Fried & Convicted, page 2
The naturalists warned us that we were not allowed to take any lava, shells, rocks, or sand off the islands and onto the ship. They didn’t count the pounds of sand in our hair, not to mention our privates. And if they could think of a polite way to get that back, I suspect they would.
A main attraction was the Blue-footed Booby—a gull-like bird with bright blue webbed feet. According to the naturalists, the brighter the blue, the more attractive the bird is to the opposite sex. On the heels of that description we saw fornicating sea tortoises, with one female entertaining lots of different males, for sessions lasting up to eight hours. When done, the males continue to swim and the female drags herself, exhausted, up onto the shore. I would imagine so. Between the Boobies and the turtle antics it was like the “The Real Housewives of Galapagos.”
My favorite island adventure happened on one of only two inhabited islands. The naturalists told us that the sea lions were the original island occupants, with the people arriving later. Ergo, people defer to the sea lions as natives.
We got off our boats at the pier, and spied benches for people waiting for the ferries and boats. The folks sitting on those benches were equally divided between human beings and sea lions. There was a park in the town, built for the human inhabitants’ children, but it was currently being used by sea lions. Do you know that playground equipment with bright-colored tubes where kids can slide into sandboxes or water? The sea lions were using it. And appearing to enjoy themselves. Honest.
We got back to our ship and an adorable sea lion was sitting on the swim platform welcoming us home. “Good thing we have stairs up to the higher floors,” said our naturalist. “On other boats, with ramps, it’s not unusual to come down to breakfast and find sea lions in the dining room!”
One of our last stops on the cruise was a sanctuary for giant tortoises, which looked like Volkswagens. Some of them were over 100 years old. We were told it takes a giant tortoise two to three weeks to digest a meal, which I related to because that pretty much happens to me if I go to Burger King.
At the sanctuary we heard about Lonesome George, a huge old tortoise who recently passed away. Apparently he was lousy in the dating department and the island was not incubating any tortoises. When the government of Ecuador borrowed a giant tortoise of the same species from the San Diego Zoo, voila! All of a sudden there were 1,200 baby tortoises. Our guides told us that Diego, as he was called, managed all that without a little blue pill.
Yup, Darwin had it right. Survival of the fittest. Those of us less fit survived too, as it was an adventure, but not too strenuous. We ate and drank our fill, took thousands of pictures and cannot recommend a trip to the Galapogos Islands highly enough.
And I came home with a T-shirt proclaiming “I Love Boobies!” Luckily, on the front of the shirt there’s a drawing of the blue-footed kind.
February 2014
AN OLD-FASHIONED WEDDING
There are a lot of things that strike me as absurd these days.
Since we last spoke, we had the controversy over the Broadway show Kinky Boots in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. There was outrage because drag queens were to perform. Really? When it comes to Broadway, why aren’t the complaining cretins upset by the child abuse dealt out by Miss Hannigan in Annie or Fagin teaching kids to steal in Oliver? And why is it okay to celebrate a murderer who slits throats and his sidekick who bakes the bodies into meat pies in Sweeny Todd? Seriously, all these particular drag queens do is save a straight man’s shoe business. Puleeze. This warrants controversy?
And of course there was the brain trust from Duck Dynasty. When asked about LGBT issues, who didn’t expect Mr. Duck to spout hateful bullpucky? Frankly, somebody looking as nasty and sounding as stupid as that guy shrieking against gays makes us look like angels. They should have avoided the backlash by keeping him on the air to continue to make a dumbo of himself.
And then there’s the whole falling of dominoes in the marriage equality map. What’s absurd is the hostile response over something that is now so inevitable. Save your energy, bigots; you lost this one. In a big way.
And I’ve been celebrating the whole marriage controversy. In fact, as that fabulous old queen Noel Coward sang in 1932, recently “I went to the most mahvelous party!”
It was the wedding of two young male friends and the event blew my mind in so many ways.
