Time Fries!

by Fay Jacobs

  By this time, I’m feeling older than dirt and quite disgusted, channeling Bette Davis’ quote “Getting old is not for sissies.” But sitting in the therapist’s waiting room I read about the Wings and Wheels Fall Festival at the Georgetown Airport. It sounded like fun.

  So early last Saturday morning, Bonnie and I ventured out to the airpark at Georgetown and signed up for biplane and helicopter rides. While we waited, we got to talk with a still-spry 90-year old about his days as a World War II bomber navigator and went to check out hundreds of antique cars. I was thrilled to see a classic 1964 Corvette, a model I owned for the decade between 1968 and 1978.

  As for the rides, Bonnie went up in an open cockpit bi-plane, doing dips and turns and having a blast. I chose the helicopter ride, taking off over farmland and ocean, seat-belted into a see-through vehicle without doors. I loved it.

  I’m happy to report that I didn’t have too much trouble climbing in and out of the vehicle and the view with my new non-Senile-Optical-Sclerosis eyes was absolutely and utterly fantastic. Like that ’64 ‘Vette, I felt classic, not antique.

  Maybe what’s been lovingly said about us gay people is true. We may get older, but thank goodness we never mature. I’m workin’ it.

  February 2013

  HEALTH INSURANCE: MAY THE FARCE BE WITH YOU

  Last November I faced mission impossible—finding an affordable health insurance policy in the scant few months before becoming Medicare eligible.

  Now I am not a wagering person. But stunned by the uber-pricey monthly premium quotes, I was forced to consider an uncharacteristic bet. I applied for a catastrophic policy, with the first $7500 of medical bills on me for December 2012 and then again, on me, when the deductible re-set, January-May, 2013.

  Ha! I said to my spouse. I’m fine. If I accrue $15,000 worth of medical bills in the next six months we’ll be in more than financial trouble. I’ll take this catastrophic policy and keep the premium to a minimum.

  The following day helped convince me I’d made the correct decision. First came an interminable afternoon answering intimate medical questions posed by a clueless clerk in Mumbai.

  That was followed by a rowdy night playing the parlor game Minute to Win it. Geezer applicant by day, preschooler by night.

  The day game saw me quizzed by a variety of non-medical personnel, hoping to declare me a medical disaster, all for the purpose of inflating my monthly premium. The clerk kicked off the inquisition.

  “You saw a doctor for chronic Bronchitis?”

  “No, I had Bronchitis once in 2009.”

  “How long have you had asthma?”

  “I don’t have asthma.”

  “But you have been prescribed an inhaler?”

  “Yes, for the four days of Bronchitis, four years ago.”

  “So it is not chronic? Not ongoing?”

  “Only the questions about it.”

  “Say yes if you have ever had the following diseases. Apnea, appendicitis, lupus, stroke, irritable bowel…”

  “Just irritable applicant.”

  “Oh, ha-ha, you made a joke…leprosy, joint disease, rosacea, spinal tingling, rotator cuff problems, toenail fungus, sciatica…”

  “z-z-z-z-z”

  “I see you take cholesterol medicine, so I will check High Cholesterol.”

  “No don’t, it’s not high, now that I take a pill, it’s low.”

  “So yes, I will check high cholesterol.”

  “Are we speaking English here?”

  “And you were hospitalized with chest pain? A heart attack?”

  “No, it turned out to be indigestion. Thai Food.”

  “Typhoon? What is that?”

  “No, Thai…oh never mind.”

  “So no heart attack?”

  “No, just gas. Which turned into a bit of a typhoon, actually.”

  The humorless solicitor continued.

  “And what of this eye surgery? Was it a disease?”

  “Yes, too many birthdays. I had a cataract removed and now I can see better than I want to. I screamed when I first looked in the mirror. I need a Lifestyle Lift.”

  By this time I’d used all my phone’s anytime minutes and the call center guy was still probing. In the end, he passed me to a supervisory inquisitor, who announced they’d factor my “respiratory “and “coronary” risks into the monthly premium and get back to me. Fear of that final number did cause spinal tingling.

