by Fay Jacobs
Hell hath no fury like a lesbian hungry. I took the instructor aside and gently asked her to remember that our meeting was within chewing distance of Rehoboth and husbands weren’t the only kind of spouses at home. Actually, I thought the few men in the program should have spoken out, too.
“You could just refer to our ‘partners or mates,’” I encouraged. “That would suit everyone.”
Our instructor responded well, although she insisted on using the tongue-twisting phrase “husband, wife or significant other” some twelve or thirteen times a session. The class went from a half hour to forty-five minutes. But we were represented.
But far and away the most perfect example of why I love this town, more than anywhere else I’ve been, happened last night. A group of us locals (natives, stop sneering…) were dining at the new Thai Restaurant downtown.
We’d lingered over cocktails at one couple’s home and gotten to the restaurant later than expected. We were just finishing up our Pad Thai and Curry when I looked at my watch and realized it was seven minutes to the season finale on The West Wing and none of us had set a VCR. Crisis!
Let me tell you, we stuck one person with the check (thanks, bunky) and five of us leapt from our seats, ran out to the street, hopped in our cars and raced off in three different directions.
We all got home in time to see “previously on The West Wing….”
And after the episode, we stayed riveted to “Golf cart vandalized, bench seat stolen, details at 11.”
You can take the girl out of the city AND you can take the city out of the girl.
June 2002
CLOSETS ARE FOR SHOES
As I lay frying on the beach at North Shores this week, looking around at the hundreds, if not thousands of women around me, I closed my eyes and reflected about how I came to this place. Figuratively.
I was a seriously late bloomer. It wasn’t until my 40s that I developed the nerve and passion for speaking out publicly. I can say it was a very different time, with very different issues, twenty-something years ago. But truth is, I was asleep at the switch.
I wasn’t even an activist in the 60s, when everybody and their dog was smoking dope and distrusting anyone over 30. Oh sure, I wore tie-dye and love beads, marching to protest the Kent State shootings, but I’m reasonably sure I just didn’t want to be left back in the dorm. As a theatre major, the hippie clothes and Birkenstocks were costume, not commitment.
I’m ashamed to confess that while my friends lobbied for a woman’s right to choose, animal welfare and the ERA, I memorized Broadway musicals and hung out at Bloomingdale’s. I cared, but was never motivated enough to put down my charge card and defend a damn thing.
I wasn’t even vocal about gay rights. I was divorced and 30 when I finally came out as a lesbian. Family and friends, so relieved to see me happy for once, adjusted without missing a beat. So blind was I, the early 1980s and Reaganism actually seemed like an era of good feeling between America and gays. I was truly delusional. I heard my friends’ horror stories about the past and thanked my lucky stars it was 1982.
Then it was 1984 and AIDS hysteria hit. Amid the press barrage and tabloid trash I watched homophobia rear its head and bellow—it seemed—at me. Friends who’d grown up with bigotry and fought for Gay Pride were prepared for the ugliness. They fought back; they handled it. Not me. I just got miserably depressed.
Finally, Bonnie had had enough of my moping and told me to get angry, fight back, and get even. I started reading gay history and devouring anything about us in the press. I’d clip stories and highlight quotes I liked, and those I didn’t. From the very back of the closet, and under a ridiculous pen name, I fired off letters to editors complaining about biased coverage, unwarranted sensationalism and false stereotypes. Venting my anger by mail felt great. Reading my published words in places like People magazine and The Baltimore Sun to balance the bigots’ letters felt even better.
Although I never invented boyfriends at the office, I stayed very private. But one day in l986 I heard one faggot joke too many and my mouth took on a life of its own. My nose was eeking out from the closet and I’d traded lesbian invisibility to make the point.
Teetering on the brink of full disclosure, I was outed at an early 90s (Gay Nineties?) office staff meeting. My boss and five other department heads—all married—sat discussing whose spouses would attend an upcoming conference reception.
“Hey, what about you, Fay? You and Bonnie never have to go to these things,” said a cohort.
“Yeah,” said another, “how come you two don’t have to go?”
