by Fay Jacobs
“My donut is missing! Somebody stole my donut!” I sputtered, accusing some poor mechanic or desperate donut-less schnook of pilfering my baby spare. “What do I do, put out an APB on my donut?”
To her discredit, my pal looked into the trunk and, said, “Oh my gosh,” alluding to the fact that she, too, didn’t see any damn donut.
By my second, “Somebody stole my donut,” we both started to giggle because that statement sounded so stupid. Little did we know exactly how stupid. Mistake one. I did not call my spouse. I handled the mechanical crisis myself—never a good move. I called roadside assistance which immediately sent a tow truck. They should have just sent me a real lesbian.
Dumb and dumber show up with their tow truck and when I tell them my donut us missing, they peek in my trunk and verify that fact. I think they just took my word for it so they could wrap this up and go get an actual donut.
“No problem,” said one of the brain trust mechanics, further validating my conclusion about the errant donut. “Let’s pump up the tire, see if it holds the air, and we will follow you to the tire store.”
Which is exactly what happened. Whereupon they waved bye-bye, I learned that the tire valve stem thingie, was leaking, I bought a new one for $15—clearly the cheapest repair ever, and went on my merry way. Oh, except for feeling quite violated and telling everybody who would listen that somebody had pilfered my donut.
Then, like a schmuck, I put the tale on Facebook. Ha-ha funny story, ha-ha somebody stole my donut. By the next day, one of my pals came by with a donut spare she got at a yard sale, another showed up with a rusty but serviceable donut, and a third generous but snarky friend brought me an actual dozen Krispy Kremes.
Enter my friend, the gayboy car guru. He stops by my house, gets out of his truck, wordlessly goes over to my car, pops the trunk and unscrews the wing nut in the donut hole, opens the plastic cover and reveals, ta-da, my donut.
Who feels like a wing nut now?
I had to issue a mass mea culpa for the false accusations of a donut heist. Repercussions resulted.
FB friend: “Hey, Fay, make sure you put “summer” air in those tires…you don’t want to be driving around with “winter” air in them now.
FB friend: Check your muffler bearings, too”
FB friend: “Don’t forget to change your turn signal fluid.”
Me: “Go ahead, have your little fun, I deserve this.”
Gayboy car guru: “I out butched Fay Jacobs.”
Me: “That’s not hard.”
FB friend: “How can a gay man know more about cars than a lesbian?”
Gayboy car guru: “I know my way around a car, truck or any other vehicle! I also know every isle of Home Depot, Lowes and I have power tools! I like sports and I can fix things too!”
FB friend: “That’s not the issue. Why doesn’t Fay know these things?
Gayboy car guru: “That part of Fay’s brain is filled with show tunes. This is all part of our own diversity. Oh by the way, not a show tune fan here and get ready to take my card away; I hated Rent!”
Me: “So much for stereotypes. I wouldn’t know what to do with a jumper cable if you put a revolver to my head.”
Gayboy car guru: “Okay, sung like Ethel Murmon, ‘There’s no business like the car business like…’”
Me: “Oy, it’s spelled Merman. Hand over your gay boy card please and I’ll give up my lesbian cred.”
So I’m outed as a mechanically ignorant gay girl and he’s outed as a musical comedy dunce. Diversity is alive and well in the gay community and l love it. But with donuts on my mind, I now crave some Boston Cremes, If it’s got tires or balls or carbohydrates I’m going to have trouble with it.
June 2011
AFTER INTERCOURSE COMES PARADISE
On the first weekend of this month we revved up the RV and headed to Pennsylvania Dutch country to camp with a group called RVing Women. I’m sure nobody’s shocked that all previous knowledge I had of the Amish came from the mostly-forgotten musical Plain and Fancy starring Barbara Cook.
It also won’t shock you to know the weekend included Intercourse. No, it’s not too much information. We’re talking Intercourse, the town, here; any other kind will not be mentioned. Frankly, the only naughty thing I did all weekend was sit around a campfire and enjoy it.
