Fried & True by Fay Jacobs Read Free Book Online

entertain guests and keep busy.
    Rehoboth residents aren’t surprised to see Muriel at the wheel of their shiny maroon late-model Lincoln Town Car, Anyda riding shotgun and navigating, as they go to out to lunch, visit the library or just head east and park by the ocean for a good long look at the seagulls and sand.
    Anyda’s 14th Sarah Aldridge novel O, Mistress Mine , was released by A&M Books last month with a big, celebratory book signing party at the CAMP Rehoboth Community Center. Lots of sales, lots of press. Happy, happy publishers.
    And last week the big front porch was closed up for the season. No Florida trip this year. It’s just too much stress and difficulty now. So the Florida house has been sold, and the cold months will be spent in Rehoboth. Friends have promised to stop by for cocktails in the back sunroom all winter long and to look in on the ladies every day.
    And everyone is pitching in to assist the publishers on their next big project, As I Lay Frying–a Rehoboth Beach Memoir by some little-known local columnist.

November 2003
    LETTERS FROM CAMP REHOBOTH
    IDENTITY CRISIS
    According to Oprah, the only wasted day is a day without laughter. It’s my motto too. Paying taxes, growing older, or sexual orientation is not a choice, but laughing at yourself is.
    I make this point because generally, when absurd stuff happens, I try to keep my sense of humor. That is, until yesterday, when somebody stole my identity.
    Why anyone would want my identity, with its maxed-out credit and pathetic portfolio, is beyond me, but steal it they did. Okay, that’s not completely true. I pretty much gave them my identity—over the Internet (Fay, call your village, their idiot is missing).
    The mess started six weeks ago, when I could still get a good chuckle out of spending two hours on the phone with AOL because somebody in Uzbeckistan had cracked my password. Unable to log on, I’d called AOL. While on hold, I could have read the collected works of Rita Mae Brown.
    As it was, wireless phone lodged between my ear and shoulder, I changed my clothes and spent time in the loo. Naturally, the technician finally answered and I had to do the Mexican Hat Dance to get my pants back up without dropping the phone. He pretended not to hear the flush. He explained that I was secure again and issued me a new password. Fine.
    Two weeks later, my e-mail went flooey again. This time, the AOL tech had me on my cell phone for forty-five minutes while he coached me on reinstalling my software. I was fixed.
    This was a good thing, because I was in the midst of emailing columns back and forth to editors and layout designers, trying to make my self-imposed book deadline.
    Unfortunately, the fix AOL offered completely screwed up my modem settings, requiring me to have a martini and call Dell Computer. I was getting ticked but still able to find a littlehumor in this incident.
    For instance, Dell keeps you on hold for twenty minutes and then, before you can even say hello, an automated voice asks for your service code. I bent down to find the code on the side of the computer, and saw it was written in 2-point type, impossible for a woman of my age to read, even with peepers on.
    â€œYou have 30 seconds to say your service code numbers or press the numbers on your touch tone phone,” droned the automated one.
    I dove under the desk, plastered my face up against the sadistic code number, and still couldn’t read it. Time up! Bang! I was back on hold. Phooey. I wasn’t even on the portable phone so I could go get stronger glasses. When the robot came back a second time I punched “O” and prayed.
    Finally, a human said, “Your service code, please.”
    â€œI can’t see it,” I said.
    â€œIt’s on the side of the computer,” he said.
    â€œNo, I can find it , I just can’t see it. Can you hold while I get my glasses?”
    So I raced off, feeling not at all guilty for