For Frying Out Loud Page 18
Next came removal of the backsplash from the sink, half of which was the leaning tower of formica, having become unglued over a decade ago. I became unglued when the remaining section, which must have been fastened with Gorilla Glue, was removed, taking a chunk of wall board with it. Great, now we have to repaint the room. It’s amazing how the destruction phase of these projects goes awry so fast.
Back to Lowes for the part to fix the toilet cut-off so we can turn the water on again. By 3 p.m. we had the water fixed and one sheet of concrete board on the bathroom floor. By 4 p.m. we had screwed it in place. By 5 p.m. we had cocktails and called it a day.
DAY TWO OF THE ONE-DAY PROJECT
Broke several drill bits on the concrete board. Back to Lowes. Second board screwed into place. Fay and Bonnie screwed because we are out of time. Must put project on hold for two days. The sink and toilet are in the hall, we have to clean up our master bathroom in case guests have to pee. The house is a construction site.
DAY FIVE OF THE ONE-DAY PROJECT
Little details like Bonnie’s employment supersede construction. Back to work on the floor now. After painstakingly trimming one tile to fit around where the toilet would be if it wasn’t in the hall, we determine that everything is easy with the right tools – and we don’t have them. We rent a tile cutter and race home, playing beat the clock to cut all the tiles before nightfall when the rented machine turns into a pumpkin or costs us another $44. We make it. Huzzah!
DAY SIX OF THE ONE-DAY PROJECT
Great. A narrow slice of concrete board is sticking out past the tile, infringing on the space for the door sill. Gotta trim that concrete board. Did I mention concrete dust?
Bonnie took a jigsaw to the offending concrete board and blew a cloud of thick white fog up to the ceiling and back down into every crevice and onto every surface in the whole house. We’ve got concrete dust in the dog food bowls, on the bedspreads, in the computer keyboards. We could scribble %&*% DIY in concrete dust on the tabletops. Auuggghhh!!!! Now we need a cleaning service.
Off to buy a sill to fit between bathroom and hall. Got a cheap metal one and it looked like crap next to the tiles. Back to Lowes yet again, where we lost our marbles and bought a black marble sill. That sucking sound was the ATM.
DAY SEVEN OF THE ONE-DAY PROJECT
Bonnie mixed the adhesive and began meticulously setting tiles in place. With each subsequent tile the glue got thicker and thicker, setting up faster than she could possibly set tiles. Pretty soon she’s tiling like the sorcerer’s apprentice and cursing like a sailor trying to finish before her putty knife turns to the sword in the stone. She didn’t make it. Out of usable glue, out of time. Toss bucket and embedded putty knife in trash.
TIME OUT
Here, the story detours. Project on hold for a quick trip out of town. Arrived back on Sunday night and by Monday morning both of us are struck down with world-class food poisoning. Beebe Hospital visit required. I will spare you the details but remind you that one of our two toilets was sitting useless in the hall. Timing is everything. In so many ways.
DAY SEVENTEEN OF THE ONE DAY PROJECT
We’re grouting now, with a brand new putty knife. Decided it was silly to put back the old cabinet with the holes in the back for the water pipes so we bought a new, decorative cabinet with new hardware. While we’re at it (it’s the while-your-at-its that will kill you) we’re looking at a new granite countertop and decorative sink because we have to hide the wall gouges where the old formica ripped off.
Ripped off, did we say? The new cabinet is in place but the drawers won’t open because we got a lefty not a righty and upon opening the drawers they hit the door jam. Can’t move the cabinet the offending one measly inch because water pipes won’t move. Call the plumber to move the pipes, begging him to hurry because company is coming in three days. Exercise the credit card.
DAY NINETEEN OF THE MANHATTAN PROJECT
Buy paint and new baseboards. Close the bathroom door to keep the dogs from exploring unfinished baseboard areas. Wait! The door won’t close. Tiles are too high. To sand the door down we have to take it off its hinges.
Fay becomes unhinged. See Bonnie and Fay schlepping the toilet and sink back into the bathroom. See an expensive cleaning crew come get concrete dust off every tchotchke in the house.
Fay and Bonnie are now in rehab for their addiction to Do-It-Yourself projects. HGTV is porn. Pure and simple. I’m swearing off. Or am I just swearing?