Frankly, since marriage equality swept Delaware, Maryland, and environs, I’ve been to a lot of weddings, including one of my own. And all of them have been the coupling of old poops like us, together for decades and finally permitted to make it legal. Not that the events haven’t been gorgeous, with loving families, white tablecloths, and champagne toasts. They have. And it’s been glorious.
But there’s something special about attending a wedding where the two grooms are of the traditional young marriageable age, a wedding with all the pomp and circumstance of the big weddings we used to lust after. Or at least wish we had the legal right to emulate, if not the actual desire to go out in a hail of rice or birdseed as is now the environmentally friendly tradition.
Here was a wedding of two wonderful young men, with a gaggle of groomsmen assisting the groomsmaids with their makeup and rearranging the angles of their corsages. Turnabout certainly was fair play as one groomsman hastily re-hemmed a groomsmaid’s dress. Another insisted I wear eyeliner and applied it to my droopy lids himself.
There was a Gayd of Honor, a wedding planner and a stage manager, a serenade by members of the Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington prior to the ceremony, and a drag queen emcee at the reception. Yes, if it’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing and this wedding was spectacular.
For me, this was a very special event. I had been asked by one of the grooms to be a stand-in for his mom, who would not attend. She missed an amazing chance to escort her handsome son and watch, with enormous pride, as he married his soul mate.
For his part, the soul mate invited his traditional Southern parents. They were in full attendance and did not blink once. Not when the marriage officiate pronounced them groom and groom and they kissed, not each time silverware tapped crystal at the reception and the grooms were required to kiss some more, and certainly not during their first dance to the iconic “Endless Love.” Cheers to them.
Following the requisite professional picture-taking (I think it’s safe to say that as the mother of the groom, I may have been the butchest one in the wedding party) we got the celebration going.
This reception was as different as it was the same. Unlike some straight weddings, here, when the DJ played “Dancing Queen” the song was never more appropriate. And to see the dance floor swamped by men with only a spattering of women in the crowd struck an unusual chord as well.
First came “The Electric Slide” led by a gaggle of guys, followed by “It’s Raining Men,” complete with synchronized choreography. The only time the dance floor emptied was for “YMCA,” as if to say “That old thing!” to the number generally marking the only dance floor filler at many straight weddings.
The oft-played dance floor version of musical chairs became musical Cher’s at this wedding, with the guests rushing for seats to Cher’s recordings.
During the toasts, the straight best friend of one of the grooms provided some warm and wonderful words, while the other groom’s best friend provided a moving, tear-inducing story.
And, since the wedding was held on Veterans Day, with one groom having served our country prior to “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” being lifted, the event was even more moving.
From the rhinestones affixed to seating cards to the cake-cutting antics, this was a traditional wedding. When the grooms left the reception by limo amid soap-bubble blowing well-wishers, this wedding was a shoo-in for the phrase, “the more things change the more they remain the same.”
This wedding looked like 2013 America. And nothing that Kinky Boots haters or dirty duck callers can say can take away the glee.
March 2014
THE CASE OF THE PURLOINED POOCH
My granddog is the Toast of Washington, D.C. By the time her publicist is done, Margo the Cockapoo may be a national household name.
You might have heard the tale of the purloined pooch by now, which is what the Washington Post called Margo. Do I get publicity in the Post? No. My son’s cockapoo does.
If you have not heard the horrible tale with the perfect outcome, here are the details. If you missed this freaky story, here it is in all its angst, agony, and absolutely heart-warming outcome.
It started when I took a phone call from my son Eric Peterson on a wintry Thursday night. He was agitated and hysterical. His Capitol Hill home had been broken into, all his electronics had been stolen, and his two-and-a-half-year-old dog Margo was gone, too. Not only was she gone, but since her leash, food, and toys were also gone, it was clear she was part of the looting operation. My granddog was stolen property.
I try to find humor everywhere, but there was nothing funny here. We were devastated. Bonnie and I got to D.C. as soon as possible to help with the hunt, but within ten minutes of being called, the D.C. police were already on the scene and the entire Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington was on alert and pitching in to help their pal Eric get his best friend back.
