Fried & Convicted, page 11
And as if that wasn’t enough (and it would have been!) the conference bestowed the Lee Lynch Classic Book Award on pioneering author Rita Mae Brown for her classic Rubyfruit Jungle. At the awards ceremony Rita Mae gave a fiery and inspiring speech, imploring us never to be victims and always to remember our roots.
Several years ago, I interviewed her for Letters when she was on a book tour with one of her Sneaky Pie mysteries. I got the impression at that time she was all about fox hunting and literary cat stories, no longer so much about activism and LGBT rights. Well, cats and foxes may have been on her mind then, but she’s certainly come back home to celebrate her own roots in the feminist revolution and push, push, push for equality. She rocked the ballroom with her words and bravura.
On Sunday morning, before leaving for the airport, Bonnie and I walked along the river toward Café du Monde for beignets and coffee. Just at our left turn into town we heard a deafening train whistle. Who knew that freight trains actually ran through the French Quarter? But there we were, on the wrong side of the tracks from the beignets, watching a lumbering parade of tanker cars, grain carriers and long railroad containers inch by. So slowly in fact, that it took a full 20 minutes, with us baking in the blazing sun, waiting for that insanely long train to pass. Standing just inches from the track, with no gates or barriers, I could have put a bandana on a stick and hopped a boxcar. With only bottled water to sprinkle on the important places, I might have already smelled like a hobo.
And finally, back at the airport, as our plane prepared for takeoff, one of its engines quit. The captain apologized and announced they would try to restart the engine. They failed. Again the captain got on the microphone and announced that a ground crew of mechanics was on the way to restart the engine another way. What were they going to do, jump it? I wasn’t sure I wanted it to start.
But jump it they did, and off we flew to Baltimore, bidding a fond farewell to brain-eating amoeba, unwashed lesbians, thrilling speakers, tasty gumbo, and my chance to hop a boxcar and become a homo hobo. Despite the challenges it was a fantastic trip. Hey, Rita Mae, we did not choose to be victims!
August 2015
WARNING! WARNING!
I woke up in the middle of the night with something tickling my mouth and nose, and the bad news was it was neither my spouse nor my dog. It was the tag attached to my new Tempur-Pedic pillow. In a fit of semi-consciousness I ripped the tag off and went back to sleep.
I awoke in the morning to see the tag on my nightstand, saying in large, threatening type, “Do not remove under penalty of law.” It wasn’t until I thrashed around for my glasses that I could see in teeny type, “except by the consumer.”
By nature, I’m a compliant sort. So frankly, while I never thought much about pillow and mattress tags warning me not to remove them, I never removed them, either. I’m sure that in the back of my mind I thought an arrest was possible for felony tag removal.
So I researched this. I am happy to report that even though I’ve defaced a throw pillow or two in my day, I was never in danger of waking up with Mariska Hargitay in my face (although I would have liked that). But now I was curious who the warning was meant to warn. It seemed so urgent.
As I guessed, but was never certain, the warning is not for those of us sleeping with these pillows and mattresses and routinely having to spit out crinkly tags. They are for the pillow and mattress sellers only. Continuing my research, I discovered that the purpose is to inform the consumer of the hidden filler materials inside bedding and furniture.
The law mandating the tags goes back to the early 1900s, to prevent pillows and such from being manufactured with specious contents such as horsehair, cornhusks, garbanzo beans, or worse. Because nobody wants to snuggle with cornhusks.
But I believe that for years, people have been confused by these labels, because the wording “except by the consumer” was not added until many decades after the labels appeared. Also, as we know, people don’t often bother to read stuff (hoping this column is an exception).
Indeed, it made me think about why I dislike labels. Not in the fashionable sense of disliking the labels representing LGBTQ or whatever other alphabet letter is next to get annexed, but labels in general.
Just coincidentally, later that same morning, I got on a ladder in my shed to reach some old tax returns.
Holy cow. There were more warning labels on that ladder than bumper stickers on a 1970 Volkswagen bus. Have you seen a ladder lately? I can only imagine the litigation that prompted one six-foot ladder to sport the following labels, some with little stick figure illustrations:
• CAUTION: KEEP BODY CENTERED BETWEEN SIDE RAILS. There was a stick figure leaning in a position my body, never mind a contortionist’s, will never go.
