Time Fries!

by Fay Jacobs

  Change is happening, kids!

  Just this morning, Bonnie and I sat at the dining room table and both of us signed a single Delaware State tax return. As a civil unioned couple, we filed jointly. Woo-Hoo! Things really are changing.

  In fact, just this week, the AP Stylebook, the bible for journalists and editors, etched into type the following rule: husband, wife — Regardless of sexual orientation, husband or wife is acceptable in all references to individuals in any legally recognized marriage. Spouse or partner may be used if requested.

  Remarkable. But, just as striking are the things that aren’t happening.

  A few weeks ago Bonnie and I stopped for dinner and an overnight in Beaufort, S.C. (that’s pronounced Bufort, not Bowfort) on our way home from Florida. We’d heard it was a charming historic town, a mini-Charleston, and surely worth a visit.

  As I made dinner reservations, I realized our visit would coincide with Valentine’s Day. Ding, ding, ding! Thirty years of alarm bells kicked in, making me wonder if a romantic dinner for two lesbians in South Carolina was advisable, or even safe. But I pushed through the residual fear and forged ahead.

  On Valentine’s morning we walked along the water admiring the flotilla of shrimp boats, moss-covered trees, and exquisite antebellum mansions. At lunchtime we ducked into a small restaurant and ordered low country specialties like oysters and hush puppies. As we waited for our meals, I mentioned to Bonnie that my left hand, still recovering from that accident last fall, was less swollen every day.

  “Look,” I said, offering her my two hands for comparison, “I’m starting to have visible knuckles again.”

  “That’s great,” she said, holding my hands in hers, studying the difference between the two.

  When the young waiter returned and saw Bonnie lovingly holding my outstretched hands he did not, as might have happened years ago, avert his eyes and walk into a wall. Instead, he smiled and asked if we wanted to order a bottle of wine. Frankly, I’m glad he thought it was a romantic moment instead of an orthopedic exam.

  We took an afternoon horse and buggy ride throughout the historic district, then set out for our Valentine’s Night dinner. Would we be laid low in the Low Country? After 15 years of absolute diversity and comfort in Rehoboth, it was very odd worrying once again about how people would react to our same-sex coupleness. It was, after all, Valentine’s Day in a bright red state, home of the late, hate-filled Senator Strom Thurmond.

  I’m thrilled to report we had pointless angst. Dinner was lovely. The other patrons smiled at us, and we at them, as we all dunked bananas and pound cake in our Valentine’s chocolate fondue. The screech from the kitchen might not have been the dish washer operating, but could as easily have been hate-monger Strom spinning in his grave.

  After Florida we headed to NYC to visit friends and family. Standing across from Sardi’s at Shubert Alley, all we could see were billboards for upcoming gay-themed shows. The Nance, stars Nathan Lane as a gay British Music Hall performer; Kinky Boots, a blockbuster musical by Cyndi Lauper and Harvey Fierstein is about a family shoe business saved from financial ruin by their willingness to make boots for drag queens; and the hottest of the hot shows. The Book of Mormon musical, with its gay themes, and a gay lead character, might just make it the gayest show on Broadway. The only hetero-centric billboard in sight was Annie, and we really have no idea about the dog’s orientation.

  Later, in Soho at a new women’s bar, The Dalloway (a nod to Virginia Woolf), we found an upscale establishment in an uber-trendy neighborhood, with an elegant and well-lit sign. We heard that one of the owners is a former America’s Top Model contestant. It’s a far cry from the days when you needed a bodyguard to get you to or from a dimly lit, seedy watering hole in the worst part of town. It was a really far cry from the days when you might have needed the bodyguard inside the bar, as well.

  Of course, as grateful as I am for the improvements, we ain’t done yet. Equality Delaware is hard at work enlisting Delawareans to help get marriage equality before the legislature in Dover. And I am joining forces with them to direct the play 8, in Rehoboth. It’s the story of California’s hateful Proposition 8 against gay marriage. We’re doing a staged reading of this marvelous play, with local and professional actors to help raise funds for Equality Delaware.

  And the sinister Proposition 8 itself, which has been declared unconstitutional in the lower courts, is set to go for oral argument before the U.S. Supreme Court in two weeks on Tuesday, May 26. If overturned, there can be marriage equality in California.