  Following this phone marathon, we spent an evening with friends, including a game of Minute to Win It – baby-boomers, fueled by wine, doing stupid things. Not one to volunteer for humiliation, I resisted the game at first, but caved when one of the scenarios included Peanut M&Ms. I have my price.

  There were two adjacent picnic tables. Following directions, I sat at a table in front of a cup of M&M Peanut candies. I was told to put a straw in my mouth, suck up an M&M and keep it dangling on the end of the straw while I got up and transported the inhaled trophy to a paper cup on the other table. I had one minute to see how many candies I could relocate.

  Here’s the thing. Instead of quizzing me about foot fungus and respiratory issues, my friend from Mumbai could have just watched me handily suck up the M&Ms (no asthma), painlessly untangle my aging knees from the picnic bench (no joint problems), keep those candies hanging by sheer lung power (no bronchitis) and deposit them neatly in their target cup (good eyes). Unlike our former president, I did inhale. Well enough, it turns out, to win the game over some younger contestants.

  Next, somebody balanced a shortbread cookie on my upturned forehead, offering instructions to get the morsel to my mouth without using my hands. Hey, insurance geek, by wiggling all my vertebrae, I carefully jiggled a Lorna Doone down to my right eyebrow (no spinal tingles or whiplash), flipped it onto my eyelid (now there’s a cataract) and gymnastically juggled it into to my mouth. Consuming my prize did not measurably inflate my cholesterol.

  For the last game we blew up balloons, then used the balloon’s escaping hot air to noisily propel a paper cup across a finish line. The impolite sound of the balloons in action brought back memories of the Thai food typhoon, which was not, I repeat not, a coronary incident.

  Oh, and despite how much wine I consumed that night, my liver is just fine, too, thank you very much. Bring on the insurance premiums. I know the monthly bill will surely suck, whether I can inhale a one-pound bag of chocolate candies or not. But hell, it’s just a stop-gap measure. Six short months. I intend to relax, stay away from doctors, take two M&Ms and pay the bill in the morning.

  EPILOGUE

  May the farce be with you. Not 24-hours after paying my first catastrophic insurance premium, catastrophe struck. (see following column). Yes, I wagered and lost. But I’m here to tell the tale and I still have enough hot air to suck a mean M&M Peanut. Medicare—coming soon to a writer near you.

  February 2013

  50 SHADES OF PURPLE

  So here’s the sad tale. My winter folly began innocently enough, one mid-November evening as I drove my beloved, geriatric BMW convertible on Route One. Now I’d like to tell you exactly what happened next, but I have no idea. I’ve been told that two cars, one being mine, merged simultaneously onto the same stretch of pavement. If I knew the details I’d know whether to be pissed off or guilty, but no such luck.

  The luck was saved for me, for after a bounce, crunch, and an oddly slow motion impact, I said to myself, “Wow, that was a mess, but I’m fine.”

  I reached for my phone, pushed the button for home, and said to my spouse, “I’ve had an accident in front of China Buffet, I’m fine, but come get me.” Then I dialed 911.

  The following few minutes are lost in space, but the 1993 tank I hit or hit me (Buick? Olds? Titanic?) sat smashed against my driver side door, and its driver, who said she was fine, refused to move it until the police arrived to investigate. By the time Bonnie and some friends showed up I was still behind the wheel in a stupor.

  As Bonnie poked her head in the pa
ssenger door I was struck by an adrenalin rush, causing me to boost my fat butt up over the gear shift, flip my legs up onto the windshield, and propel myself sideways out the passenger door like some Eastern European gymnast.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I hollered to no one in particular as I executed an ungainly dismount. Bonnie gently said, “Look at your hand.” Ewwww. It looked like a deep purple baseball mitt with a lump the size of a softball atop it.

  Amid my moronic protestations of fineness, Bon ordered me to sit/stay on the curb and wait for the ambulance, which, in turn, hauled me off to the ER. There, I was assessed by a team of nurses and docs, sent to x-ray, and treated with extreme nurturing.

  Turns out I broke pretty much every bone in my left hand.

  “Anything else hurt?” they asked.

  “Nope,” I said, confidently.

  While the team installed a temporary cast on my hand, a nurse tried to distract me from the pain.

