Time Fries! (11 page)

October 2011

I
T
S
TARTED WITH A
S
PECIAL
K
IND OF
D
ISCOUNT

As I sat at Womencrafts Bookstore in Provincetown during October Women's Week, signing books and chatting with the proprietors, I learned it was the 35th anniversary of the store. WOW. Time flies when you're having fun out of the closet.

Women poured into the shop to meet authors Georgia Beers, Marianne Martin, and Sally Bellerose—and I was honored to be sitting among them, signing books. As women went to the cash registers to pay for their books, we heard Karen, from her perch across the counter, totaling the purchases.

“Thanks, that will be $36,” she told one woman, “but I'll give you the lesbian discount.”

Lesbian discount. Instantly, it was more than 30 years ago and my first visit to Womencrafts.

I was an emotional train wreck that summer, newly divorced and perpetually confused. My former college roommate, straight as an arrow, invited me to spend a week in Hyannis on Cape Cod with her family. She knew I was happy to be out of the suffocating marriage but also knew I had no idea what to do next.

Always more perceptive and brave than I was, Lesley decided to take me to Provincetown for a day. We had lunch atop Pepe's, overlooking the bay, walked along Commercial Street and people watched. I saw sights that simultaneously intrigued and panicked me. I said not a word.

A happy-looking young woman pedaled by, her T-shirt proclaiming, “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.” Really?

Then came a tall, muscular gal with a big button on her man-tailored shirt saying, “I'm the woman your mother warned you about.” Shit. I was quieter still.

All ages, shapes and styles of women walked past, two by two, and many, hand in hand. We passed The Boatslip bar,
where the boys were dancing to “Enough is Enough.” Strains of “Hot Stuff” by Donna Summer and “Reunited” by Peaches & Herb filtered into the street.

When we got to Womencrafts, I went up the brick steps and inside while Lesley went down the steps to see about ear piercing. I poked around a bit in the shop, half-looking at, but not really absorbing the book titles. I decided to buy a ceramic tile with the image of Provincetown's Pilgrim Monument on it.

The friendly woman behind the counter wrapped up the tile, took my money and returned my change as she said, “And I gave you the lesbian discount.”

Excuse me??? I could not get out of the store fast enough. Sweat welled on my forehead and my knees went to jelly. I practically ran down the steps to the street, where Lesley was already standing. I must have looked like a zombie.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You don't look okay.”

“Well,” I said, guiding Lesley by the elbow into an adjacent alleyway. “In the store,” I said, hushed, mumbling and pointing, “um…they gave me a…,” getting quieter still, “lesbian discount,” I whispered.

God bless Lesley for keeping a poker face and acting as if I'd said, “They gave me a ten percent discount.”

She paused a minute, looked me in the eye and said, a hint of a smile forming, “You might want to think about that.”

I stared at her, then past her, to a women with short, short hair and silver earrings all up and down her ears. Beyond her, two skinny men kissed on the street.

“You took me here on purpose, didn't you?”

“I did.”

“Well, now you have to buy me a big drink on purpose.”

Which she did. And as we sat at an outdoor café along the busy, funky, noisy street, with straight couples pushing baby strollers, outlandishly dressed drag queens, handsome gay men, and to my mind, even more handsome lesbians
flooding by, we had the conversation that started to change my life.

To a subliminal soundtrack of Sister Sledge and “We are Fam-i-ly,” we talked and talked. No, it was not the first time I'd thought about my attraction to women or wondered when I'd have the guts to do something about it. But it was the first time I'd said any of it out loud, either to myself or to another person.

Four hours later, as we left the tip of Cape Cod, with its artists, tea dances and lesbian discounts, for the very first time in years I knew exactly what direction I was going. And of course, since then, it's been quite a ride.

Lesley's gone now. The unspeakably cruel Huntington's Disease took her some years ago. But not before I'd settled down with Bonnie and we got to spend lots of cherished time and many adventures together. And I will always credit Lesley with the insight to give me that great big shove I needed.

I've had some amazing experiences in P-Town over the years, vacationing, visiting with friends, and since 2004, doing readings, book signings, and meeting and greeting readers and other writers. Women's Week there has a mini-literary festival component and I've been having a blast.

And Womencrafts is still there, alive at 35, still giving those wonderful lesbian discounts. I'm so lucky to have been the recipient of one in 1979, along with the gift of Lesley's friendship, setting me on my way toward my career as an activist and writer. Happy Birthday dear Womencrafts, happy birthday to you.

November 2011

I
T
T
AKES
W
ORK TO
R
ELAX

“You need to relax,” my spouse warned after finding me pole vaulting over the furniture, screaming about politics, the price of gas and other indignities. “Maybe you need a massage.”

