Fried & Convicted, page 5
Hmmm. I’m a Northern Elite. I was born and raised in New York. I went to college. My IQ is higher than my body temperature. They hate me.
I believe in gun control. Which I also like to call gun safety. And I also believe in gun rights. But the gun lobby’s “slippery slope” argument is a gunsmoke screen. They are protecting only the wealthy assault rifle manufacturers. It has nothing to do with preserving the Second Amendment and everything to do with preserving funding for their multimillion-dollar nonprofits. Without the money motive, most would agree to ban murderous battalion-killing assault weapons while letting hunters and sportspeople holster their appropriate guns. Only the survivalist nut jobs and garden variety crazies who want to kill schoolchildren don’t know this. So the NRA hates me.
I believe in Social Security, Medicare, and Unemployment Insurance. Where do I start? A person I know (slightly) pontificates against “entitlements” while happily banking unemployment benefits and filing for disability. He doesn’t even have the decency to feel guilty. I cannot decide whether these people are entirely heartless, just selfish, or enjoy hypocrisy. Trifecta? This whole topic reminds me of a cartoon I saw. The first panel has an anti-government protester shouting against government programs. The second panel has the man clinging to his roof in a flood, asking, “Where’s the government?” Indeed.
I believe in equal pay for equal work. In 1981 in Maryland, I took a job at a company staffed mostly by women. My boss actually said, out loud, “we like hiring women because we don’t have to pay them as much. When we hire a man we have to pay him more because he has a family to support.” My head exploded in 1981, and in 2014 I’m still picking up the pieces. Very little has changed among the Congresspeople voting against the Fair Pay Act. If women’s suffrage went to a vote today, Congress would refuse it an up or down vote and I’d be chaining myself to the Capitol steps.
But as much as my aforementioned beliefs make me America’s Most Nauseous for the Snapple-Head Teacuppers, two issues in the news make me a special threat.
First, immigration reform. Several years ago I visited Ellis Island and spent an entire day feeling very close to my roots. When I told the family matriarch, Aunt Marion, about my wonderful Ellis Island visit, she laughed and said, “Didn’t you know, dear? We came in illegally through Canada.”
Wow. I am the spawn of illegal aliens. Apparently my clan went in search of a cheaper fare and better excursions on the ship from Vladivostok and wound up landing in the dead of night somewhere north of the border. They were quite pissed at having missed the Statue of Liberty. And these poor huddled masses were further baffled when they repeated their multi-syllabic name, Onakelski, to the border patrol and were promptly assigned the new name Kelsey. From then on everybody thought they were Irish Jews. But I maintain they still did not ruin America.
And finally, the far right hates me because I love Obamacare! It works. Bonnie was able to get insurance starting May 1 from Obamacare. Nobody ruled her out because of anything preexisting (thank you, President Obama!) and it was easy to sign up. It’s good insurance, and it works exactly like any other insurance. We are extremely fortunate to have this program available to us. And, by the way, I know many other people for whom it works beautifully as well. So sue me.
Yes, I am the ultraconservative’s perfect storm. And with all the time I have had on my hands lately, plus a family medical crisis to put life in perspective, I‘ve decided that staying quiet pays no dividends.
I am woman, hear me roar . . . and vote.
July 2014
THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
Ain’t that the truth. After weeks in a teeny, tiny, utilitarian hotel room in Annapolis, two women and a dog have returned home to the Nation’s Summer Capital, ready to enjoy the rest of the season. The good news is that Bonnie’s treatment is over and we expect a good report when the docs redo the scans and biopsies in the fall. For now, we are home from the war.
It’s one thing to be away eight winter weeks in Florida or up North touring Canada by RV. It’s entirely another to be stashed like witness protection in a stuffy extended stay “suite” days on end, sneaking out for daily therapy appointments. Between a frequently napping patient, and a bored, teething dog, I was either comatose myself or on guard duty. At one point I was so stir-crazy I would have chewed the coffee table leg if Windsor hadn’t beaten me to it.
