As I Lay Frying

by Fay Jacobs

  At another rainbow abode, the homeowner was upstairs, gleefully showing enthralled visitors a Barbra Streisand video on his high definition TV. This caused a significant backup, much like Saturday beach traffic. “Turn off the TV,” instructed the downstairs docent, “we’ve got to get things moving again!”

  The home, overflowing with movie memorabilia and Tom Cruise posters had dozens of people convinced that the owner knew Tom personally. “Why else would he have his pictures all over the place?” they demanded of the docents. Why, indeed.

  For the record, the tour was equally divided between straight and gay households, as well as straight and gay cottage tourists. And all of the homes were magnificent in their own ways. It’s interesting to note that by looking at the bookshelves you couldn’talways tell a book owner’s orientation by the book covers.

  Sure, there were lots of fine art books and intriguing design tomes, but houses on both teams had John Grisham hardbacks and other popular fiction. A non-gay household had the latest Judy Garland bio. Go figure.

  I loved the cottage with the requisite outdoor shower for sand reclamation. This rustic outdoor shower had two separate stalls, a dressing area complete with mirrors and hand lotion, and enough room for a seated attendant collecting tips, if they so chose.

  With throngs of people tromping through the homes (1,400 over two days), the charity-minded proprietors all chose different ways to wait out the busybody invitational—hosting in the kitchen, offering refreshments; hiding in the kitchen, hoping to remain anonymous; or taking refuge at the beach, and reappearing only when it was safe to come out of the water.

  For the most part, the cottage-peekers were very well-behaved, ooh-ing and ahhhh-ing at the properties, décor, art, and statuary. The docent army, schooled by the homeowners, could point out particularly wonderful pieces of art or fill visitors in on the history or idiosyncrasies of each home.

  Imagine if I showed off my miniature manse on next year’s tour. The crowd, after cutting their way through dust bunny jungle, would be greeted by a docent.

  “On your right, please notice the gouge in the carpet, gnawed by the dog. Over here, you have the stunning Ethan Allen bedroom suite, with the foot of the armoire hacked into a teething ring by the dog. As we head to the diminutive sun porch, please note the striations in the screens, clawed by the….”

  One of the best things about the real tour, of course, is the printed program, with a drawing and complete description of each residence. It includes comments like “built in the 20s by…folk art and artistry seen in every nook…energy flows with the open design…nestled in a picturesque landscape…etc.

  I can see my write-up. “Welcome to Schnauzerhaven. Dating from 1997, this shoddily built tract-house opens to a backyard view of an adjacent barbed wire fence and trailer storage lot. The house is nestled amid small, recently-planted shrubs struggling to survive dog pee. The great room features a high ceiling fan that nobody can reach to dust, while the furniture dates back to twentieth century Ikea.”

  Okay, so you won’t be seeing my “cottage” on the tour next year. You just have to make do with those impeccable in-town places and their lovely and unique art collections, distinctive architecture, and generous owners.

  So until next year, keep this image with you. It was my favorite. Two ladies walk into a gargantuan walk-in closet in one home. In a hushed, slow and almost reverential tone, one woman says to the other:

  “Hmmmm…pants…on…the…right…pants…on…the... left…I’ve never been in a gay couple’s closet before. This is so interesting.”

  Ain’t it now.

  August 2001

  NOT A DOG STORY

  Before you flip the page, saying, “She’s writing about the damn dogs again,” I beg your patience. This is not really a story about the dogs. It’s about fragile human connections, cruel fate, and unconditional love.

  Okay, this first part is about the damn dogs. My house has been in an uproar since last summer when Bonnie’s illness led to a household fight over alpha dog status. Historically, Bonnie was always the boss, while the pack consisted of Moxie, Paddy, and me (please note my placement in that list).

  However, according to our latest canine trainer, with Bonnie hospitalized a good part of last summer, then spending weeks on the sofa, Moxie felt the need to protect her and take over as Alpha Dog. Unfortunately, it was a position he felt responsible to assume but insufficiently courageous to handle.