  More importantly, the next day, March 27, Bonnie and I will celebrate our 31st Anniversary, and the one-year anniversary of our big fat Jewish Civil Union held at CAMP Rehoboth. This March 27, as fate would have it, the Supreme Court will hear the oral argument in the case of Edith Windsor v. The United States.

  Eighty-three year old Edie Windsor is suing to overturn The Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA). She was outraged and offended, not to mention punished financially by having to pay a huge inheritance tax on her own home after her partner died. A surviving partner in a heterosexual marriage would not have had to pay the bill.

  If DOMA is overturned, the U.S. government would have to recognize same sex marriages in states which allow it, and further, provide federal benefits and tax breaks—over 1000 benefits we do not now enjoy—to same sex married couples in those states. Huzzah!!!

  Therefore, Bonnie and I will be with the throngs who intend to march on, picket, and otherwise storm the U.S. Supreme Court on Tuesday, March 27. We will loiter before the court building, carrying a sign reading:

  If Gay Marriage were LEGAL today would be our 31st Anniversary!

  I hope we wind up in the Washington Post, or on Film at 11. ‘Cause we ain’t done yet.

  March 2013

  THREE DOG NIGHT

  I don’t have to run away to join the circus, it’s in my house. And last night under the big top, I tried to be ringmaster but wound up in clown pants.

  We babysit dogs. Last evening the census included my elderly Schnauzer Moxie, my friend’s elderly Schnauzer Mitzi and an adolescent three-legged Yorkie we’ll call Houdini—he has an uncanny ability to escape his confines better than any four-legged, or for that matter, two-legged creature I know.

  Given the age and infirmity of the Schnauzers, plus the orthopedic disability of the Yorkie, you’d think the house would be a canine assisted living facility. But no, it’s a cross between a maximum security prison and the greatest show on earth.

  In deference to Houdini, we’ve erected a series of barriers to the front door. They include deadbolt lock-down at all times, a sturdy baby-gate crossing the hallway and, to be extra safe, a complex defensive running play at the sound of somebody ringing the bell. We start with room to room hollering, tap a player to run the Houdini Hail Mary forward pass to deposit him in the bathroom, then finally answer the door looking like we’ve run a 5K. The UPS guy thinks we’re growing weed, or running numbers in here.

  When we’re home alone, the front door is the forbidden zone as we sneak out of our own house through the garage just to get the mail. Every time I walk to my den I have to jump the hallway hurdle, making the same sound my father used to make getting out of a chair.

  We don’t even trust Houdini in our fenced yard. One time he squeezed through the lattice work around the deck for an excursion of the murky under-deck mud flats. He sniffed his way through the three foot high deck, then slithered under a lower section, crawling on his belly like an infantryman. Unable to turn around, he got stuck. We heard the plaintive bark from under the boards and had to dismantle part of the deck to extricate Dora the Explorer. From that moment on, we kept Houdini on a short leash, even in the fenced yard. He now pees on a leash. Well, not on the leash, while on the leash.

  So okay, last night started well enough, with mostly-deaf, mostly-blind Mitzi on the bed, along with a snoring Houdini. Mostly blind-mostly deaf Moxie was in his snuggly bed at the foot of ours. But at 5 a.m
. Moxie got up. Once I hear his tags rattling I know I have about a minute to grab him, run out the back door, carry him down the two steps and deposit him in the grass before something happens involuntarily. For the trip, I generally like to add slippers and flannel pajamas to my tee-shirt ensemble, especially when it’s 36 degrees out.

  So there I am, at 5 in the morning, addled and barely conscious, putting two feet into one pajama leg, hopping around, trying to get my slippers on and get out before the waterworks. Houdini hears the ruckus, flies through the air with the greatest of ease and wakes Mitzi. Ergo, on our way out, Moxie and I have a thundering posse. Naturally, it’s backyard chaos as I deposit Moxie before he makes a deposit, try to keep Houdini from diving under the deck, make sure Mitzi Magoo doesn’t hurt herself bumping into the side of the glass door that isn’t open. I don’t suppose little window decals of Milk-Bones would help her distinguish the correct egress.

  I wrangle all three pups back in and it’s circus time as canines circle the living room, nose to butt, much like parading elephants. When Moxie wants breakfast, it’s time to thin the herd.