• DO NOT OVER-REACH. I don’t even know what this means, unless it’s talking about me over-reaching for a pun or something.
• DO NOT CLIMB, STAND OR SIT ABOVE SECOND STEP FROM TOP. Are the top steps just decorative?
• MAKE SURE LADDER IS FULLY OPEN AND SPREADERS LOCKED. I’m speechless. Or, to be literal, typeless.
• SET ALL FEET ON FIRM, LEVEL SURFACE. My feet or the ladder’s? My feet are so ugly, the drawing could apply to both.
• DO NOT PLACE IN FRONT OF UNLOCKED DOORS. I can see the lawsuit that prompted this warning. “Honey, I’m home! Um . . . hello, 9-1-1?”
• FACE LADDER WHEN CLIMBING, USE BOTH HANDS AND DO NOT CARRY OBJECTS IN YOUR HANDS. So much for me climbing up with a Cosmo in one hand and paintbrush in the other. But how would you get the paint can to the top of the ladder without your hands? Helicopter?
• GET DOWN AND MOVE LADDER AS NEEDED. Is there an alternative? The Think System?
• DO NOT SIT ATOP AND STRADDLE FRONT AND BACK. It is not a horse.
• DO NOT CLIMB FROM ONE LADDER TO ANOTHER. Unless your name is Wallenda.
• DO NOT SHIFT LADDER WHILE ON IT. You mean like into second gear?
• NEVER PLACE LADDER ON OTHER OBJECTS SUCH AS BOXES, SCAFFOLDS OR OTHER UNSTABLE BASES TO OBTAIN ADDITIONAL HEIGHT. My imagination runs away . . .
Seriously, I spent at least an hour marveling at the incredible amount of labeling on a single ladder and it distracted me nicely from my task. When I did get the paperwork down, I took it directly to my office for shredding. OMG. The warning labels on the shredder were just as bad! They were all little graphics with the international “NO” sign on it—the circle with a slash through it. I think they meant:
• Do not dangle long hair or spaghetti in shredder.
• Don’t ever wear a tie.
• No manicures or if the glove doesn’t fit you must acquit.
It’s enough to make me give up my tasks and take a nap. But first, under penalty of law, I’ll rip the remaining labels off my pillows. See you on Orange Is the New Black.
August 2015
IT’S GREEK TO ME
This is your roving reporter writing from a bench in the Athens airport, 11 a.m. Greek time.
Luckily, I signed onto the hotel Wi-Fi last night to find a message from my editor. “Will you be back in time to send me a column by deadline?”
Um, no. But where there’s a Wi-Fi there’s a way. So here I sit, typing with my thumbs on my smartphone. Our Greek Islands Olivia Cruise, starting in Istanbul, was so joyously fascinating, mere adjectives are not enough. Great job, Olivia!
Did you know that part of Istanbul is in Asia and part in Europe? News to me. Imagine commuting between continents for work. In Istanbul we loved the spice market and mosques. The city is very progressive, and while we saw more than a few women covered in burkas or in black robes with just their faces showing, we learned they were mostly tourists from Saudi Arabia, etc. Burkas are outlawed in Istanbul.
We were only there a day, after nearly 24 hours of travel, so we drank ridiculously strong Turkish coffee to stay awake long enough to buy Turkish spices at the market. We even bought Iranian saffron, patently illegal to purchase at home. And we covered our arms and heads to visit the beautiful Blue Mosque.
Since this was an all-lesbian cruise, first stop was the Isle of Lesbos, only it’s called Lesvos because apparently Lesvosians cannot pronounce the letter B. Who knew? Or perhaps they want to distance themselves from their Sapphic sisters, which is entirely possible.
Upon hearing our itinerary, a straight friend asked if we lesbians were expected to make a pilgrimage to the island once in our lifetime, like a hajj to Mecca or a crawl on the knees to Fatima. No, I said, I didn’t think so. And that’s a good thing, as the island had not so much to recommend it. At least where we toured. In fact,
our Olivia gang seemed to be the only discernible examples of the island’s namesakes around.
