As I Lay Frying

by Fay Jacobs

  Ant-Hill Spray.

  When I got home, Bonnie was washing the houseplants because in looking for ants she found something called Aphids. I don’t know what they are but I don’t want my father to know I have them.

  My parents and I survived the visit. The ants did not.

  The strangest thing is happening, though. Here at the B&D we are losing a lot of our repeat visitors. I’ve been assured that it’s not our spotty hospitality. In the past several months, three couples who regularly lodge with us have just bought their own Rehoboth places. And a fourth couple has been poring over financial statements to see if they can afford to check out of Schnauzerhaven and into their own summer retreat. I hope they understand they’ll be going into the hospitality business.

  Meanwhile, B&D life goes on, with no shortage of guests and no shortage of fun. But I want everybody to know that our establishment does not put little chocolates on the pillows. If guests see little brown things there, they probably ought to worry.

  July 2002

  RUNNING HOT AND COLD

  When the week starts with the son of Ted Williams threatening to turn the baseball icon into a Popsicle, where can it go but up?

  In case you missed it, the daughter of baseball great Ted Williams is suing to keep her half-brother from putting the former slugger in deep freeze—a process called Cryogenics. The kid figures science will eventually cure old age, they can wake dad, clone his DNA and produce pennant winners. Or something like that.

  In the meantime, with the Ted Williams on Ice controversy all over Entertainment Tonight, you’d think they were touting Disney on Ice, which, is kinda funny now that I’ve mentioned it, because rumor has had it for years that Walt himself was flash frozen for posterity. I happen to have inside information from a VIP at Forest Lawn Cemetery in L.A. that Walt is indeed in the earth and not in an ice cube tray somewhere.

  Be that as it may, to freeze or not to freeze Ted is still page one. Which is amusing, given the rest of the news. Love the stock market. You need Dramamine just to watch CNBC. After an internal audit of my personal finances, I’ve pretty well resigned myself to funding my 80s with a paper route.

  And I’m trying to figure out why the words “special prosecutor” haven’t been revived for our Prez & Veep’s insider trading and failure to report stock deals. Somebody reported that W’s failure to let the SEC know about transactions was “not a federal offense.” Does this mean that a lowly blow job was a federal offense?

  While I found things that Bill and the bimbos did federally offensive, let’s get real. Politicos with runaway zippers are vastly more interesting than, say, CEO’s raping and pillaging our 401(k)’s, but where are the calls for hearings and public hangings?

  If journalists revealed as much detail about insider trading and inflated stock prices as we got about Monica Lewinsky’s damn dry cleaning, we might actually protect investors. There’s a concept.

  You think I’m hot under the collar? I can’t help it. Hot Flash! Hormone Replacement Therapy gives women every single disease it was supposed to prevent! If we didn’t have strokes just hearing that news, we can now look forward to them. Do we throw away our estrogen, fry eggs on our foreheads, and sprout macramé on our chins?

  An entire nation of my peers, 13.5 million women to be exact, will have to decide whether to chuck their age-defying Fountain of Youth pills and get used to a humiliating array of symptoms. We’ll be wracked with insomnia, night sweats, hot flashes and, my personal favorite, violent mood swings. Even if nature didn’t provide the mood swings, this medical science double cross would have.

  And what about homeopathic remedies like Soy and Black Cohash? It sounds like a Humphrey Bogart film noir—The Case of the Black Cohash. I’m convinced we should just go out and start randomly eating twigs and leaves. Even doctors I know are shaking their heads.

  Okay, let’s review. We’ve got millions of irritable females, up all night worrying about morphing into Mammy Yokum, with perspiration on body parts that should be dry and dehydration of parts that should be moist. We’re mad as hell and we’re not going to take it any more.

  I say we harness the energy and sic this army of pissed off, moody women on big business. Faced with clammy, crazed, middle aged women with goatees who’ve been up all night sweating over annual reports, CEOs will spill the goods and beg for mercy. We’ll find out who cooked which books faster than you can grill a Steak-Um with a hot flash.