  “Are you still working or retired?” she asked.

  “I’m retired.”

  “That’s nice, how long have you been retired?”

  “Twenty-five minutes.”

  And so it was. I went home with my paw in a sling, swallowed some industrial strength pain meds and fell asleep.

  Now here’s the interesting part. I awoke to discover I couldn’t walk. I was unable to put any weight at all on my right knee and I was in excruciating pain. What the…???

  Turns out I was a victim of a cognitive brain syndrome, where intense pain can only be perceived by the brain at one site at a time. Who knew? Well now I did. Not only was my hand broken, but later that day an MRI revealed a complex meniscus tear in my knee. So much for being fine. I wondered whether the knee injury was achieved on impact or from my compulsory gymnastics routine on exit.

  One week later I had three hours of surgery to put together the jigsaw puzzle that was formerly my left hand, followed several weeks later by knee surgery. In fact, I had knee surgery on the predicted December 21 Mayan Doomsday, figuring if the worse were to happen, I’d be under anesthetic and go quietly for once.

  So I spent the holiday season ensconced in my living room recliner, holding the ice bag on my swollen right knee with my swollen left hand, for a two-for-one. Too dopey from drugs to read or write, I mostly watched television. If Honey Boo-Boo doesn’t foreshadow the end of civilization, perhaps Storage Wars does. However, I do think Super Nanny should be shown in high schools. One episode of shrieking, manic children and teens, would keep their panties on and zippers up.

  A charming surprise was that Kelly Ripa and Michael Strahan are actually wicked smart and hilariously funny, a perfectly matched odd couple and a pleasure to watch. I atone for being previously dismissive of them.

  In hand therapy they asked my goals and I said I lived to be able to flip the bird once again and, of course, type with more than two fingers. Several weeks into therapy I could press the keyboard shift button with my index finger. Ladies and gentlemen, we have achieved CAPITALS.

  Then came the really bad news. The insurance company totaled the BMW. Like the character of Eponine in Les Miz, she gave her life for me. For a long time, shards of the sea green left front panel sat in a pathetic pile along the side of Route One, a make-shift shrine. One of my artsy friends offered to scoop them up and make a mobile for me, but by the time we got organized, somebody’s trash service had eliminated the option.

  By the end of December, Bonnie had been cheerfully channeling Clara Barton and Julia Child for six weeks and our friends had gone wonderfully wild on both casserole duty and ferrying me to and from therapy while Bonnie worked. For me, being stuck in the house unable to drive, type, tie my shoes or even put a brassiere on by myself was abject torture. Required meds precluded martinis and I was insane.

  But by Christmas Eve, the turn-around began. I was mobile enough to go out dining and visiting. I made it to the New Year’s Eve Gayla, even if I didn’t make it to midnight. And a week later I walked to my neighborhood stop sign.

  All in all, things are looking up. Yes, the Beamer is gone. But the knee is healed and the hand is improving. In fact, with this column, I surprised myself by typing again on all cylinders. And yes, despite the splint still on my hand, I can flip the bird, which I do several times a day while watching Congress on CSPAN.

  Oh, and except for my writing, I really did retire. So did Bonnie. And we’re in Florida for a couple of weeks as you read this. Some events just put things in proper perspective.

  February 2013

  VACATION OR RETIREMENT? THAT IS THE QUESTION.

  My mate and I just launched our retirement. There was a very un-beach like forecast of snow on the way as we bid a fond farewell to Rehoboth and set out along the Delmarva Peninsula, heading for Florida.

  Much like a vision of the Beverly Hillbillies (if this reference means nothing to you, you are eons from retirement), our car was stuffed with suitcases, dog bed, dog bowls, portable dog crate, golf clubs, and a valise full of drugstore items from Prilosec to Sunscreen 70 Epoxy.

  “Is this retirement or vacation?” I pondered aloud as we headed for the Bay Bridge-Tunnel.

  With the brassy tune “The Stripper” playing in my head, we shed our outer garments one state at a time, with the coats gone by Virginia, the Rehoboth sweatshirt by South Carolina, and our sleeves rolled up by that night when the lights went out in Georgia.