That presented a moral dilemma. Do I place the chewed table leg up against the wall and hope the maid overlooks it, or do I leave it alone and run out the back door? Just kidding. I ratted on Windsor and offered to pay for the wobbly cheap table. I’ll have to take it out of his allowance.
But while frequent bouts of cabin fever did overtake us, we did what we could to make the best of a challenging situation.
One day I visited my former Annapolis dermatologist, since here at home it’s harder to get an appointment than to win Mega-Millions. I wasn’t surprised that years of boating and sunshine had taken its toll and some pre-troublesome barnacles had to come off my face. I left the office resembling a speckled hen.
When we went out to dinner that night, Bonnie sat with her hospital ID bracelet on and an intravenous tube sticking out of her arm, while I looked like I’d been duck hunting with Dick Cheney. My other car’s an ambulance.
At least Windsor was a wonderful distraction. One memorable
evening we came home late and had to feed the child at 11 p.m. By two in the morning, doody called.
In a sleepy stupor, I pulled pants on over my pajamas, grabbed his leash, and headed down the steps. As I hit bottom, I could see wet pavement through the glass door. That’s funny, it wasn’t supposed to rain. When I went out I got hit with an F5 hurricane force sprinkler system, washing my clothes and tonsils.
Drenched, Windsor and I made several passes through the sprinkler, laughing (I hope he was laughing) like kindergarteners. I’m lucky the hotel staff didn’t summon a straightjacket team to take us away. Ho ho, ha ha.
And all through this adventure, we had my actress friends of 40 years or so, “The Divas” as they are affectionately known, as our out-of-town support system. Back in June, when Bonnie first returned to her room from surgery, Diva Nori, an elegant and stunning blond, was on hand. Bonnie’s blood pressure hovered dangerously low, causing warning bells to go off on her monitors. Those of us in the room kept telling Bonnie to move around, shake her arms, do whatever she could to raise her blood pressure. No luck. Then, Nori peeked at her watch, announced she had to leave, kissed Bonnie on the forehead, and exited the room. My wife’s blood pressure spiked. “Well, I guess I’m not dead,” she said.
Oh so luckily, no. Thank you all for your support and well wishes.
August 2014
EQUALITY IS NO LONGER JUST A CONCEPT
The last decade in the LGBT equality fight in Delaware and elsewhere has been momentous. We all know the gains made, including anti-discrimination laws, civil unions, and marriage equality. Celebrations following state legislature votes were loud and proud. Weddings abounded with caterers, wedding planners, DJs, squabbling relatives, gowns, tuxes, the works.
We cheered for Edie Windsor and the Supreme Court’s overturning of the heinous Defense of Marriage Act. Couples who’d been together two, three, four decades got married; young, newly-together couples married with all the requisite pomp, circumstance, first dances, and wedding-cake-in-the-face photos.
But what did this actually mean in real life? Past the ceremonies and parties, and joy of being recognized by the federal government as equally deserving the right to marry, what happened? What part of the testimony, repeated over and over for years, about the rights marriage would bestow on our minority, did I actually get to see?
A bunch.
My wife and I jointly filed taxes on April 15, as married as anybody else in the eyes of the Delaware Division of Revenue and the Internal Revenue Service. Good start.
When a dear friend lost his partner of over 40 years, he and I went to the funeral home together. After the funeral director explained the services offered, he took out some documents and asked “Which of you is next of kin?”
My friend quietly slipped the marriage certificate across the table. “That’s all we need,” said the somber gentleman.
How different it might have been decades ago. Actually, only months ago. There were certainly residual butterflies in my stomach. I wondered if my grieving friend would be treated with respect and given permission to do whatever was necessary to deal with the business of death. He was. But for many of us, it may take a long time for the fear and silently raised hackles to disappear.
Likewise, when my friend called Social Security to let them know of his mate’s passing, we were both delighted with the professionalism of the response and the survivor benefit adjustment in his social security payment. It was one of the rights we sought in our testimony for marriage equality, now come home, in real dollars and cents.