  Following the triumphant corporate crackdown, we head out West, dousing the forest fires with our night sweats and bestowing cantankerousness on the estrogen fueled cheeriness of Britney Spears and the Olsen Twins (“Just you wait!!! You’ll shrivel up some day, too!”).

  Then we deploy Troop Menopause to the Middle East to occupy all disputed territories until everybody plays nice. Two weeks into this Feminist Jihad, as both Arabs and Jews are being driven crazy adjusting their thermostats and staying one step ahead of the violent mood swings you’ll have them begging to come to the peace table.

  Find Bin Laden? No problem. Although I still don’t understand why the covert operations of the entire free world cannot find a six-foot tall terrorist in a bathrobe, tethered to a dialysis machine. Even so, we’ll just go in and smoke him out with the steam coming out our ears. After all, thirteen million women just learned their hormones were being revoked, their health was at risk and, oops, medical science used them for guinea pigs.

  I can hear Martha Stewart’s lawyer now. The Twinkie Defense has been replaced by the Prem-Pro Defense. “Your honor, they took away my Estrogen and I can’t remember a thing!”

  And we should infiltrate religious congregations where elders have been shuttling pedophile priests around faster than you can say Where’s Waldo. Okay, millions of bad-tempered women are telling you to stop it right now, pay the victims enough to get counseling and instead of running a villain protection program, put them in jail where they belong. Fix this, or else. Be afraid, be very afraid!!!!!

  That’s it. We start a brand new acronym. Like MADD and GLADD, we have WIMMAN–Women in Menopause Marching Against Noxiousness. Our motto: Don’t sweat the small stuff. Our mascot: the Purple Flash. Imagine the stuff we can fix. The possibilities are endless.

  Of course, we’ll have to do our work fast. One minute we’ll be fiery crones on a mission, the next we’ll be shivering and weeping in the corner, apologizing for living. Frankly, it’s enough to make me very irritable. Although, as I tell my mate, “don’t like this mood? Wait a minute.”

  August 2002

  OH, THE FOLLIES OF IT ALL

  It started with a conversation about gay pride. A request had come from upstate to hold a gay pride parade here. Frankly, I don’t think we need one. The way we live our lives here every single day is much more significant than a parade.

  As many of us know, pride parades were born of brave individuals having the courage to come out as gay in often hostile, unsafe environments. It was the combination of the safety in numbers theory and that marvelous gay male sensibility that produced flamboyant floats, parades and headlines. Oh yeah, those courageous dykes often did lots of the organizing, provided security, and led the way on their motorcycles.

  Those early parades gave millions of people the courage to face their true orientation bravely, honestly, and healthily. To this day, pride parades in conservative states and communities continue to validate and motivate people to come well-organized, expensive celebrations in themselves.

  While there has been great progress and we have TV’s Will & Grace, it still takes bravery to come out in a majority of cities and towns. Across the nation gays and lesbians still fight discrimination, and fear for their families, jobs, and lives. But at least here in Rehoboth, we have come a long way, baby. For Delaware, a true pride parade would be most valuable outside of Rehoboth Beach.

  Why? In a single summer weekend, Rehoboth had the following pride parade:

  On Friday night a political fundraiser was held at the home of two
delightful and generous gay men. The candidate was a straight man promising not only to support anti-discrimination legislation for Delaware but to fight strenuously for it. The crowd, split evenly between gays and non-gays, mixed and mingled and pressed the candidate on quality of life issues large and small. In this candidate’s campaign, equal rights for all voters is a given.

  Afterward Bonnie and I went to dinner with a heterosexual friend who lamented that it would be much easier to meet a mate here in this area if she were of a different orientation. We all made lots of those “sorry, it’s not a choice” jokes. But her comments said a lot about the size of our community here and its welcoming nature.