Before I could stutter an answer, my boss piped up. “That’s true, we’ll see you both Friday, as well, right?”
It took me a minute to process the fact that not only weren’t they shocked I was queer, they were truly pissed that I’d had a free pass from odious meetings because of it. Fortunately, Bonnie was a good sport about going to office crap from then on.
I began to discuss my social life, in light generalities, with selected colleagues. And my real name replaced the pen name on letters and essays to local publications. That is, other than my own publication. As editor of a community newspaper, I lived a weird schizophrenic existence, writing out and proud letters and essays for the Washington Blade and other publications, while staying nauseatingly closeted on my own pages. Not only was it dishonest, but it was hell on my writing. Just try and tell a first person story like I do in this column without referring to the person who accompanies you on all your adventures. It made for constipated copy.
When I started writing for Letters, it was like being struck by fairy dust. Everything’s honest. You say what you mean. You mean what you say. It emboldened me.
When I finally moved to Rehoboth, the only thing I knew about my future was that my personal and work life would be inseparable. I would never again be closeted for a job, and never stop being honest about my life. At my Rehoboth job interview I was asked, point blank, if I would continue writing for Letters once I’d moved to town and accepted the job being discussed.
They hoped I’d tell them that I’d quit writing. I know that I almost lost the job offer because my answer was “yes, I will still be writing.” I stuck to my guns and I hope that my employers are, if not glad, no longer uncomfortable.
So my evolution as an activist is going pretty well.
In fact, at dinner with friends the other night somebody pulled out the new Damron Women’s Travel Guide. We were having all sorts of fun looking up gay venues in other cities when I said “Let’s see what it says about Rehoboth.”
You know that old saying “He’s so gay that when you look up the word in the dictionary you see his picture?” Well Bonnie and I looked up Gay Rehoboth in Damron’s and found our pictures.
Literally. There we were, frolicking on the beach in a CAMP Rehoboth ad. How gay is she? Well, when you read The Best Lesbian Guide to the USA you see her picture. Now that’s OUT. And I love it!
June 2002
SHOW AND TELL
No matter how lovely the wedding, I have mixed emotions. While contemporary commitment ceremonies can involve bridal or groomal registry, dressing your friends like Ken and Barbie, and making a huge todoodle, I’m wistful that it just wasn’t an option two decades ago. Even today, there’s that pesky little problem of the state not recognizing our spouses with trifles like health insurance, social security and inheritance rights.
Soapbox aside, Bonnie and I recently went to Northern Virginia for my best friend’s daughter’s wedding. And we think we have traffic. Driving the Washington Beltway was like lapping at Dover Downs. If it wasn’t too late it would have been enough to make me go prematurely gray.
Arriving surprisingly alive, we did the wedding service thing, gushed over the truly lovely bride and headed for the reception. If Christopher Guest made a movie spoofing weddings (Mazel Tov!) like he did with dog shows (Best in Show) his cast would include the characters at our table. Everybody was pretty talkative un
til they deduced they were sitting with lesbians.
When we got back from the buffet we discovered that everybody else had found seats elsewhere. Eeeewww….
My friend’s son introduced us to the wedding party as Aunt Fay and Aunt Bonnie. I suddenly pictured myself as a decrepit brandy-nipping spinster with an ear horn. Two actual spinster great aunts, who remembered me from eleventh grade, assumed that Bonnie was my sister from New York. I would have tried to clear up the faux pas but neither could hear well enough to absorb news that complex.
Finally, the mother of the bride stopped by our table. After exchanging hugs, congratulations, and lamentations about how we got this old, I laughed and said, “This is quite odd for us. We’re the only gay people here.”
“You’re wrong,” she said, pointing to an angelic blond crew cut person in black slacks, a maroon silk shirt and tie, who I’d (wrongly) assumed was a 17-year-old nephew.
Nope, it was 20-year-old niece Jennie, here from Germany for the wedding. “Her girlfriend couldn’t come,” said the mother of the bride, matter-of-factly, making me very, very proud.
“Well,” said Bonnie, “we need to meet Jennie.”