  I grab Houdini, run him to the bedroom, toss him onto the sleeping person, and close the door behind me. From the giggling of my now-awake mate, I know I’ve failed and the three-legged sprinter is already back in the kitchen. As P.T. Barnum once said, there’s a sucker born every minute.

  I make Moxie’s meal, set it down, turn my back to get Mitzi’s food, and Houdini sticks his snout in Moxie’s bowl. Once again I pick him up, go to the bedroom, hand him off to the laughing person, and go back out. Houdini’s incarcerated, but now Mitzi’s eating Moxie’s food. I move Mitzi to a spot in the corner and yell “Stay!” As Moxie heads to his bowl, Houdini’s back, having used one of his remaining limbs to open the bedroom door. I put him in an opposing corner and holler “Stay!” Nobody listens. Done playing Siegfried and Roy, I just put three bowls of gruel down and let them all have at it.

  By this time it’s 5:15 a.m. and two humans and three dogs are all wide awake. Houdini does his high wire act hopping along the back of the sofa, and the other two are butt to butt in one tiny bed. Step right up ladies and gentlemen to our circus sideshow where we have the amazing two-headed Schnauzer.

  Naturally, by sunrise at Attica, the three dogs have settled into the sofa, all sound asleep. The humans swig coffee and are reduced to watching infomercials. I look down to see that my slippers are on the wrong feet and my pajama bottoms are inside out. Send in the clown.

  March 2013

  MOXIE, 1998-2013

  Dammit. We had to put Moxie down today after a glorious 15 years.

  He was sick and in pain and it was the right thing to do, although we are terribly sad and missing him like crazy. At the moment and for the future, at least in the short term, this house is no longer a Schnauzerhaven.

  Well traveled, Moxie toured Maine and Nova Scotia by RV, I-95 to Florida and back and many other destinations. He loved the book 1000 Places to Pee Before You Die, (seriously, it’s a real book written by a Schnauzer). He did his best.

  He was predeceased by his brother Paddy. He leaves his niece Margo Peterson and best friends Mitzi Hooker, Toddy Simmons-Thompson, Chanel Cohen-Sneider, Cleo & Lizzie Martinucci-Kozey, old man Atticus, and many, many more good friends, canine, feline and human.

  It was a great run. And we will now be able to put the toilet paper on the holder instead of up on a shelf to prevent his unrolling it throughout the house.

  April 2013

  A SIGN OF THE TIMES FOR MARRIAGE EQUALITY

  Sometimes I think the pace with which the gay marriage debate has overtaken the country has been achingly slow and other times it feels like an overnight sensation.

  On Wednesday, March 27th, as Bonnie and I stood on the steps of the Supreme Court, oral arguments for overturning the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) raging inside, it felt like both. On one hand, after marching, joining gay rights organizations and donating money for the cause for over thirty years, I was amazed that the U.S. Supreme Court was finally discussing the matter; on the other hand, I couldn’t believe I’d see this day in my lifetime.

  Also, I was laughing. First, we’d bundled up and schlepped from our hotel to the court on foot—about a mile—and I was pleased to do it.

  Second, we forgot to put slits in our four-foot sign proclaiming If Gay Marriage Were Legal, Today Would Be our 31st Anniversary, so the windy conditions turned the sign into a giant sail. I hoped we wouldn’t be carried aloft to land in the midst of the pitifully small Westboro Baptist Church contingent. If, as they say, God hates Fags, they’d really hate me and Bonnie landing on them like some flying house from Oz.

  Thirdly, our people in front of the court were nothing if not clever and colorful. Favorite signs included Three Words to Fix the Economy: GAY BRIDAL REGISTRY, Get out of your DOMA Coma, and the humble My Sexuality Doesn’t Define Who I Am, but I Sure Am Fabulous!

  Early in the morning, Bonnie and I had a choice to make. We could stand in the long, long line for those waiting to get into the court for a three-minute walk-through, or just stay outside with the supportive throng. We chose the open air option and it was a great choice.

  From the minute we stepped in front of the court and unfurled our sign, and for three hours following, we stayed busy, being interviewed by the likes of Reuters, Newsweek, NPR, NBC, AP and dozens more. Cameras and cell phones flashed in our faces, giving us a delicious taste of paparazzi life.