  Also on Friday, Letters published answers to questions posed to the three candidates for City Commissioner. Here too, refreshingly, equality for all was an absolute given. In fact, one of the candidates responded “don’t vote for me just because I am gay, but because I will….”

  Following the night of politics, I spent Saturday rehearsing for the CAMP Rehoboth Follies. During the day, (and for the preceding weeks) I had the pleasure of working with eight lesbians putting together an amateur skit for the event.

  Having worked with all sorts of divas in my theatrical career I’m happy to say this was one exceptionally cooperative, if not experienced, bunch. Of course, everybody had their own ideas and wanted to process all the directions and make sure everybody was happy. Women’s Collective Meets Community Theatre. Directing them was like herding cats.

  Our cast was delighted with the reception they got from the approximately 1000 cheering audience members (straight and gay) at Convention Hall that evening. As one of only two groups of women among the men’s drag acts, we were thrilled to take part. Our gals spoofed lesbian stereotypes, had power tools for props, and sang “Nothin’ Like a Dame.”

  “Oooh, you lesbians are so cool, and you do have a sense of humor!” said one young man with washboard abs. “I need to meet me some lesbians,” said another. So we had another kind of pride—pride that Rehoboth’s gay men and gay women were celebrating together.

  Even the very straight sound technicians got with the program and found themselves offering their votes for best skit.

  Two straight women friends of mine from D.C. came to the Follies, and hooted and hollered along with the crowd. “We’ve never been to such an outrageous show and had so much fun in our lives!” they said, and I think they meant it. The cheers, laughs, mega trashy humor and community pride just rocked that Convention Center.

  At 11 p.m. when the curtain came down, the audience and performers (many of the boys still in high heels, high hair and phony tits) spilled out onto Rehoboth Avenue, heading for home or around town for a nightcap. It was an impromptu gay pride parade all its own.

  By the next morning, when our heads cleared (oh, did I mention the cash bars at Follies, dispensing libations. all evening? It was all for charity, hon….) we wound up at one of our gay friendliest restaurants for brunch. As our party walked in, people at several tables recognized some of our divas and commented on their performance. Most tables included both gay and straight diners, and everyone was jabbering about the Follies.

  Do we need a gay pride parade here in Rehoboth? I think not.

  August 2002

  IF FAY RULED THE WORLD

  I sat around from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. the other day waiting for the cable person to show up. He or she never did. As I stewed, I fantasized about all the wrongs I’d right if I had the chance.

  1. We’d tell the cable crew we’d be home some time between noon and four, and then hit the beach, leaving them sitting in their sweltering truck on my driveway, staring at their watches.

  2. I’d re-record my answering machine. If this is a credit card offer, press 1. If you are calling from a long distance phone company, press 2 . If you are a telemarketer trying to sell me something I don’t need, press 3. If you’re calling to solicit donations for my alma mater you must be kidding.

  And after having them press a dozen numbers, followed by the go pound sand sign, I’d program the phone to revert to dial tone. Buh-bye. Oh, and if a telemarketer asks “Is your husband home?” he or she would simply be zapped with an incapacitating electric shock.

  3. Every time I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, or thought I heard a strange sound, I’d be sure to wake the dogs, make them go outside (sometimes in the rain) and then make them wait patiently for me to be ready to go back to bed.

  4. I’d tell the HMO “I’m sorry, that charge is over my personal customary and reasonable amount, so I’m only paying $20, and $10 of it is your co-pay. As for the mammogram, my having breasts is a pre-existing condition so I’m not paying you every year to look at them.

  5. I would tell the folks building our garage that we’d write them a check on Monday, then say my pen hadn’t been delivered, so they’d have to wait until Tuesday, and then on Tuesday I wouldn’t show up at all, and then on Wednesday I’d remember I was out of checks and….