Maybe, but I confess I'm intimidated by the world of massage therapists and their hot stones and new age music. Let's face it. Nobody's surprised I have trouble relaxing. Between my brain and my mouth going a mile a minute, I can't see myself as a candidate for massage, yoga, or any other calming pursuits. And I've tried. Lordy, I've tried.

Years ago we went so far as to install a double Jacuzzi tub at our house, hopeful for long, candle-lit baths, time spent sipping wine and winding down.

On our first plunge, we hopped in just as the hot water ran out, leaving us in 8 inches of tepid liquid. Our hot water heater was not up to the task. Eager to get to the candles and wine, we grabbed a spaghetti pot, filled it with water, set it boiling on the stove, then dumped the brew into the tub. There hasn't been so much running with pots of boiling water since Butterfly McQueen began birthing babies in
Gone With The Wind
. Not, relaxing.

So next, I tried yoga. My instructor is still laughing. I think she's laughing.

Skeptical and scared of displaying physical and mental inflexibility, I went to a Gentle Yoga class—which is a polite way of saying it's for the elasticity challenged. If I ever did manage to get my feet and wrists on the floor simultaneously, butt toward Mecca, the only thing to get me vertical again would be the winch on a tow truck. Or, they could just bronze me for a lawn ornament.

But I have to say, yoga is awfully non-judgmental. Nothing is a problem. If you can't stretch to a specific position, they give you a dowel in your hand to bridge the gap. Can't reach
around your own thunder thighs to pull your knees to your chest? There's a canvas belt to help. I appreciated the assist, but I looked like a piece of furniture cinched into a Bekins Van. With all our innocent apparatus lying about, we also resembled S&M cultists.

You know, it is possible to relax too much. Under the heading of “that's okay, it's supposed to happen,” certain yoga positions can cause flatulence. Everybody in our class, at one time or another, produced an audible emission. I don't think that praying you'll get through the hour without breaking wind is the kind of meditation we're encouraged to practice.

From yoga I moved on to mineral baths. My first experience was in New Mexico where it was 114 degrees. You could fry a frittata on the bench in front of the hotel. I got third degree burns of my frittata. But there was a famous mineral spring nearby we were counseled not to miss.

The rickety old bath house sat amid naturally swirling hot springs. I was led into a creaky closet-like room with a single claw foot tub. Now I know mineral water discolors everything in its path, but this old tub was so rusty and nasty I asked if the last tourist to bathe there had been Wyatt Earp. It was not relaxing.

Thinking a more modern roman bath might be the key, we traveled to the State Park Bathhouse at Berkley Springs, West Virginia. The newest fixtures in that place looked to be from the FDR Administration. That went for the staff, too.

After my soak in 750 gallons of mineral water, I was led to an antique massage table, where I was draped in a scratchy white sheet and rubbed down with a traditional mixture of olive oil and 190 proof ethyl alcohol. I felt like a wedge salad. And I was so slippery I began to slide off the table, saved only by the efforts of my 85-year old masseuse.

“When do you add the balsamic vinegar?” I asked. She was not amused and I was not relaxed.

A year later, still never having had what I considered to be a therapeutic massage, we went to China—home of the famous foot and full body massage. What the hell, I'd have to try it.

Our tour bus stopped at a building lit up like the Vegas strip, with flashing Chinese characters and marquee signs shouting Foot Massage! I didn't know if I was going for a medical procedure or a matinee of
Footloose
.

First they cooked my feet in herbal tea, then tossed me on a table and started thumping my shoulders, playing me like a bongo drum. Apparently my Qi energy was out of alignment, and that's bad. While a platoon of massagers pinched and pressed at acupressure points, I wondered if this was how the terra cotta warriors died. They called it Zone Therapy and this pudgy American was not in the zone. I couldn't wait to get back to the hotel and some Moo Goo Gai Pan.

Then, a year ago or so I had a sports injury (stop laughing). Due to my ridiculous golf swing I strained some cartilage in my sternum, so I saw a deep tissue massage therapist. While she cured my ailment, I can still feel the excruciating torture of her putting her elbow in my shoulder blade and trying to make it exit through my esophagus. Not relaxing, with a capital NOT.

So now I'm doing research. Just this afternoon I poured myself a martini and sat down to learn about all the different massage disciplines and what my next move should be. Do I want Swedish massage, Aromatherapy with essential oils or hot stone treatments? How about Shiatsu finger pressure or reflexology? You know, reading about this stuff, Schnauzers at my feet, with a drink in my hand, well, it's very, very, relaxing.

By George, I think I've got it. I've invented the Vodka with Essential Olives Therapy. Ask for the room with the Schnauzers.