For Frying Out Loud Page 17

  Good friends, good food, good god they took me fishing. There’s a reason there’s no book called Shoes of the Jewish Fisherman. There I was, standing in the sun, waving my fishing pole, feeling my skin prematurely aging, with nothing on the hook to show for it.

  Of course, the three other fisherpersons snagged trout, flounder and holy mackerel at an alarming pace, making me look like a slacker. Suddenly I felt a big tug at my line and managed to stutter “FFFish!”

  “And she’s a communication professional,” said my spouse.

  The captain grabbed my line, relieved me of a large silver trout and re-baited my hook. I’ve gotten lots of rebates in my time but this was my first rebait. “Fish!” I yelled, the process repeating itself. Within seconds of my line landing back in the water, I shouted “Fish!” again. In all, sixteen times.

  When the sun set we pulled pants over our shorts, zipped up our jackets and shivered, speeding to shore with our haul. While the three amigos huddled in morbid fascination as the captain gutted the fish, I sat in the car with the butt warmer on. If I wanted to see that many entrails I could just as easily watch Life in the ER on Discovery.

  We ate our trophy fish that night, then spent a day or two playing golf and looking at alligators. Simultaneously. It’s impossible to concentrate on your tee shot when a nine-foot alligator with bulging eyeballs is staring you down from twenty feet away. My game suffered, but I still have all my body parts.

  Golf, fishing, sun, fun behind us, we headed home – with a last stop, on New Year’s Eve in Disney World. I did love it, but two things are clear. First, Disney is the only place I can spend more money per minute than in a casino. Second, nowhere in my entire life, including Times Square, have I ever been crammed amid more teeming humanity, pushing and shoving toward a good time. But it was Disney, so as crowded as it was, there was no actual rioting. At one point even Mickey got testy.

  In the Magic Kingdom we made the mistake of going on a spaceship ride in Tomorrowland which was made for our bodies from yesteryearland. We climbed into the minuscule airplane, wedging ourselves into the fuselage like a stepmother’s clodhopper in a glass slipper.

  “Good heavens, are we going to be able to get out of this thing?” I asked as it rocketed upward.

  “Whamfth? said Bon, teeth lodged in my hoodie.

  We had a spectacular view of the whole park from up there but spent most of the ride panicked we’d need Goofy and the fire brigade to get us out. We eventually dug our thighs free but not without synchronized screaming.

  “Hey, maybe that oldie-but-goodie It’s a Small World ride will be more hospitable.” I said. Frankly, we were surprised to find they’d spent significant money to make the boats smaller, lower and considerably harder to get into since our last visit. Alas, it was a small ride after all.

  But counting down to 2010 in Epcot was the biggest hoot. We downed champagne in every “country” in the park, watched a million bucks of fireworks usher in the new year and then tried to leave.

  Ha! In a champagne stupor, we swept along with the mass exodus to the parking lots. No problem; nobody was going anywhere. Amid a symphony of beeping as owners pressed their keys, hoping to find their cars, we just put the seats back in our vehicle and slept it off. Happily, the dogs were bunking with Pluto at Epcot kennel.

  It is not true that when you wish upon a star, anything your heart desires will come to you. My heart desired to be beamed up on January 1 and dropped back in Rehoboth, skipping the Waldo speed trap, Sonny’s beans, Right-to-Life billboards, a thousand Cracker Barrels, and all of I-95.

  M-I-C, see ya real soon, K-E-Y why? Because next time we fly in a wide-bodied jet.

  February 2010

  THE SNOWPOCALYPSE!

  For Rehoboth Beach, not used to wintery wallops, the snow removal policy is pretty much “the lord giveth, the lord taketh away.”

  Oh the weather outside WAS frightful on Super Bowl weekend 2010 and it caught lots of coastal residents by surprise. We hadn’t seen so much snow here since 1996.

  The citizenry gulped Thursday night February 4 when weather forecasters uttered the B-word, for blizzard. Pink blobs on the weather map warned of heavy snow for D.C., Baltimore and Philadelphia. Oddly, there was a bright orange blob, something reminiscent of Sigourney Weaver’s Alien over Southern Delaware and New Jersey – preparing us to bear the brunt of the storm. Who are they kidding? We never get as much as they predict.