For my part, when my wife was under medical treatment at various doctors’ offices, we clearly saw a positive change in attitudes. In all matters medical, I was treated with utmost respect and spousal privilege.
Naturally this thrilled me. But not so much when one of the doctors just assumed I’d want to stay in the room holding my wife’s hand for a procedure involving blood. The good news: The patient was distracted from the procedure by worrying her spouse would pass out. The bad news: I came ridiculously close to doing so.
Even in this world where HIPAA privacy reigns, I was able to take information directly from Bonnie’s doctors, medical personnel, and medical billing offices. There was no phone call I could not take, or paper I could not sign.
Sure, you could tell there was disapproval lurking in the eyes of a very few people whose paths we crossed, but it was quite the exception. I found the whole experience remarkable. And though I could sense their religious or political objections, I was delighted that the law was forcing them to treat us equally. Revenge is sweet.
The truth is, so many people genuinely congratulated us on our right to get married and the fact that we had actually gotten married, we could feel the paradigm shift like an earthquake.
But giddy with equality, I knew I would eventually meet my Waterloo and figured it would be with our health insurance company. That enormous bureaucracy, with its foreign call centers and reputation for bad customer service, would be the one to burst my bubble.
Nope. When, after choosing one, two, or three from six different menus, I finally got through to a human being in Mumbai, all I had to do was say I was the member’s spouse and I was given access to all the info I wanted, the status of all bills, and the specifics of Bonnie’s coverage.
Of course, spousal privilege did not keep me from being stuck on hold for an eon and suffering tinny classical music. We wanted equality, and I am happy to say we are now, by law, destined to be treated as badly as everyone else.
I can’t speak for other folks who have spent the last decades advocating for marriage equality, but in my legislative testimony and letters to state and national representatives, my passion was always real, but my words were often clinical. “Access for hospital visits, social security survivor benefits, 1,000 federal rights, taxation equality . . .”
While I was talking or writing, I never actually pictured sitting with a grieving friend and an undertaker or signing permission for surgery while my wife lay sedated on a gurney. And that’s probably a good thing.
Songwriters Kander and Ebb, who wrote Cabaret, probably said it best.
“How the world can change, it can change like that, due to one little word, married.”
Oh, yes.
August 2014
BIGOTS MAKE LOUSY SANDWICHES
I practically spit my vitamins across the room this morning when I realized that this coming Labor Day weekend will be my 20th Sundance Auction and Dance in Rehoboth Beach. Time really does fly, or “Fry” in my case. It seems impossible to me, but here it is, 20 years later, savoring my Sundance anniversary as well as my 20th anniversary writing for Letters from CAMP Rehoboth.
In 1995 Bonnie and I had just cruised into town via a two-day boat trip up Chesapeake Bay, through the C&D Canal, down Delaware Bay, into Lewes’s Roosevelt inlet, and up the canal to Rehoboth Bay. Friends who also weekended here stood along the Rehoboth Avenue bridge, waving at us as we came through. Most of those folks are still our dear friends, and eventually came to live in Rehoboth Beach full-time as well.
That first summer we spent weekends living on our boat at the marina in Dewey, watching sunsets, occasionally plucking my first schnauzer, Max, out of the water, and writing my first few columns for Letters.
Bonnie and I, in our mid-forties, lived in suburban Maryland, where we both worked and stayed pretty much closeted except for our families and gay and lesbian friends. I’d been writing for the Washington Blade but I worried about losing my day job, so I wrote under a pen name. Lesbian and gay couples had great fun in those days but it was often at strictly gay events.
Even in Rehoboth, as we danced into the wee hours at our gay venues, name-calling and overt homophobia still raged. The mere thought of gay marriage was a joke.
In fact, in 1995 homophobic T-shirts could be seen in store windows and public name-calling of gays, although declining, was still popular. On one of our first weekends here, Bonnie and I went to a small hamburger place in Dewey called Colonel Mustard’s. While waiting for a takeout sandwich, we overheard the owner crudely insulting the young women servers with sexist smears and making viciously cruel jokes about Rehoboth Beach gay boys.