We set out on Thursday with the Schnauzers and enough food and drink to feed and anesthetize the Israeli Army. After a couple of hours, amid an area littered with tattoo parlors, tractor supply stores and hog farms, we saw the sign. Paradise, 3 miles. I don’t think so.
But a mile on the other side of the self-proclaimed town of Paradise we found our destination—the Old Mill Stream Campground. Literally, down by the old mill stream, we hooked up the RV to electric, water, and sewer and went exploring.
In the campground pavilion, I found the leaders of this RVing Women troupe—the Mid-Atlantic Chapter of a national organization—preparing food and activities for the weekend. We got a hearty welcome and saw that they’d scheduled a book reading and signing for me on Saturday. Would I survive until Saturday without Friday night happy hour in Rehoboth and with only outdoor activities to entertain me?
There were at least 30 rigs, some smaller than ours, but many waaaay larger, and they were all piloted by women, many with partners, and most with pups. Moxie and Paddy got to meet Lady and Pepper, two lithe female greyhounds. They also socialized with a charming boxer, several bichons, a Toto-look-alike and numerous mutts, They all brought their humans with them, plus a bounty of booze and munchies. No fear of starvation between the three daily pot luck buffets.
For a woman out of her natural habitat, I adapted well. We sat around a campfire, a sprinkling of women in chairs, many on the turf, and a sprinkling of dogs on the turf, but many of them in chairs. I feared being made to sing Kumbaya, but frankly we talked politics and gay history. I was in my element again if you discount the embers and mosquitoes.
The reading and signing was a blast and on a walk up the road, we made the very rustic discovery of the Outlet Mall, which we happily avoided in favor of a game of redneck horseshoes. What’s happening to me???
Some women played Pickle Ball, a combination of tennis, ping-pong, and delicatessen. But the action stopped with the arrival of the Amish Pie Man, his horse pulling the wagon, his wife handling the transactions, and his pies beckoning us all. As we chomped down on our goodies I fully understood the origins of the name Shoo-fly Pie. (Sing it with me: Down by the old mill stream, where I first ate shoo.)
One great thing about these RVing Women—if you need assistance, look out. Somebody said, “Let’s start a fire,” and a woman came bounding out with an ax. While Lizzie Borden split logs like Abe Lincoln, other gals dispensed RV lore. We had twelve women with tool holsters offering opinions and a bunch willing to slither under anybody’s rig and check for whatever might be ailing. Wow, that sounds naughty, too, but I’m really just talking about load levelers and pump-outs. Although after the dinner buffet I think I needed a personal load leveler.
For sheer contrast, our lesbian mechanical crew stood on one side of the old mill stream (had to say it again) and on the other side, an Amish farmer tilled his field with a plow drawn by a pair or horses. I’m sure if he had needed help, our women with axes would gladly have leapt the stream to assist.
For this novice camper, the RVing Women put out the welcome mat and gave us reason to join the group. They are organized, they can cook, they encourage traveling canines, and they have a wealth of RV info and stories…and they don’t even mind when somebody asks, “What kind of engine on your rig?” and I say, “the seats are beige.”
By Sunday it was time to explore and naturally, I had to visit Intercourse, PA, and photograph the city limits sign. It wasn’t easy. I walked to the side of the road, straddling a steep incline and side-stepping horse shit—and not the verbal kind I’m used to. An Amish family, spending Sunday on their porch, went inside while I did my photographic circus
act. Bonnie said they didn’t want to be in my picture but I think they didn’t want us to see them laughing at the dumb tourist slipping in horse manure.
We traversed the countryside from Bird-in-Hand to Intercourse to Paradise, repeating the RVing Women mantra: “Not all who wander are lost.” My personal adage is “Not all who RV wield an ax.”
But I did wield the GPS, making certain we avoided taking the RV through any of the 28 covered bridges in the county. That would have been ugly. And everywhere we went, we wound up behind a horse and buggy with the “slow moving farm vehicle” red triangle on the back.
By the time we finished up the Amish bakery items and campfire cocktails, I was a slow moving farm vehicle myself, needing a butt triangle and load levelers. I’m an RVer and I like it. Go figure.