  Friday late afternoon saw flurries, as brave souls made it along the messy roads to local watering holes for what might have been a last taste of restaurant food and bartender-fixed adult beverages. While we downed Cosmos, the flurries turned furious. Then came the Governor’s announcement of a statewide snow emergency with non-essential travel prohibited. I tried to determine if getting to Happy Hour had been essential. Yes.

  It may well have been a state of emergency for folks who had neglected to get to the grocery, which, from the look of the ravaged shelves were damn few. It looked like a bomb had gone off in the toilet paper aisle.

  So we were home by 9 p.m. on Friday, hunkered down with the pups and ready to sneer at forecasters for blowing things out of proportion once again.

  Okay, it was big. We awoke Saturday to almost a foot of snow, backyard barbecue and patio furniture buried in dunes, white stuff still falling but with hopes it was tapering off.

  Okay, it got bigger. Mea Culpa to the forecasters. Tree tops glistened and children listened to the entire neighborhood of shovelers grunting. As the dogs and I watched our Alpha clear the front walk, the path behind her filled up a fast as she shoveled. After only 15 minutes I was mate to the abominable snowman. Pretty soon the Yeti gave up and came inside.

  The only thing happening faster than the snow was our consumption of empty calories. Why does being snowbound trigger our inner oinkers? The four of us huddled on the sofa, carbohydrate loading (dog biscuits are carbs, too) and ogling L Word reruns.

  In fairness, I balanced my pathetic gulping with my new health food regimen: red wine and dark chocolate. They have been declared good for you. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

  By mid-day Saturday, hoping the snow was tapering off and thinking it might be safe to go back in the water…ing hole, the reverse happened. We got another dump, with major drifting from increased winds. Not only could we lose a Schnauzer in the drifts, but I was concerned about the BMW. Whiteout conditions ensued and we couldn’t see two feet in front of our faces, much less where eight paws might search in vain for a spot of grass in the drift-contoured back yard.

  When we opened the sunroom’s sliding glass door to toss the two unsuspecting Schnauzers into the snow, concerns for their health, not to mention our carpets, were assuaged when we spied small areas of yellow snow. Good boys. Unfortunately, drifting snow blew into the door track, and unbeknownst to us kept the door from closing all the way. Next time we looked we had a bunny slope in the sunroom.

  By late afternoon lights and cable flickered, frightening us into locating our K-Mart wind-up radio. Losing internet, TV, phone and lights, channeling Mary Todd Lincoln for Super Bowl weekend, was not my idea of a gay old time.

  Fortunately or unfortunately the lights held, so we could see just how much popcorn and pizza we ate. Somebody stop me! That the cable survived was good too, because it was fun watching our local TV personalities, frostbit and turning into frozen margaritas, reporting live from the scene.

  Come a sunny Sunday morning, the full extent of the mess revealed itself. Entire communities stood stranded by unplowed streets. The only action outside my house was the occasional groan from hikers struggling toward the re-opening grocery stores. Cigarettes ? Booze? Both? I wondered how long I’d last before setting out once we downed the last of the Chubby Hubby ice cream.

  Some hardy and fool-hardy people started digging themselves out of the two-foot deluge. My mate and I took turns trying to free up one car and a path for it to back into the street. With both of us being middle aged (pr
ovided we live until 120) we were acutely aware of being cautious. One of us would do a 15-minute stint with our only snow shovel while the other would nag “bend your knees, don’t lift too much at once, stop if you get winded,” then we’d switch places and continue the nag-a-thon.

  At one point an ambulance slogged up the road. We never saw it come back, since we instantly abandoned shoveling, thoughts of heart attacks and strokes dancing in our heads. After a few minutes inside with a Law & Order marathon and doctored hot chocolate, we determined we were not in acute medical danger but gave up shoveling anyway. If our street got plowed, Mt. Kilimanjaro would just get shoved onto our newly cleared driveway. So like Scarlet says in Gone with the Wind, “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

  And speaking of another day, by 1 p.m. Sunday the school board called off classes for both Monday and Tuesday. Some restaurants announced they would still fry chicken wings and serve beverages for the Super Bowl, but others threw in the towel and stayed dark. A quick check revealed it was the LGBT places keeping the lights on. We are a hardy lot.