In a social media frenzy, chorus members and friends posted Margo’s photo, tweeted the news, and starting printing up MISSING posters and flyers.
As an old public relations flack I knew that if there was any chance at all of getting Margo back we had to get an enormous amount of publicity. And as only money talks, we knew we had to offer an impressive, if not ridiculously large, reward.
My financial manager almost stroked out when she heard the purpose of my $10,000 withdrawal, but Eric and I hoped that number was big enough to get us on television with a plea for her return.
It was impressive enough. By noon Friday, WRC-TV and FOX5 were on the scene, interviewing Eric, filming the ransacked townhouse, lovingly photographing and talking about Margo’s empty, overturned crate and her distraught human companions.
Meanwhile, Facebook and Twitter lit up with BRING MARGO HOME messages, starring Margo’s BFF Cara and her humans, begging for her return. The reward was posted all over the place. The police set up a tip-line phone number.
Bonnie, Eric, and I spent the long, horrid afternoon attempting to keep busy with posters and tweets, reassuring ourselves that it was not like Margo had escaped and was running around in the cold on the dangerous streets. We suspected she was inside, warm, and being harbored by some stupid petty thief who cruelly and callously wanted somebody else’s dog. It was not a pretty time.
Throughout the afternoon, a Capitol Hill dog-walking service, Saving Grace Pet Care (plug, plug!), posted REWARD posters all over town, while Facebook published pleas, pictures, and FIND MARGO posts.
By 5 p.m. news time, reports of the missing Margo were all over the tube, in heart-wrenching human and canine interest stories, emotionally and sensationally crafted by TV reporters and film editors. The dramatic film had Eric pleading for his companion’s return, news anchors sensationally telling the tale, and photos of the missing pooch posted on camera.
“Man Desperate to Find Missing Dog!” (hell, Jewish grandmothers desperate to find missing dog!) Tweet: #FINDMARGO. “Reward offered, no questions asked, for stolen canine!”
By Friday evening we left Eric with friends, who had instructions to provide enough Maker’s Mark so the guy could get some shut-eye. We made the sad trip back to Reho and somehow got ourselves some sleep as well, but it wasn’t easy.
My cell phone rang at 8 a.m. “I got her back! The police have her! I’m going down to the station to get her!!!!!!!”
Sometimes there’s nothing you can say but the quintessential OMG.
Early in the morning a detective had called Eric and asked “What’s the name of your dog?” Eric responded. When the officer called, “Margo! Margo!!” and the dog went ballistic, the detective said to Eric, “We’ve got your dog.”
So Eric headed for the police station, alerting the TV reporters he’d spoken to along the way. After all, thousands of viewers should get the good news, too. And TV news people adore a two-part story with an incredibly happy ending.
It seems that the police tip line got a hit late Friday night. The tipster saw Margo being walked on the street not far from the scene of break-in. The person didn’t know the Margo story, but told a friend about the guy with the new dog in her building. And the friend had seen the TV coverage.
Not only did Eric get Margo back, but the police raid wound up solving seven other burglaries in the neighborhood. And Margo, the now infamous twenty-pound cockapoo, got credit for the bust.
“Dognapped Cockapoo, Margo, Found and Back Home Safe and Sound! Suspect Charged in Multiple Burglaries”
—Metropolitan Police Report.
“Margo Goes Home: Dog Stolen in Burglary Reunited With Owner” —WRC-TV.
“Purloined pooch Margo returns to her home in D.C. after word spreads on Web and TV” —Washington Post.
In all, the story had been shared online thousands of times, the TV stations were all over it, and Margo quickly became the most famous dog in Washington, D.C. (sorry White House pup, Bo).
And yes, the reward was paid to the tipster. She called in after her friend told her about the reward. But this is a great story in its own right. The money went to a family who really needed it and will be able to use it to make a real difference in their lives. It took courage to rat out a neighbor, and the money was the incentive. As Bonnie and I like to say, it was a real mitzvah.
