie. But recent CNN stories notwithstanding, we put aside skepticism, hoped for the best and continued our cruise without worrying. At least about the fish.
White-knuckled, we soared over glaciers in a float plane, survived a tour bus driver shouting “Moose in the road!!!,” witnessed fornicating sea otters (you go, girl!), saw clouds part to reveal an awesome Mt. McKinley, and tromped through the woods following a guide who was, literally, loaded for bear.
Taking note of the rifle slung over his shoulder I asked “Ever had to use that thing?”
“No,” he said, “you tourists are pretty well behaved.” I guess he got the question a lot.
The trip followed immediately on the heels of our August double wedding in Vancouver—Fay & Bonnie, Robert & Larry getting hitched and honeymooned.
The four of us had a great time rafting, despite fretting we’d fall out of our rubber boat into the whitewater, if you’ll excuse the expression. Dressed in every article of clothing we’d packed, we resembled South Park cartoons.
In addition, they made us wear rubber suits over all the clothes. We have seen the Abominable Snowman and he is us. The raft trip proved exciting and very, very chilly. The splashing waves gave us a glacial facial, but fortunately nobody fell in. We’d have sunk like the Bismarck.
So, having toured both the great Alaska wilderness and every cocktail lounge on the ship, we headed home with several observations. First, in Alaska there should be a two-pair minimum on socks. Second, if a big chunk of ice falls off a glacier and Leo DeCaprio is not there to hear it, it is still an iceberg. And finally, bears actually do poop in the woods.
I’m still amused by U.S. airport security. To prevent the SARS virus from entering Philadelphia, they asked each incoming traveler, following their eight mile hike through the airport dragging carry-on crap, up two escalators, down one long hallway, over the river and through the woods to baggage claim, to sign a paper attesting to the fact that they did not have shortness of breath. Puleeeze.
Jet lagged, wheezing and recovering from hypothermia, we arrived home to await our souvenir seafood.
Every day, starting September 2, Bonnie or I arranged to check the homefront between noon and 3 p.m. People whispered about a possible affair between one of us and the FedEx girl. Often, we’d post a “Dear FedEx” note on the door, so every burglar in town knew exactly when to strike. Fortunately, we also had the Schnauzer alarm.
Weeks passed, and the mystery of the Ten Little Filets deepened. P is for Pissed. My God, millions of fish had gone through whole spawning cycles since we last heard from Moby Salmon.
Finally, we called Ketchikan (not that easy in itself) to learn that our flash frozen fish was safe in an Alaskan Sub Zero, while parts of the catch went through the smoking process. They said our order would be shipped September 29 to arrive October 1.
Frankly, by this time neither of us gave a damn whose fish it was as long as it arrived postmarked Alaska to prove to increasing numbers of skeptics that Bonnie really caught something and wasn’t just blowing smoked salmon.
So now it was the Hunt for Red (Salmon in) October. Once again we did the daily FedEx vigil so three hundred bucks of fish sticks didn’t thaw on the stoop. Days passed and it was Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Federal Express. By October 6 we scoped out Food Lion for frozen filets to pass off as the trophy catch.
“Hello, Ketchikan? Where the heck is our fish?”
“Oh, sorry, we’ve been closed down with heavy fog all week. Nothin goin’ in or outta here.”
“Our Sockeye Salmon is socked in?”
“Yes, but don’t worry, your fish is in a freezer at the airport. It should be able to fly out tomorrow.”
Great, my fish is flying stand-by.
I came home today to find Bonnie feverishly stuffing vacuum packed baggies filled with salmon into every crevasse in the freezer.
“So whaddya think? Is it yours?”
“I dunno.”
I suggested matching the fish scales on the largest filet with photos of Bonnie holding up her fish for the camera. She chucked a salmon brick at me.
Tonight as an appetizer we had a yummy smoked salmon spread. We followed with fettuccine alfredo and smoked salmon. And tomorrow, it might be Salmon Stroganoff, Salmon Wellington, or Szechuan Salmon. Fish Bake, here we come. We’re glad the mystery of The Runaway Salmon is solved. As John Grisham might say, now it’s A Time to Grill….
October 2003
PUTTING IT TOGETHER
I tried to brush the sand off of my shoes, my pants and my dog before getting into the car. I was gritty and sweaty but the deed was done. I had just posed in a beach chair, at the edge of the water, laptop and lapdog on my considerable lap, as I sipped from a Martini glass of faux Cosmopolitan.
All things considered, my friend Murray, CAMP Rehoboth President and photographer par excellence had an easier time with the dog than with me.
Between blinking my eyes at the flash and obsessing about my thighs being an unfortunate focal point, the shoot was a challenge. But at the end of the day, I hoped we’d have a book cover photo.
Of course, we pulled the idea for the picture out of our butts, because there’s really no book yet, just a collection of columns, but they do involve the beach, Schnauzers and Cosmopolitans, not necessarily in that order.
I’m alternately freaked out and frenzied. I’ve re-read eight years of columns, read them aloud and edited out parts that annoyed me the minute they went to press the first time. Then I printed out all the columns, and with the assistance of my “adopted” son Eric, assigned them in yes, no and maybe piles on the floor of my home office. We were in that room flinging paper for days.
Oddly enough, the columns, written ever
y two weeks on whatever topic popped into my brain at deadline time, did tell a story. It’s How I Discovered Rehoboth, Came Here for Gay Weekends, Lived on my Boat, Bought a Condo, Pined to Be Here Full Time and Finally Made My Father Insane Because I Quit My Job and Moved to the Beach.
Okay, maybe Rehoboth locals would get a kick out of it in book form. Maybe a few weekenders from Philly or D.C. might get a chuckle. Mostly, it will make Anyda happy to have A&M Books publish another author besides Sarah Aldridge. Muriel seems excited about it too. We’ll print a few copies, bribe local stores to stock them and have an adventure.
Actually, I really have to get off my ass and put the thing together because a beach book should probably be published by Memorial Day. Besides, Anyda and Muriel may be the publishers, but writing the check to the printer and cheering me on is the most they are up to doing. So I’ve got to get busy. But the real urgency is what Anyda matter-of-factly says: “Get to it. I’m old you know.”
I know.
Seeing two women in their 90s so incredibly engaged, animated, and energized is fantastic. That it’s my pre-natal book they are keyed up about blows me away. After all, they are lesbian publishing royalty.
THE LESBIAN WRITER
Shortly after Bonnie and I met the ladies, we were in their sunroom talking about the Sarah Aldridge novels. Muriel had her checkbook out, writing a check for postage to send a carton of books to a feminist book collective in California. They asked me to walk to the detached garage behind the house and bring back a stack of books they needed. I wended my way past the roses, through some ancient ground cover toward the garage—a structure with a rental apartment above. I slid the heavy door open and it was like walking into a lesbian archeology dig. I found hundreds of cartons, holding thousands of copies of the 13 still-in-print Sarah Aldridge novels.
By that afternoon I’d learned that although Anyda had been penning unpublished lesbian novels since she was a teenager, both she and Muriel spent the 1950s and 60s concentrating on their careers and their clandestine gay life. Anyda was an attorney for the World Bank by this time and Muriel was executive secretary to the president of the Southern Railroad. Both women had enormously high pressure jobs and they loved the work they did.