Stunned and angry, I told Bonnie I was going to write a letter to the editor of that publication Letters I’d just discovered. So I did. Within a day, I was contacted by the editor who told me he was printing the letter and also meeting with the mayor, and they would both go have a talk with Colonel Mustard. They did, and although there is no data to connect the two incidents, that business went belly-up soon after.
During our brief conversation about the name-calling, Steve discovered I was a writer and asked if I wanted to write a story about our boat voyage to Rehoboth. I did, and have been writing a column in Letters, each issue, for the past two decades.
As a columnist I watched a lot of the world go by, from the mid-1990s through the turn of the millennium and into 2014. And I had the privilege of being able to comment on it all. From the Unabomber and his newspaper screed to that ridiculous Y2K scare where survivalists stored water in their water beds and the world waited for computers to turn into two-slot toasters. I got to opine about Monica Lewinsky’s blue dress, the whole Clinton impeachment circus, the Bush-Gore election debacle, and the horror of 9/11. I covered Delaware’s eight-year quest for an LGBT anti-discrimination law, followed in remarkably short order by a civil union bill, and then the snowball rolling downhill to marriage equality.
Less globally, I covered splattered gourds at Pumpkin Chunkin’; the first and now 17th Rehoboth Independent Film Festival; surviving summer traffic; a sugar high at Chocolate Fest; and the vision for, planning, and realization of the dream for a CAMP Rehoboth Community Center.
Readers said they related to my grappling in print with real estate travails, technology, AARP, various phone companies, call centers in Bangladesh, health care, applying for Social Security and Medicare, recreational vehicle trips, cataract surgery, and the whole process of aging gracelessly by zip-lining.
Personally, I have written of living in one boat, two condos, two houses, one RV, and with one pet BMW and four schnauzers. I’ve been sprayed by a skunk, cultivated a bat colony, transported rescue dogs, and reported on innumerable do-it-yourself disasters. Oh, and chronicled our two marriage ceremonies.
I’ve loved every minute and I’m not done yet. I just think it’s appropriate, at this 20-year mark, to thank CAMP Rehoboth for the marvelous privilege of penning approximately 300 CAMPout columns. It’s been grand and I hope the best is yet to come.
And like the “It Gets Better” campaign for gay youth, life in Rehoboth Beach keeps getting better and better, too.
Who’s laughing now, Colonel Mustard?
September 2014
SMARTPHONES: REACH OUT AND
OFFEND SOMEONE
Smartphones have changed everything. And I’m as addicted as anybody else. But I realized it was out of hand last week when a bunch of my friends came over to my house to play with their cell phones. Well that’s what it seemed like, with everyone intermittently peering at their devices.
When somebody remarked at dinner tonight that the six of us must be special to each other because nobody even brought their cell phones to the table, I knew trouble lurked.
Let’s face it, what we have here is the good, the bad, and the ugly.
Under the good category, smartphones are fabulous. How did people find each other in the quiet ages at Pride parades or Poodle Beach without iPhones? And they are great for communicating instantly without actually having to talk to anybody. Not to mention the joy of carrying an 18-volume Funk and Wagnall’s Encyclopedia in your pants. There’s no arguing that a device that can reroute you around a five-mile traffic backup or instantly settle a dispute about who recorded the doo-wop classic “In the Still of the Night” (The Five Satins) is very, very valuable.
More importantly, think of all the good that cell phones could have done had they been invented earlier. I’ll bet passengers on the Titanic would have liked the captain to have gotten a text from a nearby boat saying, “Look starboard.”
In films alone, Maria could have warned Tony to stay at the drug store because Chino was gunning for him. And, as Cary Grant loitered atop the Empire State Building thinking he’d been stood up, somebody surely would have called to tell him Deborah Kerr had been hit by a bus on her way to him.