So my granddog is home safe and sound, and we all have learned, once again, of the power of the media, social and otherwise. Also friendship and community. Okay, also money, which between our household and Eric’s we are lucky to be able to afford.
But the story went viral, people all over re-posted, re-tweeted, and spread the word, and for that we say thanks.
And we are the proud grandmoms of Margo Channing Peterson, the wonder dog. As Eric says, “The guy who broke into my house was implicated in seven other robberies. SEVEN. And he was brought down by Margo. I am the proud parent of one badass cockapoo.”
You bet.
April 2014
BYE BYE BIRDIE
I’m back from the deep South and I cannot tell a lie. While I missed my hometown terribly, I did not miss the snow you guys suffered in my absence. Since the weather icon on my smartphone always shows Rehoboth first, I got my daily Delaware news and it wasn’t pretty. Well, actually, some days the pictures were pretty, but the words coming out of my friends’ mouths were not.
Numerous people sneeringly spat, ”You picked the right winter to become snowbirds.” Yes, we did.
And speaking of snowbirds, during this winter respite I admit to having enjoyed some new-to-me outdoor activities, like birding.
My prior birding experience was limited to Tippi Hedren being dive-bombed in The Birds, or an occasional run-in with a flock of filthy pigeons on Sixth Avenue in Manhattan. Oh, and those French fry-thieving seagulls on the boardwalk.
But a few weeks ago I accepted an invitation to go birding at a Florida sanctuary. Decked out with binoculars, a camera, water, and snacks, we set out along the two-and-a-half-mile boardwalk through the woods.
Snacks? Even I didn’t expect to need a snack for just two-and-a-half miles. Little did I know that birders move very, very slowly. They can spy a creature, stare at it for a long time with the naked eye, then look at it through binocs for an interminable period. I mean a really long, mind-numbing, turning into statues time. At this rate it would take hours to reach the mile marker, and rather than a small snack I’d need a whole pizza.
As we watch birds, all conversation is whispered, all walking is softly, with a big stick. Practically tip-toeing along, we saw buntings. These were rare and colorful winged creatures. Then we came across a huge owl, about two feet to my right off the boardwalk, just staring at us.
For the record, he did not turn his head all the way around like something from The Exorcist. I was disappointed. He didn’t even say whoo. But if he did, it would have been “Whoo are these old people walking behind you wearing khaki, covered in badges, with cameras like AK-47s?” I wondered that myself. They were Audubon hikers looking like Scout Troop AARP.
Is it snack time yet?
I focused my binoculars on a tree limb far away and strained to see birds. Apparently there was a fabulous specimen someplace nearby, but I couldn’t get it in focus. And while I may have had no prior birding experience, I have had experience with binoculars. I’ve used them in night boating to make certain we were looking at a red-lighted buoy and not a Coca Cola machine on shore. And I confess I’ve used them in New York City to watch people through the windows in adjacent apartments. Yes, it really is a Manhattan activity. Been there, done that. You see more action.
Just then a flock of large birds flew in formation overhead and everybody stared up at them, gape-jawed at their mighty numbers. Was I the only one worried about staring up open-mouthed under the flock?
Slowly, very slowly heading into mile two we saw a pileated woodpecker banging away on a huge tree, making me wonder why they don’t get migraines. Then my attention slipped to Woody Woodpecker and I was off down memory lane. I was daydreaming for quite a while when I looked up and saw one member of our party gazing up at a wicked angle. Do birdwatchers get Warbler Neck or need emergency chiropractic?
I loved watching the red-crested hawks and their babies through the binoculars, but it did become a literal pain in the neck. And the pace was killing me. The only time I move this slowly is reaching for the check at a table for twelve.
We spied an enormous anhinga (yes, I have been coached on names) with a gigantic wingspan as well as a bunch of other chirping species. Lots of twitter and tweeting happened, in the original sense of the words.