May 2010
THANKS FOR THE MAMMARIES PRE-QUAKE SUNDAY
Boobquake. Did you hear about it? At first I thought it referred to the massive tsunami of GOP blather against Obama’s latest legislation. But no, it meant actual boobs, as in mammaries. And it happened on Monday, April 26.
On the preceding day I was enjoying brunch with a gaggle of friends when somebody mentioned the upcoming Boobquake. Apparently I’d been under a rock and had so far missed the whole boob-ha-ha.
I grabbed my Blackberry and surfed. Sure enough, a Boobquake Facebook page told of a worldwide protest against an Iranian cleric’s suggestion that immodestly dressed women cause earthquakes. He blames the women for causing lascivious thoughts from men, resulting in fornication and adultery, which, in turn, cause earthquakes.
Puleeeze. Joining the brain trust of Pat Robertson (lesbians caused Hurricane Katrina) and Fred Phelps (God hates Fags) we have Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi causing a Boobquake. Wow, his first name is a mouthful, and everyone knows that more than a mouthful is wasted, but I digress.
Sedighi, Teheran’s Friday prayer leader, pissed off Purdue college student Jen McCreight, who put a Facebook page together urging women worldwide to satirize the cleric on the following Monday by revealing a little cleavage – or ankle, for the modest.
“Sedighi claims that not dressing modestly causes earthquakes,” said McCreight, “If so, we should be able to test this claim scientifically. Time for a Boobquake.” So she told her Facebook friends that on Monday, April 26th, she would wear her most cleavage-showing shirt and they should too, in order to have some fun with the hateful cleric.
Hmmmm. A scientific call to arms, or breasts as the case may be. Okay, I was locked and loaded. Frankly, I’m afraid we were all a little loaded at brunch, having Mimosa’d our way through this perky conversation, some of us amply prepared for a seismic wave of breast activism and others fretting about lack of ammunition to get the job done. “Who gives a hooter?” we all agreed. We’re in!
Richter Scales and bra sizes aside, the planned boobquake caught my imagination. And I was not alone. Twenty-four hours after it was first announced, 40,000 Facebook people (or 80,000 juggies, give or take) in dozens of countries had signed on for this most civil disobedience; a major magnitude of tectonic titties.
It made the papers, too. I loved the headlines “Vancouver protesters plan to shake beliefs with Boobquake,” “Cleric vs. Cleavage,” or NBC’s “Boobquake lifts and separates political opinion.” The punny headlines went wild. By Sunday at 3 p.m. New York magazine reported that 120,000 women signed on to show cleavage, dress less modestly, and otherwise give the raspberries to the Imam.
Oh, the aftershocks! I tweeted and Facebooked my participation, and heard “Keep us abreast,” Do man boobs count?” (um…not sure) and my favorite “you work at home, so just the schnauzers will see your cleavage!”
No, I intended to hang out, if you’ll excuse the expression at Walmart and the liquor store, too, busting out all over town. A gal’s gotta do what a gal’s gotta do to combat these idiotic religious wing nuts trying to blame natural disasters on their idea of unnatural behavior. Did they blame the Icelandic volcano on their plumbers bending over under the sink??? I didn’t think so. No, this is just your every day fundamentalist cleric misogyny.
MONDAY, A REAL BOOBQUAKE
Got up early to discover hundreds of thousands of women worldwide set to expose their breasts in varying degrees. Jen McCreight was online reminding everyone that this is no
t about baring all, but baring whatever you feel comfy baring. She will be in a tank top. I donned my CAMP Rehoboth sweat shirt and made sure the zipper was down dangerously low over my bare skin.
Will this seismic boobie wave make the earth move under my feet? Wait a minute. In my world, attractive sights like this can make the earth move. Well, I guess if the earth moves for you in a good way, that’s fine. Death and destruction as described by the Imam, not so much.
Oh no! By 8 a.m. FOX Noise reported an earthquake in Taiwan! Could the politically incorrect Imam be seismically correct? Luckily, Boobquake founder McCreight had previously posted “I know many earthquakes happen on a daily basis, so we’re looking to see if Boobquake significantly increases the number or magnitude of earthquakes.” NBC reported that once the Boobquake is over, McCreight will be researching earthquake statistics to see if there actually was an uptick in seismic activity.
