Fried & Convicted, page 9
Once out in the street we could see a huge change in the city since our last visit. It was now completely Uberfied. There seemed to be fewer private cars and even fewer yellow taxis than ever before. But the streets teemed with big black sedans and SUVs, all of them working for Uber.
We loved just calling a car from our smartphones and having somebody pick us up within minutes, charge the ride to our credit card, and in lieu of requiring a tip, ask for a simple 1-5 star rating. It was great. Although eight million people are all standing in front of buildings squinting at black cars to see if they are Toyotas, Suburbans, Cadillacs, or whatever their iPhones tell them is coming to get them. Frankly, with all the black vehicles, the whole city looks like it’s at a funeral.
We did a lot of fun things for five days, like getting half-price theatre tickets, strolling through Times Square, getting our fill of corned beef on rye, and then going from the ridiculous (champagne cocktail at The Plaza) to the sublime (hot dog cart lunch in Central Park).
We even spent a fun morning at Madame Tussauds—hobnobbing with waxy celebrities who would expect their friends to stay at the St. Regis. We had a grand time. But all good things must end, as we checked out of the lush life and headed back to the trailer park.
May 2015
CELEBRATING OLD LESBIANS
Oh, goody, it’s Older Lesbians Month. Well, actually it’s Older Americans Month, but several LGBT organizations are celebrating it as Older Gay and Lesbian Days—like gay days at Disney, only this one is celebrated at Outpatient testing. Or perhaps Walgreens, at the corner of kvetching and complaining.
Hell, for me, every day is older lesbian day. Why, just this morning I found out exactly how old, when I got a text from Overstock.com telling me my cheap dining-room chairs had arrived yesterday.
That’s weird. They weren’t on my porch last night. Or this morning. Then I read the email noting the chairs had been delivered to our old address. A place we have not resided in for the past seven months. Never mind my chatting up somebody in Dubai twice last week to make sure that didn’t happen.
Who said you can’t go home again? By 7:20 a.m. Bonnie and I were headed for Old Landing Road and our former residence. Pulling up in front, we saw the three enormous cartons on the stoop. Please, I thought, let the people who purchased our place be weekenders.
Luckily, nobody was there as we celebrated our personal old home week by dragging the heavy cartons off the stoop, onto the driveway, and into the Jeep. The wheezing alone was enough to create a neighborhood disturbance. These geriatric burglars on one last heist were fortunate the police didn’t cruise by. “Old Lesbians Nabbed in Driveway Drive-by!”
Returning to the trailerhood, backs already aching, we got to repeat the athletics in reverse, plus drag the unwieldy boxes up the stairs and onto the porch—where I had paid good money to have them delivered in the first place. There is no justice. There is, happily, Bengay and a heating pad.
So we’re celebrating being old lesbians. Part of Old Lesbians month online was a shout-out to OLOC, the group “Old Lesbians Organizing for Change,” a terrific national organization committed to empowering old lesbians. Check out the group if you don’t know it. Very cool old people.
As for being those old people, laughing helps. The other day I was back at Walgreens; is it irony that I get most of my exercise picking up prescriptions? Anyway, I tried to pick up my prescription. It was nowhere to be found. The pharmacist and the clerk forgot where they put it. After fifteen minutes of standing there, shuffling back and forth, and hearing them take three phone calls and a pharmacy consultation with another customer, I started to laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” asked the pharmacist.
“Because,” I said, “You’re screwing with my anxiety medication. It struck me funny. You couldn’t lose the cholesterol pills?”
Pretty soon we were all laughing.
Actually, that’s a good thing about being an old lesbian. I feel I have license to speak my mind even more than I used to. Look out. This old lesbian is just one martini away from an inappropriate comment or a verbal rampage. It’s kind of fun.
I am an old lesbian, hear me roar. Now where did I put those pills?
May 2015
READY, SET, SPLATTER!
Sometimes we exit our comfort zone for a good cause. In the name of animal rescue I attended a Paint Night charity event.