  His false bravado translated into irrational, hysterical barking at anything outside, near the front door, or entering the house. That included the riding mower, mailman, trash truck, vacuum cleaner, and any intrepid visitors who got past the gauntlet.

  Prior to this new Moxie Braveheart, we actually needed a doorbell. In fact, we got a cool electronic device to sit atop the doorbell and respond to every door chime by amplifying and relaying the sound to other rooms.

  Well now, with Moxie’s frantic early warning system, the hair-trigger electronic chime responds not only to the doorbell but to Moxie’s bark, so all day long, between the barking and chiming, you don’t know if you’re at Westminster Cathedral or Kennel Club.

  Paddy, already a little neurotic, hides in the closet, sniffing Doctor Scholl’s foot powder. His addiction escalated to gnawing leather, and one day I came home to discover that he’d munched one each of four pairs of shoes. My shrieking set Moxie and the door chime off and we all nearly lost our minds.

  Then the phone rang.

  Now I don’t know if it’s the same in your life, but I’ve started to view the new millennium as Reality, Part II. Part One was The Epidemic. Many of us had loved ones we lost to AIDS for a premature taste of life’s cruelties. We often heard, “We’re too young to be at our contemporary’s funerals.”

  Well now we’re at a stage where bad news and illnesses are creeping back and are slightly more age appropriate. When our contemporaries talk about various aches, pains and conditions, it can be just good-natured kvetching.

  But kidding aside, life is starting to feel increasingly fragile.

  This time the phone call was about my college roommate. A victim of the hideously cruel Huntington’s disease, she now needs round the clock care in a nursing home. With Huntington’s, your motor and mental skills all deteriorate—but you don’t die. It’s devastating.

  When I called the nursing home, I was thrilled to hear that while Lesley’s voice was slowed, speech somewhat slurred, her memory and sense of humor seemed pretty intact.

  Lesley and I have been part of each other’s lives pretty regularly since we were 18. I spent some of her honeymoon with her in France, after wiring funds so she and her new, now ex, husband could pay their Monte Carlo casino bill.

  Following my divorce, she, in turn, took me to Provincetown, sat me down on a bench and told me to take a great big look around. Without that push, I might still be in the closet.

  Long a vegan (one serious vegetarian) and animal welfare advocate, Lesley sat around in plastic shoes, putting up with my carnivorous ways—provided I agreed to put up tomatoes with her. If not for her, I’d never ever have been near a farm or mason jar. And she’d have missed several plays and a boat trip.

  “Are you going to bring the dogs to see me?” she haltingly, hopefully, asked when I called. “Please….”

  So despite the recent household reign of terrier, we scheduled a road trip. Reclaiming her authority, Alpha Bonnie seat-belted the rest of the pack into the car and we took off. Eight long hours, two pee-breaks and several rawhide chews later (no, I did not. I gnawed cheese doodles instead), we arrived on the shores of Lake Seneca in Geneva, New York.

  Miraculously, we’d found a Ramada that welcomed pets, checked in, and headed for the nursing home.

  The smile on Lesley’s face as the fuzzy grey Schnauzers burst into her room was worth its weight in kibble. Up on Lesley’s bed the pups jumped, dispensing kisses and unconditional love.

  Obviously my dogs felt no obligation to prote
ct us, the nursing home, its occupants or visitors, since my pooches became perfect little angels. As we took Lesley down the hall for a haircut, Moxie perched on her lap in the wheelchair, regal as a prince. Paddy, the royal footman, heeled alongside the carriage.

  All along our route, patients looked at our entourage, with smiles and sparkles in their eyes, waving, talking, and sometimes merely grunting to the dogs. People who seemed mired in lonely silence only minutes before reached out to pet and pamper my dogs. I cried more than once.

  I’m not going to pretend that the weekend was easy. Seeing this once beautiful, dynamic woman dependent on aides and confined to a tiny, waning life was tough to handle. But given the circumstances, the weekend was far better than we could have expected.

  There was an outdoor bar with live music along the lake at the hotel, where Bonnie and I sat, in the cool evening air (with the dogs!) listening to a chanteuse and sipping Smirnoff. It was all very European.