Well, here it is 4 p.m. on Monday and our planet has not yet been destroyed by this wanton display of womanity. And so far there has been little fallout seismic-wise. I’ve had no word on any other kind of fall-out, but needless to say, with a globe full of gals in low cut garments, flaunting their assets, somebody somewhere must have had a wardrobe malfunction. Hey, if a breast falls out in the forest and the Imam isn’t there to see it, is he still stupid?
All I know is that on my drive-by at the bank, my promenade through Walmart’s check-out line or my wicked sashay around the car to pump some gas, no fault lines erupted and Rehoboth didn’t quake into the ocean. Thanks to the cold and damp weather, the only scientific data I can quantify is one pair of boobs making its, er, point to the silly, delusional Imam.
Enough. How long are we going to have to put up with hate-filled boobs like these?
May 2010
A ROLLING HOME GATHERS NO MOSS…
Okay, I lied. In a winter Letters post I vowed never again to travel from Florida to Reho on Route I-95 any other way than by wide-bodied jet–my days of making the hideous drive were over.
Woman plans and God laughs hysterically. Bonnie and I drove that same ugly highway again in March, on the maiden voyage of our craziest idea yet.
Following our customary pattern of upending our entire lives every decade or so, we’ve done it again. In the ‘80s we bought a boat (a hole in the water into which you throw money); in the ‘90s we moved the vessel to Rehoboth Bay (Ruddertown steel drums at 1 a.m. UGH!); at the dawn of the Millennium we moved ourselves full-time to Rehoboth (okay, so who needs a decent paying job anyway?); and now we’re on the move and downwardly mobile once again.
Of course, we would never leave Gayberry RFD permanently – it will always be base CAMP – but open road here we come. Rather than being the sisterhood of the traveling pants we are now the sisterhood of the traveling house – a 27-foot land yacht. Ever financially imprudent, we’ve bought a great big depreciating asset.
RV? Camping? Really? If this seems oxymoronic for this writer, if not plain moronic, let me explain the difference between camping and RVing. It’s the same as the difference between camping and boating. While a certain amount of gear schlepping and bug spray is still involved, the chief difference is that boat or RV, there is carpet between your bed and your toilet. Civility.
We knew we’d take to RV life instantly. Good thing, too, because due to circumstances beyond our control we had only 45 minutes of flight instruction before leaving Tampa for the journey home in the Hindenburg. Gentlewomen, rev your engines.
Naturally I was assigned shotgun, while Thelma took the wheel, guiding our wide load (and its wide loads) down the highway.
“Do you feel like bus driver Ralph Kramden?” I asked.
“A little,” she said.
“Well, luckily you don’t look like him, although your plan to stop at Waffle House later might change that.”
“One of these days, Alice, right in the kisser.”
I gotta hand it to Bonnie. She was fearless. We considered ourselves lucky we didn’t take out mailboxes and parked cars on both sides of the street as our blimp lumbered towards I-95. But within minutes my spouse had expertly judged the Titanic’s midsection, checked out the giant funhouse mirrors flanking the bus and learned to love the back-up camera.
We set out at 8:30 a.m. and by noon, when we pulled into the Waffle House parking lot, Bonnie was driving the thing like it was a Mini-Cooper.
By nightfall we stayed in our first KOA Kampground, although we did learn that RVs can stay overnight for free in Walmart parking lots (really!). We also conquered our virgin fumblings with plug-in electric, leveling the rig and battery management – all without threat of divorce.
The good news is that unlike the boat, our new lodging has a queen size walk-around bed in the back – a far cry from the boat’s aft cabin bunks where, to get into bed, we had to crawl on our bellies. Today, more than a decade later, that would not be pretty, if even possible.
“Is it like the RV in Meet the Fockers?” asked a friend. No, our new house on wheels is not an ostentatious, over-the-top ridiculous rig like Barbra Streisand and Dustin Hoffman drove, but it suits these fockers well. And it does have a satellite TV antenna. Priorities.
Come morning we took off again and learned a lesson. Like a boat, it is prudent to secure all contents when underway. Braking for a red light sent a 2-lb bag of M&M Peanuts rolling everywhere like little chocolate marbles (former owners, forgive us; we cleaned up every speck!). From now on we batten the hatches.