  With cameras snapping snowy sights, and kitchens all over the coast preparing football food, a blizzard covered Sussex County took it in stride. While some folks dug out, others dug in for the big game. It sure looked toasty in Miami and New Orleans.

  By Monday afternoon, after the Saints had come marching in to the goalposts, some neighborhoods were still cut off from civilization. Front end loaders had created mountains of dirty white ice and snow in medians, parking lots and throughout downtown Rehoboth. At traffic lights, most right turn lanes were blocked by great walls of snow, making turning an extreme sport. According to that Pennsylvania rodent Punxsutawney Phil, spring thaw is still six weeks away and from the look of things, the snow piles could last until June Pride Week.

  On Tuesday morning it was starting to seem like the classic film Groundhog Day, with everything repeating itself. The weather forecast called for Snowmeggedon part two. Just a mere 8-10 inches this time. Mere.

  Damn those necessities! We had plenty of toilet paper and milk, but dog food and mac ‘n cheese were running low. My spouse, eager to play with her four-wheel drive vehicle, fought her way out onto the unplowed street, pioneering a path to the store. Yee-Ha!

  Like a triumphant Lewis & Clark, we returned in time to hear the superintendant close school for the rest of the week. At this point Bonnie will be working until July 4th.

  They say our climate change problems can cause violent weather shifts along with the disturbing rise in global temperatures. A little of that global warming would feel pretty good right about now. It might stop me from making the Rice Crispy treats…naaah…. Oh the weather outside is frightful but the snacks are so delightful, let it snow,, let it snow, let it…somebody stop me before I eat again….

  March 2010

  ARE Wii OR ARE Wii NOT FIT?

  Sally Field can drink Boniva to strengthen her bones but I’m drinking beer.

  It’s been a weird winter alright, and just one of the strange things to come out of it was a University of California study revealing that beer is a rich source of something called silicon (as opposed to silicone for the boobs) which increases bone density and helps prevent osteoporosis. Hand me a Yuengling.

  So I’m guzzling my health drink and marveling at the creative ways we managed to survive this terrible, terrible winter. Not that the Snowpocalypse didn’t take its toll. Around Rehoboth, we were house bound so many days even the dogs got sick of lying on the sofa. They say killer whales get stir crazy in captivity, but they have nothing on me. The snow was as high as an elephant’s eye, yet I was willing to risk a triple lutz in the street to get to Cloud 9 for a martini; I was eager to chance the driveway luge track to fight for my right to toilet paper at Food Lion; my god, I was even anxious to scoop pup poop in the back yard, only it was covered by 28 inches of snow.

  “It’s 14 degrees out. You’re staying put,” said my spouse. “Let’s do Wii Fit training.”

  I don’t know if you are aware of this sadistic gym video or not, but you turn on the TV, put the disk into the machine and stand on a wireless plastic platform to get weighed. Within seconds a snarky cartoon character tells you your weight and body mass index. Like I wanted to know. What’s worse, the little animation then says, out loud, in a judgmental voice, “You’re obese.”

  What do you say to that? Stunned, I muttered “Gee, thanks. Are you aware I’ve already lost 25 pounds since summer?” Apparently not. According to Wii Fit, we (the Royal We) are not fit.

  Furthermore, after a couple of balance and aerobic tests the blasted cartoon informs me that my fit age is 65, which would be fine if I was 85. It would also be fine if I could get Medicare. But noooo, there is no justice. Having a computer-generated nudnick tell you your body is four years older than your actual age is highly mortifying. Not only am I stir crazy like Orca, I weigh just as much.

  Not to be deterred by humiliation, I spent much of my house time trying to get my numbers down. Among others, I tried a Wii game where you run up and down in place, propelling a cartoon bicycle around a cartoon bike route. Much like my real pedaling prowess, I ran into walls and fell off a lot, but the virtual version hurts less.

  I also tried games where I hit soccer balls with my head and did aerobics with a class full of cartoon competitors, none of whom were panting and gasping for air like I was. Wii are not fit, indeed.