  On Saturday we spent a long day back at the nursing home, our dogs adorning Lesley’s bed like the New York Public Library’s lions. When conversation was too tough, or cheeriness hard to sustain, Moxie and Paddy rescued us with their antics.

  By Sunday morning, after emotional farewells (and a quick check to make sure all the nursing home residents still had all their shoes), we humans were emotionally spent—and the dogs were just plain spent. It was a long ride home, with time to discuss life’s cruelties and the need to make every single day count. The dogs, of course, know a thing or two about stopping to sniff the roses.

  While we suffered beach traffic, they awoke only for shards of hot dog and a potty break outside Philly.

  This afternoon I was preparing a package with a portrait of the pooches to mail to Lesley for her room, when friends rang the doorbell. Moxie went off like the hound of the Baskervilles, the door chime did the Bells of St. Mary’s, and Paddy raced to the foyer with half a Reebok in his choppers. And you know, I didn’t care.

  August 2001

  RULES TO MOVE BY

  “We’re on a five-year plan.” I hear that a lot from gay and lesbian couples who weekend in Rehoboth and are contemplating a move to full-time. That’s when I usually laugh and remember that Bonnie and I were on a five-year plan that turned to a five-minute plan when I got a job offer.

  People ask “What’s it like to live in Rehoboth 24/7?” Fantastic. Not that there aren’t adjustments when you move to a place where you used to vacation.

  So for you 5-year planners and those who might be inspired, here’s my take on it:

  1. After years of weekending here, leaving chores, bills and responsible adult life back in Maryland, it’s a shock when all that stuff comes with you. Fighting with the HMO…what is that doing here????? Rule #1: Spend your weekends like you did before— at the beach, boardwalk, whatever. Relegate chores to the time you used to spend commuting. And you can worship on Sunday morning at Our Lady of Lowes. The trade-off is that delicious 4 p.m. Tuesday trip to the beach, running into your friends everywhere, and morning coffee with buddies you meet at the post office. Spoiled? Only in a fabulous way.

  2. Gayberry RFD has all the charm and aggravation of any small town (but much better food). While it’s a joy to mingle with neighbors, shopkeepers and town movers and shakers, gossip travels faster than a boogey-boarder stung by a sea nettle. Whoever said a lie can travel half way ‘round the world before the truth has its shoes on was smart.

  Also, Don’t assume what you hear—good or bad—is true. We try to check out the mouths of the involved horses. If you hear your money ain’t good enough at your once-favorite watering hole, or a certain shop or organization has a bug up its butt about gay people, check it out yourself. There’s guaranteed to be less black and white and more gray than you thought, and you might encourage positive change. It sounds naïve, but it works.

  Of course, don’t expect to play hooky from work undetected. Here, everybody knows everybody else’s business. But that’s as good as it is bad. If you need help, everybody knows and rallies.

  3. We do more here, even in the winter, than we ever did in the metropolis. Rule # 3: Plan to stay busy! Everything’s five minutes away. You can brunch, swim, beach, shop, hit happy hour, cook dinner (okay, go out to dinner) and still catch a movie. If

  you’re not old like me you can do even more. I can see two movies in the time I used to spend in line for tickets for one. It took moving to a hamlet to get me into yoga, independent films, auctions, new playwrights, winery tours and drinking beer where I know the brewer. I don’t have time to miss Broadway, being the neighborhood’s token lesbians or entire mornings in commuter traffic.

  4. Pick up the phone! Rule #4: Anybody who says they haven’t gotten into “the community” hasn’t tried. If Rehoboth is cliquey, there’s a clique for everybody. We’ve got sub-cultures within sub-cultures. Among our larger gay community there’s a whole contingent of antique fanatics, animal welfare activists, people in book clubs, disabled gays, golf-obsessed girls, lipstick lesbians, hearing-impaired people, S&M devotees, eople who love Enya (why???), artists’ collectives, musicians, karaoke queens and more. There are even gay Republicans.

  I’ve seen people move here knowing no one, and after a phone call or two they are up to their armpits volunteering, attending free support groups which produce social connections and advising the next arrivals on how to get involved.