  Reactions to our sign ranged from “cool” with a thumbs up from many young guys, “Way to go” from folks, gay and straight, and lots of people telling us how many years they’d been together, too. One baby-boomer woman smiled at us, put her hand over her heart and said “you make me proud to be a woman.” Wow. Didn’t expect that.

  But it was the young gals, gay and straight, who had us crying from laughter. They’d read the sign, then look at us and emit a loud and plaintive “Awwww,” like a sound you’d make when seeing a puppy. “Awwww, aren’t these old lesbians cute…”

  Conservatively, at least 300 cell phones snapped our photo and many a contingent of teens and twenty-somethings crowded in to have their pictures taken with us. We felt like rock stars. Old rock stars. The diversity of the crowd was staggering, often impossible to tell gay from straight. The clothing, demeanor, and signage ranged from wacky to conservative to spectacular.

  At one point, a reporter asked if we’d rallied for our rights before this and we recounted tales of the ’79, ’87, ’93, and 2000 marches, also discussing our predecessor Barbara Gittings marching at the White House in the 1960s. “She and her fellow protestors were dressed to the nines,” I said, telling the reporter that they had required the men to wear suits and ties and the women to wear dresses and high heels. “I love that!” hollered a guy sporting bright purple hair and so many earrings you could strain linguini through his lobes.

  Two women approached us, holding their sign also proclaiming 31 years, though not on this specific day. Our conversation, overheard by a reporter from the Huffington Post, turned into a full-fledged interview of the four women she called “the 31 Ones.”

  Per protocol, each reporter had to ask us our names and ages. As I repeated that big numeral over and over I was pleased by the number of times people responded with “Well, you don’t look it.” By hour four of standing and holding the sign aloft, I felt it and then some.

  When the oral arguments inside the court ended, the plaintiff, Edie Windsor, and her legal team came down the steps to thundering cheers from the crowd. We milled about a few moments more, then packed in our fifteen minutes of fame and headed back to the hotel.

  With aching legs, horribly stiff necks from staring in just one direction at each other across the sign all day (how stupid of us not to trade places after a while!), and rotator cuffs throbbing from raising our banner, we collapsed on the hotel bed and turned on the TV.

  We made CSPAN, WRC-TV in Washington, a montage of photos on CBS, a mention on Pu
blic Television and more. By 4:30 the Huffington Post article was posted. My cell phone lit up with texts, messages and calls from friends recounting the places they’d seen our brief celebrity.

  By Thursday morning of course, we were, quite literally, yesterday’s news.

  But what a hoot it was. And now, all we can do is hope that the Supremes heard our message and declare the offensive Defense of Marriage Act unconstitutional. Enough already. I want to retire from the protest business. Equality Now!

  April 2013

  ONE OF THEM…

  Overheard at Legislative Hall in Dover: “I don’t get this marriage thing. We just gave them civil unions.”

  THEM? What am I a space alien? A creature from the Rehoboth lagoon? An undocumented worker from Mars? It’s humiliating to be described as “them.”

  And just like all of the minority groups who have come before us and who will surely come after us, I’m sick of having neighbors think of us as THEM. OTHER. LESS THAN. UNEQUAL. SECOND CLASS.

  I’m passionately, angrily, tiredly but hopefully done being THEM.

  By the time you read this, lots of LGBT folks in Rehoboth and the surrounding communities will have traveled to Dover once again, this time before a state Senate committee, to plead for the right to be treated equally under Delaware law.

  And to answer that snooty, attitudinal, bigoted woman at the State House, I say this, “While you grudgingly gave us civil unions, we were happy for that step. It truly did make us financially equal to married couples in Delaware, but it did not go far enough.”

  Here is how I had the privilege of testifying and describing the situation to the Delaware House of Representatives in Dover a few weeks ago:

  “My partner and I have been together over 31 years. As young women, we bought a house, paid taxes, welcomed pets to our family, encouraged each other in our careers, spoiled our nieces and nephews, socialized with neighbors, managed our parents’ health crises, turned middle aged, buried our first dog and cat, relocated to Delaware, weathered our own health crises, saved for retirement, said farewell to parents who saw us as married, adopted two new dogs, volunteered in our community, and just now became Medicare eligible—all of this, together.