For Frying Out Loud (26 page)

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, publishers, 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!

It was great to hear from Lambda Board President Katherine Forrest,
Boys in the Band
author Mart Crowley winning his first award ever (‘bout time!) and comments from so many others in the industry. Not only was it a grand night in the Big Apple, but the Lammys proved once again, that LGBT writers and publishers (Go Bella and Bold Strokes and Bywater and more!) are prolific, determined and hardworking in the face of a changing publishing industry.

Get your summer read on!

May 2010

MY NAME IS FAY J AND I AM A CARBOHOLIC

After a fabulous weekend in New Orleans back in May I went into detox to dry out. And I'm not talking about alcohol, although I probably had more to drink those four days than was prudent. No, I'm talking about carbohydrates. For me, it's not the demon rum, it's the demon bun.

While my pals headed to the airport wondering if the three ounces of last-minute liquid they consumed in the cab would be allowed through security in their carry-on stomachs, I was climbing back on the wagon from a binge of another sort altogether. I'd had an endless excess of beignets, fried seafood, indulgent desserts and yes, the astonishing sugar content of the bottomless Hurricane cocktails I slurped. I was using again.

But bad as my Crescent City bender was, I'm lucky. Thanks to a fairly recent revelation, I can admit to my addiction. My name is Fay Jacobs and I'm a carboholic. And while I have been called a humorist a time or two, this is not really meant to be funny. Sure, I see humor in the situation, but really, this is pretty serious stuff.

Years ago, I wrote in this column about my battle of the bulge. “I've tried every diet ever invented and they all work. Scarsdale, Weight Watchers, the cantaloupe diet, you name it. I can lose lots of weight on all of them. Unfortunately, I don't, because I invariably fall off the wagon and onto the buffet table.

The only real success I ever had was during the Phen-Fen diet pill craze. In three months I shed thirty five pounds, and a lifetime of guilt. It was terrific. But next thing I knew, doctors started shrieking that our heart valves were becoming applesauce and wham, the government confiscated my Phen-Fen. Luckily, the only permanent medical damage I suffered was blowing back up into a women's world shopper.”

Honestly, I thought I was hopeless. Years ago, one sadistic doctor reported his diagnosis. “You have an overactive fork.” Hilarious bastard. But you know, it may have been true. And I worried about my health. Not to mention my health insurance rates. My body mass index was higher than my credit score.

Then, last summer, somebody suggested I might actually be addicted to carbs. I don't mean overly fond of, I mean addicted. Physically, medically, Betty Ford-addicted. I had a habit. Compulsive is not too strong a term.

As I pondered the possibility of real dependence, I attempted to cut most carbs – bread, potatoes and fried foods, from my current diet, if you could call that kind of gluttony a diet. And I went cold turkey. Literally, because cold turkey was one of the few things I could still eat. And it was difficult, bordering on painful, confining myself to salads, meats, fish and veggies, surrounded, as we are, by buckets of beach fries and funnel cakes.

The first few days were a bitch and so was I. Grumpy R Us. It was really, really hard. I struggled. But as the days and weeks went by, honestly, it got easier. The further I got from pizza and pasta, the more appealing healthy eating became. If somebody told me a year ago I would ever happily pass up a club sandwich for a Caesar salad I would have called them delusional.

But here's the real revelation. Over the past year, when I did relapse or treat myself to something verboten, I
immediately
wanted more of it, like some ravenous animal. Had a slice, craved a sandwich; ate the sandwich, wanted spaghetti. Really, really wanted it. I felt myself losing control, craving a dopamine high from French Toast or French Dips. This addiction hypothesis was quickly becoming established fact.

So fast forward. After a little less than twelve months avoiding excess carbs I have lost 32 pounds. My spouse and friends have provided peer support and been champs for noticing my success and encouraging me. “I can see the weight loss in your face,” they all said. That's because all 32 pounds came off my jowls. It will take another two years to
come off my thighs. But it's progress.

And I seem to be keeping the weight off. I'm writing this, not to congratulate myself, but to share what I consider to be this bizarre secret about carb addiction. Maybe some of our readers are addicted, too. And of course, in my feeble attempts at addiction metaphors, I mean no disrespect to my readers battling more traditionally discussed addictions of their own.

I'm also very lucky that this particular addiction only makes me burp and reach for the menu, rather than buying illegal substances or behaving badly towards people I love. But believe me, there are scary parallels.

So I'm in detox and on the wagon. I'm committed to getting the carbs out of my system again. And I'm sharing this with you at risk of having everybody watch what I eat from now on. Jeepers, I'm the restaurant writer for this magazine, for pity's sake. Well, I'll just have to taste only a bite or two from now on and hope I can stay clean.

May the proof be in the sugar-free pudding.