Among the hundreds of trinkets and souvenirs for sale, almost nothing spoke of dear Sappho, although I managed to snag a coffee cup with her supposed likeness on it. Our guide celebrated Sappho for her poetry, school for women, and message that women could learn, write, and be leaders! Tell that to the GOP. We drank 48 proof Ouzo, which tasted like liquid Good and Plenty, and toasted to Sappho.
There was a surprising and sadly newsworthy sight in Lesvos—newly arrived Syrian refugees, many of them with tents and camping supplies, bedding down all over the island. I can say this for the Lesbosians: They are a welcoming lot, assisting the refugees at every turn.
Okay, our flight is boarding for the homeland . . . I’ll be back to you shortly!
So now it is three hours later, and we are flying over France. Eight hours to go before we land in Toronto. My thumbs got a rest from typing, so here I go again, refreshed . . .
On the cruise to the Greek Isles, each stop we visited was more magnificent than the last. In Ephesus (back in Turkey again) we toured 2,500-year-old ruins—lots of old rocks and busted pottery, painstakingly reassembled like a five-million-piece jigsaw puzzle. Astounding! I could envision the chariots racing and Antony and Cleo strolling around. Only one quarter of the site has been excavated, and I hope I get back someday to see more.
Next came Crete with its beautiful harbor, exquisite jewelry, terrific souvlaki, and . . . here’s the best part: fish spas! It’s a big thing in Crete. We dangled our feet in fish tanks so our toes and heels could be nibbled into softness. When I first dipped my toes into the water, the nibbling fish tickled so much I screamed, then almost passed out from laughing. This is a huge business in Crete. I’m thinking of opening a fish spa on Rehoboth Avenue. I would prefer to manage a spa rather than get nibbled, thank you.
Next up, Santorini. When you see pictures of the Greek Isles, it’s Santorini you see—cities atop a volcanic mountain, all-white structures with blue domes. Stunning.
Once on shore, we had two choices to get up to the mountaintop town: a clean, safe cable car, or by riding a dirty, smelly donkey up the steep, narrow, frightening path. Now you know I’ll do almost anything for a good story, but while the scary topography and danger did not worry me, it was the donkey aroma that put me in the cable car. Sorry.
Once in the city, we walked upward for over an hour, on stone paths and steps, through the picturesque town of Fira, continuing until our knees completely gave out. I believe that Santorini tourism is funded solely by orthopedic surgeons.
In self-defense, we rented a tiny dune buggy and crammed our big butts into it, continuing the climb with Bonnie driving like a madwoman, dodging tour buses and scooters on skinny, cliffside roads. Fabulous, death-defying, fun. I probably should have ridden that malodorous donkey to make the day complete.
Time out. Gotta nap.
Oh good god, we just touched down in Toronto, 14 hours since we left the hotel in Athens. Now we have four hours until liftoff to Newark. My ankles are swollen like beach balls, I need emergency chiropractic, and we are just now heading for customs. I’ll be back to you after I get sniffed by dogs. Hopefully I smell better than a Santorini donkey, but I cannot promise.
Okay, back on the plane again. That was an ordeal. After customs, where I avoided mentioning the Iranian saffron in my suitcase, we had to go through security for the second time today. Standing barefoot, watching my possessions go into the dark maw of the x-ray machine, I silently cursed that stupid underpants bomber who started all this.
So we’re back in the air, heading for New Jersey now, thumbs flying as well on my tiny iPhone keyboard. The last island we visited was Mykonos—of gorgeous beaches, stunning views, and hot nightlife. We loved it. For anyone who knows the play or film Shirley Valentine, I got to sit just where the movie was filmed! Unfortunately we had to leave the island before the clubs opened. But our day at the beach was marvelous.
Then it was off the ship in Athens to visit the Acropolis—the enormous hill that’s the highest point in the city, and the Parthenon—the amazingly reconstructed, columned edifice perched atop the giant rock. Up close and personal it was awesome and mind-bogglingly ancient. Several blocks away, from our dinner table on the rooftop of the hotel, it was an unbelievably beautiful sight.