Jennie lived in the U.S. until age 12, so language wasn’t a problem. Her life back home, however, is a problem. In her small town the only gay bar is for guys and gay life is closeted. She and her girlfriend want to move to the states soon, but for now, life is pretty tough for a Hilary-Swank-Boys-Don’t-Cry butch lesbian.
Hours earlier, on the way to the wedding, Bonnie and I had remembered it was D.C. Pride Weekend, but nixed the idea of taking these old bones downtown. “Been there, done that.”
All of a sudden, with a youngster in tow it seemed like a fabulous idea. As the wedding wound down, we asked Jennie about a field trip and her eyes lit up. Offering our goodbyes, we exited to the DJ spinning I Will Survive. Yes!
At the Vienna, VA Metro stop, a gaggle of young women wearing rainbow colored leis around their necks headed back to their car. “Where’s the fun, tonight, girls,” I hollered. “Everywhere!” they shouted back, coming over to the car to hand us a City Paper.
Jennie was in shock. “I can’t believe it. They spoke to you. It’s so open here,” she said, furtively staring at the women.
We hopped the train and headed to D.C.’s Dupont Circle. Bonnie and I stifled yawns and pretended this was normal for us, rather than the hour we usually sleep through LIVE! It’s Saturday Night!
We exited the subway onto one of the world’s longest and tallest escalators—which, judging by the number of gay people on it, must have seemed to Jennie like the stairway to paradise. “Oh, I can look, but not touch,” she said, a nod to her girlfriend back home. “To be in awe” is overused, but Jennie was in gargantuan awe.
At the circle, it looked like the whole world was gay. Rainbow flags flew on hotel flagpoles and in store windows. Stacks of Pride Guides welcomed triple the number of gay men and lesbians usually found sitting by the fountain. The gorgeous spring night and crowds of gay people made you want to celebrate. I was impressed, so I can imagine what Jennie thought. We took pains to remind her that this was Pride Week, and not always like this, but I don’t think she believed us.
We strolled amid throngs of people and Jennie didn’t know where to look first. Plopping our butts at an outdoor café, we positioned Jennie facing the street so she could see a zillion gay couples go by holding hands. Her eyes got as big as the saucers under our java.
The entire gamut of gaydom passed by—from crew cuts, tattoos, leather pants, chain belts and pierced eyebrows (boys and girls) to wild summer sun dresses, high heels, and lots of perfume (also boys and girls). The real kick was the number of middle-of-the-road every-day same sex couples, indistinguishable from the middle-of-the-road every-day opposite sex couples loitering with Chai Tea. For Jen, it was an eye-opener.
By this time, my lids required double espresso. Badlands dance club on P Street hosted the official women’s dance. Despite the hour, there was still a huge line to get in. Fearful of missing the last train to suburbia we made do with walking the line, gazing at the diversity. That was just fine with Jennie. I think she was on out and proud overload as it was. Just being in the midst of the celebration, without alcohol, pounding music or even talking to anyone, seemed to be affirmation enough.
I remember how absolutely medicinal that could be after conquering the self-loathing, and fighting your way out of the closet. Heck, even now there was something really exciting to me about so many young women out for a great time. It was also really exciting still being vertical at 1 a.m.
Heading back to the Metro, both men and women tried to catch Jennie’s eye, with many, I’m sure, wondering which team she played on. I would have loved to ask about her transgendered identity and more about her life at home. But such seriousness could wait.
For now we just laughed, talked a little bit about Rehoboth, and retraced our steps to the burbs—where the Father of the Bride was waiting up.
And we’ll never know if he was waiting up to make sure Jennie was home safe from a field trip with those wild and crazy lesbian aunts, or if he was worried about the survival of the fuddy-duddy escorts. I hope it was a little of both.
July 2002
WE’LL LEAVE THE LIGHT ON FOR YOU
We’re running a B&B. Well that’s not exactly true. We don’t serve B. Most of the things in our refrigerator are science projects in carry-out containers. So we just run a B. Although that’s not really it either. We’re actually running a B&D. Bed and Dog.