June 2011
SWEATING IT OUT FOR MARRIAGE EQUALITY
Between Delaware celebrating the passage of Civil Unions and the stunning late-night vote to approve marriage equality in New York, it seems we’re queer, we’re here, and we’re registering at Crate and Barrel.
That’s the royal “we” of course, since Bonnie and I were married back in 2003 in Canada and now Delaware, along with New York and seven other states, will recognize our Canadian same-sex nuptials.
New York’s vote was made all the sweeter as Bonnie and I traveled in the RV to a home by the Chesapeake Bay Bridge last weekend to celebrate with pride, the DC wedding of two very dear, longtime friends—and it was just as New York was heading up the vote.
But the gay pride we felt was only barely more than the personal pride I felt surviving this particular camping experience. It was my outward bound, kids, and, as I am fond of saying, bad decisions often make good stories.
The decision was to stay overnight in the RV on the bridal party’s driveway the night before the wedding reception and the night of the party itself. Okay, on its own, it wasn’t a bad decision, given the expectation of two days and nights of eating, drinking, and dancing. So the devil, they say, was in the details of powering up the camper.
On Friday, after pre-wedding dinner and dancing, as I closely monitored the New York Senate marriage equality vote on my smart phone, its battery gave out, making it a dumb phone in every way. So, we said our goodnights and headed to the RV, where I could plug in the Droid and follow up our live pre-wedding party with the virtual New York gay wedding watch.
But alas, a second RV was on site as well, and with both of us plugged into the same garage electric circuit, disaster struck. Minutes after we staggered back to the creature comforts of The Bookmobile, the circuit blew, plunging us into total darkness. Minus the air-conditioner, the RV soon became a pitch-black Native American sweat lodge.
“Crap, even Motel 6 leaves a light on for you. God, it’s dark in here,” I said, “and no guide dogs. But I’m glad they’re with the dog sitter, not suffocating with us.” As I lay frying, indeed. No air, no light, no marriage equality updates.
“We’ll be okay,” Bonnie said, “it will cool off soon. But let’s sleep with our heads at the foot of the bed where there’s more air circulating.”
As we reclined, about-face, panting and sweating, a miracle happened, and we drifted off to sleep, aided, perhaps, by three hours of champagne toasts.
Suddenly, Bonnie let out a honking snort of a snore, I scooted over to smack her, but being upside down on the bed, I went the wrong way and fell off, wedging myself between the bed and the wall.
“What the hell???” hollered Bonnie, jolted awake by the thump and the expletives. She turned to find me, and likewise, went east, not west, plunging off the other side of the bed. Now we’re both between a rock and a hard place on opposite sides of the bed and of course, starting to laugh.
But it was searing hot in the vehicle and we were desperate. So, getting back to her feet, Bonnie feels her way by Braille, inching to the control panel to turn on the battery operated fans. Who cares if the batteries die and the rig won’t start tomorrow. It won’t matter if we suffocate tonight. I reach out to guide her back to bed promptly poking her in her eye, and while she’s flailing and shouting “Ow,” she crashes into my knee caps and we’re now back in a pile on the floor, still laughing.
Back in bed, air starting to move a little, we drift off—and then we hear it: a beep like a smoke detector. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Me: “Jeez, now what?”
“It’s that thing on the wall,” Bonnie says, presumably pointing to the tiny red light blinking on the plastic device at the head of the bed. I inch toward it on my hands and knees, put my face up to the meter, with one eye trying to read the words by the glow of the blinking, beeping red light. The largest letters say “Replace by 2006.” Oh, goody.
Me: “I can’t see this thing, shit, it’s like the bottom line on the eye chart. Nobody our age can read this. Wait, wait, oh for god’s sake, it’s in French. It says defaults…oh, here’s the English, F-A-U-L-T. It says fault.”
Bonnie: “Fault? What does that mean?”
Me: “It means it’s your fault. This whole camping thing is your fault. Why did you ever think I could adapt to living like this? Jews don’t camp.”
So the two of us are laughing again and have to pee, and it’s anybody’s guess where the door to the bathroom is.