Fasten your seatbelts and put your tray tables in an upright position. Welcome to New Jersey. We’re at the hotel, collapsing before the drive home to the beach tomorrow. We’ve been traveling without sleep for just about 24 hours now. It’s been a memorable week, surrounded by feta cheese, antiquities, and 600 lesvians. Oh how I loved it. Over and out, sweet readers.
August 2015
EASY RIDER, OR LOOK MA, NO HANDS!
My new bike was delivered yesterday.
That I bought one at all is odd, as I have a very speckled history when it comes to biking. I didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was 32. I still see my adult self, wobbling down the street with a cadre of other adults running behind me yelling “You can do it, you can do it!” It was right out of the film Kramer vs. Kramer, only in that case Dustin Hoffman cheered on a six-year-old.
Quite pathetically, I had forced myself to learn to ride a bicycle to impress a new love in my life. My novice biking status unshared, my amour and I took a total of two ’round the block rides and one jaunt on the very flat Eastern Shore of Maryland before I made a tactical error.
Still in the glow of this new relationship, I agreed to take a vacation where we’d abandon the car on Cape Cod and take our bikes and backpacks on a ferry to Nantucket.
I did this despite never once feeling stable on two wheels and, in fact, certain I had an inner ear disorder preventing me from staying upright. That I’m a math moron and could balance a checkbook better than balance my butt on a bike scared me. Further frightening me was my riding style. Not once while previously pedaling did I ever look at any scenery, staring instead the entire time at my front tire and praying I would not wipe out.
So this liar, liar handlebars on fire went on the bike adventure anyway. I have to say, I felt uncharacteristically sporty and even a bit smug standing with my bike on the ferry, luggage hanging from my back. I loved thinking that the auto passengers saw me as somebody who would take this kind of excursion.
My self-righteousness was short-lived. We docked at a cobblestone ramp, followed by an even bumpier cobblestone street. It was, literally, a rocky start. And our hotel was four blocks straight up a steep hill. I attempted to ride, but after two grunting false starts, a close call at T-boning a parked car and almost taking out a family of four, I wound up walking my Schwinn up the entire ghastly hill.
We finally arrived at the Lucretia Mott House Hotel, named for an American women’s rights activist and social reformer. Noticing my considerable distress at schlepping the Schwinn—perhaps it was the wheezing—my companion said, “Let’s lock the bikes up and go get a drink.”
Clearly disgusted, I replied, “Let’s not lock the bikes up and hope mine gets stolen.”
Things were not going well. But at least the Mott House had a handy cocktail lounge. Lucretia may have had many social causes, but I’m guessing that the temperance movement wasn’t among them. So the bikes were locked and we got loaded.
The next morning, we bounced our bikes down the cobblestone grade and set out on a nice, flat, paved road to the ocean. With a stiff wind at our backs, we got quite a push in the pedaling department, making it an easy and unexpectedly comfortable ride. I even looked up from my front tire occasionally to admire the historic homes, rooftop widow’s walks, and spectacular landscaping. We’d ridden three miles in fifteen minutes without incident. I’m not saying I was doing wheelies, but at least I remained vertical.
At water’s edge, the wind continued to whip as we took obligatory photos and enjoyed the sights and sounds of surf and seagulls.
But then it was time to go back to town. The wind, which provided such a lovely lift on the way to the shore, was now squarely in our faces, holding us back, making each straining turn of the pedals a year of hard labor. With aching legs and burning lungs, we saw happy bikers coming at us, giggling and zipping toward the beach. “Laugh now, you idiots!” I hollered, “Because you’ll never get back!!!”
As I pedaled, panted, and wobbled, turkey buzzards circled overhead, tagging me for future roadkill. At one point I squeezed my brakes, hopped off the bike, emitted a string of expletives, and threw the vehicle down. But the sorry sight of my companion trying to wrangle a bike in each hand got me back in the saddle.
It was an hour’s struggle. I’d taken one ugly spill, skinned both knees, and twisted my ankle on my dismount in Lucretia Mott’s parking lot. An ice bag and several Band-Aids later, we went to dinner, having negotiated a pact to spend the rest of the vacation on foot.
I am happy to report that despite my false advertising as a Tour de France contestant and my less than sterling behavior in Nantucket, the relationship flourished. We’ve been together thirty-three years now, thirty-two years, eight months since that unfortunate cycling expedition.