As anybody with a beach house knows, build it (or buy it) and they will come. A lot. Visitors are a fact of life. I’m absolutely not complaining. We love our guests.
When Schnauzerhaven first opened, I tried to be Martha Stewart, with matching sheets and towels. Three years later, folks are lucky to get a top sheet. And as long as we’re investigating Miss Martha, I want to know who makes those crappy Martha Stewart pillows. You sleep with them one night, and bingo, the things shrivel up and get lumpy like cotton candy in a Nor’Easter. (What am I talking about here? Just asking…).
Frankly, I’ve had to institute a two-night minimum at our B&D because it just isn’t worth changing the linens for one night. One time I mistakenly made the bed with a sheet we’d used as a drop cloth. My guests got Rustoleum butt.
Another morning I found one of my frequent overnighters completely re-doing the linen closet. I know she was selfishly seeking a towel that hadn’t been used with flea and tick soap, but I thanked her profusely anyway. The linen closet was neat for a week, encompassing two more guest cycles, before it degenerated again.
Our bathrooms are fully stocked with little toiletries pilfered from our last visits to major hotel chains and every once in a while we squeegee the tub-surround to make sure we’re not growing truffles in the soap dish (although I guess the dogs would sniff them out).
It’s easy to tell there’s a problem with the accommodations when you find somebody snoozing on the living room sofa in the morning. That’s how I discovered the den sleep sofa was descended from a Transylvanian Torture Rack. (“We have spacious rooms, including the Dracula Suite, complete with its own…”). I finally donated it to two of our regulars who just bought their own Rehoboth lodge. It’s their torture rack now and I have a new futon for guests.
Have you seen our driveway? Most nights it looks like a used car lot. Guests leave their keys in a pile on the dining room table, fraternity house style, so nobody gets locked in. Bonnie, of course, can turn her Tracker sideways on a dime and ride over the lawn so she’s not late for Sunday prayer at Our Lady of Lowe’s.
And of course, there’s the dog thing. Everybody and their dog shows up. One weekend we had six people and five dogs in our 1450 square foot bungalow. That’s a lotta barking. And that was just the people.
We had three Schnauzers (our two plus a visitor), a 3 lb. Maltese and a three-ton Great Dane. Ever see a Great Dane puppy loose in a living room? It leaps tall coffe
e tables in a single bound, usually taking most of the tchotchkes off the table with it. Our male guests spent the weekend shielding their privates from the Dane’s whipping tail.
Our B&D brochure should read: “The circa 1999 inn is located on half an acre of parched landscaping nestled in a private residential neighborhood between Food Lion and Wal*Mart. We have full service bathrooms, although dogs like to come in and watch. We serve a complimentary breakfast provided you pick up bagels the night before. For a full breakfast, The Crystal is just down the road. We have free issues of Letters and Cable TV featuring Animal Planet. The Terrier Lounge is open nightly, serving fresh water and Milk Bone biscuits; a companion cocktail lounge has a fully stocked bar, with margaritas and cosmos served on the pre-fab sunroom veranda. Check-in is whenever, provided the dogs let you in the house. Express check out happens when you’ve had enough. There’s a spacious lawn for outdoor activities, but guests should watch for, er…land mines. This is a non-smoking facility unless the hosts try to cook the occasional breakfast. Then there’s plenty of smoke. Nearby attractions include Poodle Beach, North Shores, and the Wash & Wag Dog Salon. It is a clothing optional establishment—for the dogs.”
It’s all very civilized. Of course, when family members check in, our stress level rises. Why is it, no matter how old you are, your parents imminent arrival makes you feel like a pre-teen?
This last visit I was all set: dog slobber wiped off the sliding glass doors, and green Swiss cheese culled from the fridge. An hour before the New Yorkers were to arrive my living room came under attack by an army of ants advancing across the windowsills and into the great room. Honey, I shrunk the extras from Braveheart.
I screeched out to Food Lion and stood, comatose, before the exterminating products. My God, if I buy Ant & Roach killer they’ll think we have roaches. Ant and Insect Bomb? Pest and Wasp Killer? They don’t have Dad-Is-Due-and-You-Live-in-an-