How bad could Paint Night be? Every time I ask myself that kind of question I have flashbacks from unfortunate experiences like zip-lining or learning to two-step. Outwardly, at least, this event seemed less risky.
Halfway through I started to understand why Van Gogh cut off his ear. Look, there’s a reason I paint with words, not acrylics. I am fine art challenged.
I learned this at age six when I dipped a paintbrush in water to “paint” in a special coloring book where the water turned black and white images to blue or red. Anybody old enough to remember this?
With exquisite eye-hand coordination I flipped the water bowl onto the book, painting all the pages simultaneously, flooding the coffee table and removing the lacquer finish from the tabletop. It was not the kind of masterpiece my mother anticipated.
Even crayons got me in trouble. There was a 1950s TV show where you could send away for a piece of see-through plastic to cover your TV screen and use a crayon to color on the TV with Winky Dink. No, I am not a savant, having remembered Winky Dink’s name all these years. I googled “crayons on TV screen.” And there he was.
But I do remember coloring with Winky when the plastic fell off and I continued to express myself on the RCA picture tube and onto the adjacent living-room wall. Again, my art led to family attention, and not the good kind.
Here’s a random fact: The Internet reports that the aroma of Crayola Crayons is the third most recognizable smell for adults, right after coffee and peanut butter. I get that. In fact, I just got up from the computer to go sniff a crayon, which for some reason I actually had in my office. Coffee smells a lot better.
But back to my art history. Apparently, scolding from my early artistic endeavors left me brush-shy from kindergarten all the way through Medicare eligibility. I knew better than to try and paint, color, or draw anything, ever.
I even flunked Pictionary, with people guessing that the Thanksgiving turkey I drew was a BMW with a quirky hood ornament.
My mate won’t even let me paint the walls in our house, which, of course, is no hardship at all.
But I digress. Paint Night. We arrived at the host restaurant, MIXX in Rehoboth, to find 30 or so tabletop easels, each holding a blank canvas, with a paper plate on the table featuring black, white, bright green, and bright blue paint blobs.
What? No burnt sienna or magenta?
I ordered my first martini and faced the blank canvas, preparing to unleash my inner Leonardo da Vinci. Perhaps I’d channel Georges Seurat, painting Sunday in the Park with George as Tuesday in the Bar with Fay. I couldn’t wait to get creative.
That’s when I found out we’d all be painting the same swimming turtle picture, with step-by-step instructions. So much for my delusions of grandeur. I ordered a second martini.
Now I have to say, between the drinking, laughing, and painting we all had a total blast. I did my best, enjoying slapping paint on the canvas while trying not to splash it into my nearby Grey Goose.
After nearly two hours of monkeying with the thing, the final result was supposed to be a turtle, surrounded by coral and seaweed, with sunlight rays sparkling through the water. Oh, and little fish swimming by.
Mine showed a rhinoceros or possibly the QE2, surrounded by dildos and linguini, with white shoelaces hanging in the blue stuff. Oh, and little hand grenades swimming by.
To my left, across, and behind me were recognizable turtles in lush coral and seaweed-enhanced seas. Mine, not so much. You’d think I’d been sniffing crayons. Clearly, my half-century moratorium on fine arts endeavors was a good thing.
And following tradition, despite the apron I was given to keep me clean, I ruined a great pair of shorts and gave my running shoes random blue highlights. Luckily, this time, I spared the tabletop and did not paint on the restaurant walls.
When it was all over, we applauded everyone’s efforts and cheered at the money made for animal rescue. And we were cautioned to be careful with the still-wet canvases.
It wasn’t until the next morning I noticed the two-inch black acrylic blob on the door of the Mercedes. I’m sure I have some Goof-Off in the drawer with the crayons.
For Andy Warhol, his muse was a soup can; for me, it’s the garbage can. But at least we raised some money for the animals.
June 2015
BEWARE OF THE MAILBOX, YOUNGSTERS . . .
There are days I hate the U.S. Postal Service. Today was one of them. Now before I go all postal about it, some history.