Well, we made it back to Rehoboth swiftly and without incident, M&M avalanche notwithstanding. Our return did require a quick stop at Cape Henlopen campground for a sewer hook-up. No, we did not suffer Chevy Chase’s disgusting fate in his vacation movie, although Bonnie exacted her revenge for my Ralph Kramden comment. She enlisted me to stand with my foot holding down the hose while we emptied our tank. Once I was firmly in place she ran, laughing, 50 yards away from the stench. Next time I’ll get you, my little pretty.
Soon after, we took a second shake-down trip, this time to Chincoteague, VA. We did not swim with the horses, but hung with the Schnauzers, overlooking the water and lighthouse, enjoying the tranquility of our first weekend at a campsite.
Actually we spent most of our time traipsing back and forth between the campsite and ACE Hardware, a mile down the road, hunting things we didn’t know we needed until we needed them. By Sunday night we were exhausted but well-equipped.
Now, as we plan our first big trip – a three week Canadian adventure mid-July, we both lust after any excuse to use the rig again before then. Short of overnighting at the Old Landing Road Walmart, we are considering a night down at Indian River, supervising the new bridge construction.
Bonnie did go for a drive in the RV recently when she brought the dogs to our Maryland vet for teeth cleaning. She delivered the dental patients in her own personal waiting room complete with her personal selection of magazines and snacks. Of course, between the fuel bill and the dental bill, we’re in the poor house, but at least it’s got a queen size bed and plush carpet.
Now that we’ve entered the world of RV accessories like load levelers, ez hitches and a variety of clamps, coils and hoses (a hole in the highway into which you pour money?) we should have our heads examined. Wave if you see us on the road. I haven’t decided which name to stencil on the back: Fay’s Folly or Bonnie’s Boondoggle. It remains to be seen. Hum it with me, “Trailer for sale or rent, queens of the road….”
May 2010
GET YOUR SUMMER READ ON!
In the amazing world of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender publishing, with many of our niche books going mainstream and having a straight as well as gay following, our corner of the publishing world seems to be thriving where others are not. And the Lambda Literary Society, a non-profit set up to nurture and promote gay writing and its writers is leading the way.
So it was a grand night in New York City at the Lambda Literary Awards May 28, as a super-supportive audience of writers, publisher
s, editors, agents, readers and many other friends of LGBT writing cheered, applauded and occasionally felt moved to standing ovations.
Lesbian comic, social commentator and author Kate Clinton was awarded the Lambda Literary Pioneer Award for her long-time body of hilarious, but more importantly, activist work – her speech was hilarious as well, calling herself and her gal pal the last unmarried, childless, petless lesbians in the world.
My favorite moments included JM Redmann winning the lesbian mystery category with her new novel Death of a Dying Man, bringing back the wonderful PI Mickey Knight for another adventure. In her speech, she noted the marvelous glut of books for and by LGBT writers – “There are so many books they can’t possibly burn them all.” The audience cheered.
The lesbian romance category was won by Colette Moody and her wildly imaginative novel The Sublime and Spirited Voyage of the Original Sin. Fast-paced, funny, sexy and simply deliciously written, it’s a must-read. But no more so than all five finalists in the category – Worth Every Step by KG MacGregor, a romantic adventure that combines climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro and one of the most honestly written coming out struggles ever; It Should Be a Crime by Carsen Taite – campus and courtroom romance and a bit of mystery, wrapped in a hot love story; Stepping Stones by Karin Kallmaker, giving readers a birds eye view from the Hollywood sign to a sexy romp of a studio romance. Rounding out the category is No Rules of Engagement by Tracey Richardson – a very topical and expertly written romance with a military setting and terrifically drawn characters. Read ’em all!
Full disclosure here: I was asked to be a judge for the Romance category, and what a pleasure it was. I hunkered down for the unusually snowy Rehoboth winter and read dozens of books. Some were just okay, lots were entertaining and fun, and the cream easily rose to the top. It was a grand experience. I have to give an extra nod to two books that I also loved in that category: Fireside by Cate Culpepper (wonderful story and excellently drawn characters) and Erosistible by Gill McNight – just plain fun!