  6. Instead of the exemplary Osborne family on reality TV, we’d get the real life of Jodie Foster and her family.

  7. Rehoboth locals would have cars equipped like James Bond to bulldoze over tourists’ mini-vans blocking our intersections. And, for good measure, we’d spray tacks out our exhaust systems directly in front of their SUVs. (Oh, is it ever August…)

  8. There’d be the same number of hot dogs in a package as there are hot dog rolls.

  9. Only Lesbians wanting offspring would menstruate monthly and the rest of us could do it only once a year like other large mammals.

  10. Diane Sawyer and Katie Couric would be forbidden to feature three-month long wedding profiles, contests to pick the most fabulous love story, or other such alienating twaddle, until they agreed to feature at least one gay couple in each group.

  11. Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson would have to apologize for besmirching the reputations of all lesbians, since we aren’t even mentioned in the Bible.

  12. Stress would induce dramatic weight loss, clear up your complexion, lower your cholesterol and give you an edge with Publisher’s Clearing House.

  13. Maitre d’s seeing two women coming into a restaurant together on a Saturday night would immediately lead them to a prime table (Yeah, like that would ever happen).

  14. Emergency Rooms that make you wait five hours would be mandated to be called Waiting Rooms. And Trauma Centers could retain the name only if they treated trauma rather than dispensing it.

  15. Instead of sending Americans to Kosovo to monitor elections, they’d send Eastern Europeans to Florida to monitor elections.

  16. Grown-ups could open child proof containers.

  17. Anyone sending you glitter or confetti in an envelope would have to come to your house and vacuum it up; ditto for businesses that pack things in Styrofoam peanuts.

  18. Bottled water and tofu would be horrible for your health and Belvedere Vodka and Funnel Cake would be hailed as miracle cures.

  19. Only candidates who support the Delaware HB99 Anti-Discrimination bill would be elected this fall.

  And finally, if I had my way, headlines would read…

  20. Heterosexual serial killer arrested in California; Heterosexual priests settle with families of molested girls, Openly heterosexual elected; Heterosexuals quaffing green beer parade through town on March 17…you get the idea.

  October 2002

  NO FLEAS ON ME

  My father calls it the organ recital. You know, when everybody sits around complaining about ailments. Frankly I try not to bore people with that sort of thing since we’re all starting to leak at the seams from one thing or another these days.

  But over the past two weeks several medical oddities surfaced and I thought I’d share them with you. If sitting around in person kvetching is a recital, I guess I’m publishing the sheet music. It’s Tin Pain Alley. (ba-da-bing)

  First, the doctor called me intolerant. I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but intolerant was ne
ver one of them. But then I never expressed a prejudice like this before either. All of a sudden, I’m anti-dairy. Lactose intolerant, and it’s a bitch.

  Me, who never met a frozen custard she didn’t like; me, who’s equally happy with a bowl of Cheerios and milk as a gourmet dinner; me, who lives for crème brulee.

  So I opened negotiations with my stomach, offering to trade half and half for skim and a future draft choice. Even that watery stuff caused trouble. I was stuck with the disgusting powdery non-dairy creamer, and for a while I saw no point in going on.

  My doctor gave me a prescription for one of those remedies advertised on TV. And if I might digress here, what the hell are drug companies doing advertising prescription drugs in the first place? Call me old fashioned, but shouldn’t that be the doctor’s call? Why should I go to a doctor asking for the drug I saw advertised by showing us a dog doing Tai Chi or people standing on mountains to cure their throat lesions? It’s not like Madison Avenue is trying to convince me to buy soup. They’re pushing me to buy something I’d be arrested for getting without a prescription. Does this bother anybody else?

  And while I’m off the topic, how about those second generation drugs, like Sneezinex that replaces the older Sneezatin. The original drug didn’t stop my allergies and the new one won’t either. From what I hear, it’s just a drug company ploy to keep making money once the generic of the original drug is released. Why is the public so gullible?

  Okay, so I gladly stayed away from cottage cheese and skim milk, which wasn’t really the problem, and grudgingly skipped the ice cream, which was. One day, sitting at my desk, eating my dairy-free lunch, I looked down and discovered a couple of little black spots on the hem of my khaki pants.