  As we explored Florida’s West Coast, from St. Pete to Naples, we joyously watched the Weather Channel report on the blowing snow and frigid temperatures at home. At lunch one day, dining with friends on their lanai, enmeshed in excellent conversation (vacation?), we heard the splash. My 15-year old Schnauzer Moxie had waddled off the edge of the pool and sank like a gangster in cement shoes.

  Frantic pushing and shoving ensued as four retirees struggled to get off our butts and race to the pool. The fittest of us leapt down the steps, into the water, and pulled the mutt from the depths. Happily, he was fine, if a little surprised, but requiring no mouth to snout CPR.

  “Wow, that was lucky,” gasped the first responder, “Ordinarily I would have had my iPhone in my pocket.”

  “If I had gotten there first, I would have had my phone in my pocket,” I said.

  “If you had gotten there first,” said my spouse, “we would have phoned the scoop to the New York Times.” So this is retirement. 24/7 with my spouse the comic.

  The next day, we headed out to cross the Southern portion of the state, through the Everglades, along a route called, appropriately, Alligator Alley.

  Inside the car, the vacation vs. retirement debate proceeded. After decades of punching the snooze button for ten more minutes before long, frantic work days, the delightful reality of retirement was upon us. In fact, we were so deep in our glee that we missed the last gas station before Alligator Alley and forgot to fill up.

  Naturally, the moment we hit that spot when it was no longer possible to U-turn, the laughing yellow low fuel light popped up on the dashboard. To make matters worse, we were in a new car, with no knowledge of whether the light was a gentle suggestion or a Category 5 warning.

  Idiots. We were trapped on Alligator Alley, gas gauge on empty and green-brown alligators staring longingly at us from roadside creeks. Okay, there was a fence between us and the gators’ jaws, but walking for help alongside beasts of the Southern wild was not on my bucket list.

  Should we drive at exactly 55 mph to preserve gas, but prolong the agony, or speed up to see how far we’d get before tragedy struck? The GPS advised that the only gas station before our Ft. Lauderdale destination was 42 miles away at an exit at Snake Road. Somehow, not all that comforting.

  “Don’t panic,” said the driver. “We have Good Sam Roadside Assistance.”

  Really, out here? I guessed we’d get to see just how good Good Sam actually was.

  Suddenly, I was oddly ambivalent. This fuel emergency might be a double edged sword. I hoped to make it to the filling station before wrestling
gators, but driving that far with the gas light on meant a disquieting future.

  How annoying would it be, when forevermore, I would suggest filling up at a quarter tank, with my spouse laughing and recalling running on empty through the Everglades?

  By the time we rolled off at Snake Road, both the dog and I were panting and drooling, the alligators were pissed they’d missed lunch and the driver was grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

  So we avoided catastrophe and made it to Ft. Lauderdale. Contrary to what we were afraid we’d find in Southern Florida (nickname: God’s Waiting Room), we found the nightlife, they like to boogie. Lauderdale and Pompano Beach rocked, with plenty of entertainment, good restaurants and gorgeous beaches. If Rehoboth is Ying, Lauderdale is Yang.

  So we’ve decided that until global warming turns Rehoboth Beach into Savannah, we will interrupt our beach retirement each winter for a Florida vacation.

  On the return trip, we stopped in the South Carolina Low Country for a night in Beaufort (vacation), hoping we could stretch our funds just a little further to pay for the hotel (retirement). We took one of those wonderfully cheesy horse and buggy rides around the historic town to view its ante-bellum mansions and shrimp boat-filled harbor (vacation). After a feast of greasy fried shrimp, grits and hush puppies, we headed back to the motel for Prilosec and bedtime (retirement).

  Back on the road in the morning, I asked a question and was immediately rewarded by my worst fear.

  “Aren’t you stopping for gas before getting onto I-95?”

  “Pshaw. If we had enough in the Everglades…”

  Back in Reho, as we did the mountain of laundry we had created, and looked at trip expenses on our Visa card, vacation quickly became plain old retirement. But frankly, both are pretty darn good. Every night is Friday night, every day is Saturday morning. Ahhhhh.

  February 2013

  THE TIMES THEY ARE A-MAZ-IN’