  However, I’m happy to report that by last week, my numbers were actually coming down, along with my cartoon age. I’m now just a baby whale. Actually, I’ve come to respect the Wii Fit and for the first time in my entire life I am exercising. Amazing what a little animated peer pressure can do.

  Also, barometric pressure. As the weather got worse, temperatures teetering between 20 and 37 degrees, we all got to stay home and watch the Olympics. It’s a shame we couldn’t sell snow to Vancouver where they needed it. Meanwhile, what’s the deal with curling? It’s like a combination of shuffled board and housework, where you fling the granite stone and use the mop and glo to sweep it down court. I could never work up much excitement about the game but it did make me snicker.

  I loved watching the ski jump events. The majesty of a young athlete soaring through the air was exhilarating. As luck would have it, there’s a ski jump balance exercise on my Wii Fit too. I’d crouch on the platform in front of the TV, watch the cartoon skier coming down the chute and then quickly straighten my knees (crackle) when I thought I should jump. Wheeeeee!

  Most times the cartoon Fay could be seen rolling ass over tea kettle in the snow, but every once in a while I jumped just right and flew like a champ. When I finished, the Wii totaled my score and announced I was “unbalanced.” I’ve heard that before.

  When it was passable outside but still not a great idea to go driving hither and yon, we spent several evenings hosting friends or going to friends’ homes. In the old days it was Studio 54 or any number of dance clubs; now it’s Wii bowling in somebody’s living room. Simultaneously, the Tea Baggers and Conservative PAC people were out on the West Coast boozing it up and consorting with call girls while the gay people were all sitting around playing Wii – what’s wrong with this picture????

  I do have to ask if there’s a correlation between Wii bowling and the crush of people having rotator cuff surgery. Just sayin’.

  One night it was hilarious. After dining on a 2300 calorie dinner, we tried the Wii’s virtual hula hoops to work off 11 calories each. Amid shouts of “Align your pelvis, baby!” and “Work it! Work it! Work it!” the soundtrack recalled days on the disco dance floor. Back then we’d hit the diner for a nightcap. Now we’re lucky it’s not drinking contrast dye before an MRI at the hospital.

  Along with the closing ceremonies for the Olympics, I know we are all anxious to see the closing ceremonies from this disgustingly cold and blizzard-filled winter. Even our pals who escaped to Florida were rewarded with cold feet. It was warmer in Canada. Let’s face it, Spring Fever could be a pand
emic this year.

  Okay, winter, go on now, go walk out the door, just turn around now, ’cause you’re not welcome anymore, I will survive. Hey, Hey.

  As a matter of fact, let’s chill the brew to fight bone loss and get out the summer clothes. They are going to look great, because after all, Wii Fit!

  April 2010

  HOME IMPROVEMENT PORN

  Home Improvement shows are like pornography. Watching them makes you do things you shouldn’t do. Like tiling the bathroom floor.

  “How difficult is this project?” I asked my handy spouse as we watched DIY porn on Saturday morning.

  “It’s easy.”

  After 28 years you’d think I’d know better. I’m surprised nobody showed up to try and sell me the Brooklyn Bridge. Frankly, it would have cost less.

  Since we already had the floor tiles, all we needed was concrete board to go under the tile. And grout, a trowel, a grout sponge, adhesive, concrete board screws, and an appointment to have my head examined.

  They call it concrete board because it emits concrete dust that sticks to your clothing like powdered sugar. It’s also called concrete board because two old dykes cannot lift a sheet of it into the car by themselves without developing sciatica.

  Meanwhile back at the ranch house, Bonnie wanted to avoid crawling under the house to shut off the water. So she convinced me we’d just cut out the back of the under-sink cabinet to remove it without fooling with the water supply. Well, sawing a hole in the cabinet made a filthy mess but we got it out of the bathroom without incident. Sadly, it turned out that the turnoff valve on the toilet was broken, so removing the porcelain horse would have caused a geyser. See Bonnie run. See Bonnie slither under the house to turn the water off.

  I married for better or worse, but not for carting a toilet through the house. It poured more liquid on my floor than visiting dogs. If I wanted to wash my hands I had to use ice cubes. See the consequences of watching porn?