  Corollary to Rule #4 is Rule #4A: Just show up. It annoys me when I hear people surmise that our local non-profits are exclusive clubs. Phooey. I know several volunteers whose major qualification, in addition to being energetic and interested, is that they just showed up. Stop whining and get off your butt. You can send me ugly e-mail if you want. I don’t care.

  5. I’m fearless here. Even if you never realized you were nervous about people peering over your shoulder at ATMs and strangers’ footsteps gaining on you from behind on Capitol Hill or in downtown Philadelphia, you’ll feel the total absence of that fear in Rehoboth.

  Not only can you luxuriate over a romantic dinner with your sweetie at all the local eateries, and have your same-genderness seem positively ho-hum, but your car radio is safe in the street while you’re doing it. Rule #5: Relax and enjoy yourself. Even if you never felt threatened by street crime or gay bashing “back home,” the absence of it here is palpable.

  The worst crime I’ve been party to was the discovery of a squatter in my condo one winter. I never saw the culprit, but there were T-shirts left behind and a great deal of toilet paper missing. Squatter, indeed.

  6. Pack the piggy bank. Rule #6: Don’t believe the myth “it costs less to live here.” Ha! Okay, taxes are lower and you won’t need corporate drag anymore. But you’re not going to switch from dining out on Chilean Sea Bass to staying home with Rice-a-Roni. If you lived like Will or Grace before, you won’t be Fred or Ethel Mertz here.

  And you can maximize your buck, especially off-season. With half-price noodle nights and diner dinners, our restaurants cater to locals. You can stuff yourself on the cheap all winter and live off the fat when the prices go back up in June. There are locals nights at the movies and a staggering number of free activities like gallery openings, film previews, the boardwalk exercise track, and free band concerts.

  And that’s a good thing, because Rule #6a is: Don’t plan on making much money here. Congrats to those of you retiring here, but for us working stiffs, unless you telecommute to corporate headquarters, become a gastroenterologist or reach the zillion dollar real estate club, you’ll need overdraft protection.

  Careers in Rehoboth mean more fun, more free time, more job satisfaction, less commute, less clothes, less stress, and less money. But the trade-off works for me.

  7. And finally, Rule # 7: Never underestimate the value of zip-loc bags. This is the beach. It’s wet. There’s salt spray in the air. Put a towel outside to dry and it gets wetter; Put metal hangers in the closet and your clothes rust; put chips in a bowl fifteen minutes before company comes an
d you’ll understand the origins of Limp Biskit. Not only do we need safe sex around here, but latex protection is a good idea for an open bag of Doritos.

  On the other hand, when the ocean breeze comes along, there’s absolutely nothing like it.

  All in all, besides asking Bonnie out for an iced-tea in 1982, moving to Rehoboth is the best decision I ever made. Of course, we could use a good dry cleaners, gourmet Chinese food and a shoemaker. But then we’d really be spoiled.

  So, what are you all waiting for???? Call the movers….

  September 2001

  THERE’LL BE BLUEBIRDS OVER…

  I don’t think that any person who is privileged, as I am, to see their words published on a regular basis, could go back to the everyday business of writing without covering last week’s tragic terrorist attacks and loss of life. I know I can’t.

  As our global, national, and local communities unite in horror over the World Trade Center and Pentagon events, and as our hearts go out to the people killed and the families forever altered, the kinships we have, whether biological or by affinity, are what get us through.

  As I sit typing, the wall above the computer monitor sports a poster-sized photo I once took of the Trade Center towers. Formerly a symbol of my I Love New York hometown pride, it’s now a much more moving tribute.

  Like everyone else, for me, this last week has been steeped in disbelief, anger, fear, and the need to connect and re-connect with those we love. Bonnie and I were scheduled to dine with a group of friends on that awful Tuesday night, and we phoned to see if it was still “on.”

  “We might as well all watch this unfold together,” said our prospective hostess.

  So that’s what we did—gather with one of our special families, and experience the awfulness of the events together. The hello hugs were longer, the conversations more serious, and the realization that our community of Rehoboth friends will be there in good times and bad was a comfort to us all.