Finally, Bonnie deduces that the blinking light means low voltage and the vehicle battery is dying. At which point the fans sputter and stop. “I don’t hear you laughing,” Bonnie says as the place began to heat up again.
“When’s the ceremonial purification rite? If I wanted a sauna I would have joined a health club. I’m simmering here.”
“Don’t worry,” says my sweat lodge director, “I’ll turn the engine on and it will charge the battery and get some air-conditioning going.”
“Well, you’d better, or at least baste me and cover me with foil.”
So she did, turn the engine on, that is, then fell promptly back to sleep.
Life is cruel. I finally got rid of the hot flashes and night sweats and here I am, living the dream again. Meanwhile, Bonnie is snoring away while I lay wide awake worrying we’re being asphyxiated by engine exhaust.
I didn’t have to fret long. The beeping started and Bonnie shot up and rolled right back onto the floor. This time it was another kind of warning beep, probably alerting us to carbon monoxide poisoning. So we turned off the motor, the beeping stopped and the place turned back into an E-Z Bake Oven. I was waiting for the Butterball turkey button to pop on my belly when we finally decided to get dressed and just wait for sunrise.
Staggering, sweaty and sleepless, out of the RV, we discovered that where there were once two RVs plugged into the electric, our cord was no longer in the socket. The occupants of the RV next to us on the driveway must have investigated the earlier blown circuit, tripped it back, unplugged our rig and left theirs attached for a great night’s sleep with air and light.
Grrrrrrr. I had to be restrained from banging on their windows.
But pretty soon the sun rose and so did some of the guests from the house. We learned that the NY vote was a yea (yay!), had a grand time at the wedding party, and then, by nightfall, the other rig pulled out and we had the all-important electric circuit all to ourselves. Now that is my kind of circuit party—celebrating marriage equality and luxury camping.
Those are the important things. I’m not sweating the small stuff.
July 2011
SOMETIMES YOU GET A WAKE-UP CALL
I apologize in advance, because this column is not going to be the least bit funny.
It’s about shock, sadness, some understandable complacency, perhaps a premature victory lap and the specter of a man riding around with a white sheet on his head.
The phone rang several hours ago and a man asked for me by name.
“I’m Fay Jacobs,” I said.
He asked if I was the one who wrote the letter to the editor using the term “traditional family values” being code for anti-gay. It was the letter about the Ma
yor, he said.
I knew exactly what letter it was. It was one in which I expressed disappointment that in the Washington Blade, Rehoboth’s Mayor Cooper was quoted as wanting to keep “establishments from spoiling Rehoboth’s status and tradition as a family-oriented vacation destination.” I don’t even think the Mayor meant it as anti-gay. I think it was meant to express his concern about loud music and noisy bars. But I did want to make the point that “family-oriented” is often used as code for anti-gay and we should be past having the Mayor use the coded phrase, however inadvertently, when discussing Rehoboth Beach.
I told the caller that I wrote that letter, and he began explaining, rather quietly, that I was an enemy of the United States for pushing the homosexual agenda, demeaning the tradition of one man and one woman and how dare I demean family values.
“You are a disgusting person who, along with all the homosexuals in town, ruined Rehoboth Beach. I am going to do everything within my power to protect my children from the likes of you and those disgusting homosexuals in Rehoboth, even the ones who think that they have won their rights and convinced some politicians to put forth the dangerous homosexual agenda.”
I was so stunned I couldn’t even hang up. I quietly asked him his name and, of course, he refused to give it to me, and continued with his scary, quiet conversation that so frightened me I almost threw up.
I asked if he lived here and he intimated that he did. He just kept talking and I don’t remember much of what else he said, because I was numb.
I asked him why, since I was proud to share my views in a public forum like a “Letters to the Editor” column, he did not answer my letter with his own views, attributed to him, in the newspaper. He told me he just wanted to talk to me personally so I would understand that this will not be tolerated. I told him that calling anonymously was cowardice.
I also told him I felt very sad that his gay neighbors frightened him so badly that he had to seek me out on the phone to call me names anonymously and denigrate me and so many, many other Rehoboth residents as well.