I was in my late forties when it started. Targeted mailings. Those creepy, very specific, unsolicited offers where it’s clear that somebody with a mailing list knows your exact age. The first, of course, was the AARP.
That was a shock. At 49 they wanted me to join an organization with the word retired in its name and pay $8 a year for the privilege. I wouldn’t retire for 15 years yet, the nerve! But I can be bought. So I gladly accepted the mantle of retired person to save on hotels and rental cars. I’m vain, not stupid.
But I always flashed my membership card for the discounts, certain they would think me a liar if I applied on face value—my face. It was a sorry day when a clerk stopped me from foraging in my wallet, saying “I believe you . . .”
The next targeted assault came several years later with random solicitations for long-term care insurance. Here I was, mid-50s, working hard and playing hard, and they had me drooling and debilitated in a nursing home.
Just reading the stuff was debilitating. What 56-year-old wants to think about needing assistance with daily activities like toileting (is that even a real word?), bathing, dressing, eating, and incontinence care? I was both horrified and impressed by their scare tactics.
“43% of those needing long-term care are under age 65. You may need it now!”
“At this rate of increase, ten years from now, a policy for a 50-year-old would cost 50% more than an equivalent policy for a 50 year old would cost today.”
Good grief, that last sentence could cause brain damage all by itself.
Day after day unsolicited insurance offers poured in. It was effective weight training just to haul the enormous pile of junk mail to the recycling bin on my way to the dance club.
The long-term care game went on for years, supplanted only recently by the tsunami of solicitations for supplemental Medicare insurance. Known as Medigap policies, these offers buried my mailbox in an avalanche of waste paper unequal to anything suffered before.
Every insurance company in the country sells a policy, and every 64-year-old I know is a victim of the onslaught. With Baby Boomers coming of Medicare age at a frightening rate, these offers singlehandedly must be saving the venerable old Postal Service.
And it’s not just in the mail. Technology targets us by age on Facebook. “Are you 64 and looking for a Medigap policy? Click here!” I even got a pop-up ad on my Kindle. If I’d been reading the Anti-Aging Zone or Wrinkle Wars, I’d understand, but I was reading a novel full of drugs, sex and rock and roll. What gave them a clue?
I thought about it. If hundreds of insurance companies know my age and exactly how to find me, why the heck should we worry about the NSA spying on us? They should just ask Mass Mutual or John Hancock to cough up their data.
Of course, before I put my own John Hancock on any of the hundreds of offered policies, I had to perform due diligence and compare and contrast them. If I’d been retired since age 14 I still wouldn’t have had time for all that. So in the end I went with my old friend AARP. After all, we’ve been an item for 15 years.
But did the mail stop? Nooo. We’ve gotten personalized solicitations to get our hearing tested, use discount coupons for a full-body MRI, and quite annoyingly, dozens of ads for cute cottages in senior communities where graduation means a bed with railings in the nursing home. Make it stop!!!!!
Now we’re getting a gift catalogue for curmudgeons featuring easy-up toilet rails, power seat La-Z-Boys, coccyx cushions, and full-page magnifying readers. How did this happen? I may not order much from Sports Authority or Boater’s World anymore, but I can still get out of a chair by myself. I should be getting Travel catalogues and Wine of the Month Club solicitations, not offers for living-room ejection seats.
I’ve got so many coupons for incontinence products I’m seriously pissed off. But today was the very worst. Yes, dear readers, I opened my mailbox today to find the holy hell of targeted marketing inquiries—a personal invitation to pre-plan my own cremation. Hot damn.
I stared at the invite, incredulous. And I couldn’t toss it in the trash fast enough as I left the house to go kayaking. They’re just going to have to wait a while, hopefully a long while, until I catch up to the marketing dolts eyeing me with their direct mail campaigns.
In the meantime, I do think I’ll check out a wine of the month club and a trip to climb Machu Picchu. No pressure stockings needed.
June 2015
HERE’S TO THE L IN LPAC
What comes around, goes around. I’ve heard that a million times, but I think I really experienced it one day a week ago.
I opened Facebook on my iPhone and saw a friend request from a name I recalled from long, long ago. I didn’t really know this person, but had met her a lifetime ago, as I was peeking out of the closet in, oh my gosh, it must have been 1981.
I remember going to a strange (for me) neighborhood in D.C. to a place called “The Women’s Center.” I knew it was a meeting place for lesbians and that scared the heck out of me. But I went, talked to some women, and signed up for an all-lesbian evening cruise out of Annapolis for the following week. In 1981, this kind of thing was a very rare event indeed.
On the night of the cruise, all I wanted to do was be inconspicuous as I parked my car at the City Dock. Omigod, I locked my keys in the car (nervous much?), had a passing policeman call a locksmith, and drew the kind of attention (in my mind, anyway) I had hoped to avoid. I remember staring down at the sidewalk wondering if passersby could see the neon sign on my back saying “lesbian.”
Finally, I timidly walked onto the tour boat. All around me were female couples and groups of women friends, animated, laughing, talking to each other, and the discovery of all this rocked my world. And yes, it was a lifetime ago.
Would I fit in? Make friends? All I could do was stand against the rail of the boat and watch the evening swirl around me. I also recall being introduced, in passing, to a woman who intrigued me—for her confidence and comfort with herself and the surroundings. Me, I was timid, frightened, and unsure of everything in this new world of gay women.
So, back to the future. Last week I got this Facebook request. I clicked “accept” and sent my new FB friend a message.
HI. Fay Jacobs, here. Weird question: do you recall if you were on a tour boat (the Harbor Queen) out of Annapolis sponsored by the long-gone Women’s Center of D.C. back in the dark ages 1981ish? If so, it was my first participation in any kind of lesbian event—I was closeted and so very afraid . . . and I believe I met you that night and thought to myself “I want to be like her—out, and proud.” I don’t know how we became FB friends, or where you know ME from, but I just wanted to share this memory with you. And I am proud to say that it took a while, but I am out, very proud, and a lesbian writer, and activist. Go figure! Thanks for the inspiration.
My computer blinked with a response.
Hi Fay . . . you really made my day! Thank you so much for your lovely message. It meant the world to me. I indeed remember the Harbor Queen and the Washington Area Women’s Center . . . those were the days! How long ago . . . don’t I feel old! You certainly are a kindred spirit . . . be proud that you took the risks you took . . . and thank you for YOUR involvement in our community as well. Perhaps our paths will cross one of these days. My partner and I do make it to Rehoboth once in awhile . . . Feel free to keep in touch and thank you so much again for your kind words! Maybe I’ll see you on the Supreme Court steps in June. We will definitely be there for the announcement!
I wrote back.
Wow, our memories are pretty good for old lesbians! We’ll try to meet you on the steps of the Supreme Court!
It’s funny the turns life takes and what the now-ubiquitous world of social networking can do. But it’s also true that none of us has gotten where we are (or where we still have to go) without the help of great organizations, activists, and pioneering women (and men!!!) who helped create the progress we enjoy today.
Which brings me to an upcoming event here in Rehoboth by one such organization fueled by several such marvelous activists. It’s an LPAC (teamlpac.com) meet and greet event for the opportunity to have cocktails and conversation with the group’s leaders, and some spectacular Delaware politicians.
LPAC is a nonpartisan Political Action Committee with the mission to build the political power of lesbians by significantly affecting the election of candidates who champion LGBTQ rights, women’s equality, and social justice. LPAC Board Members Hilary Rosen (one of my favorite lobbyists and TV interviewees), Karen Dixon, and Executive Director Beth Shipp will be on hand to meet and greet, as well as to promote LPAC’s mission and key initiatives. Check out teamlpac.com for details—and help make history!
As for me, I’m certainly not the terrified, closeted young woman I once was. But I bet even in 2015, with all the progress made, there are many women like that, still hesitant to come out, still afraid of that neon sign with the L word on their backs.
