Authors: Fay Jacobs
Time Fries! (21 page)
V
ACATION OR
R
ETIREMENT
? T
HAT IS THE
Q
UESTION
.
My mate and I just launched our retirement. There was a very un-beach like forecast of snow on the way as we bid a fond farewell to Rehoboth and set out along the Delmarva Peninsula, heading for Florida.
Much like a vision of the
Beverly Hillbillies
(if this reference means nothing to you, you are eons from retirement), our car was stuffed with suitcases, dog bed, dog bowls, portable dog crate, golf clubs, and a valise full of drugstore items from Prilosec to Sunscreen 70 Epoxy.
“Is this retirement or vacation?” I pondered aloud as we headed for the Bay Bridge-Tunnel.
With the brassy tune “The Stripper” playing in my head, we shed our outer garments one state at a time, with the coats gone by Virginia, the Rehoboth sweatshirt by South Carolina, and our sleeves rolled up by that night when the lights went out in Georgia.
As we explored Florida's West Coast, from St. Pete to Naples, we joyously watched the Weather Channel report on the blowing snow and frigid temperatures at home. At lunch one day, dining with friends on their lanai, enmeshed in excellent conversation (vacation?), we heard the splash. My 15-year old Schnauzer Moxie had waddled off the edge of the pool and sank like a gangster in cement shoes.
Frantic pushing and shoving ensued as four retirees struggled to get off our butts and race to the pool. The fittest of us leapt down the steps, into the water, and pulled the mutt from the depths. Happily, he was fine, if a little surprised, but requiring no mouth to snout CPR.
“Wow, that was lucky,” gasped the first responder, “Ordinarily I would have had my iPhone in my pocket.”
“If I had gotten there first, I
would
have had my phone in
my pocket,” I said.
“If you had gotten there first,” said my spouse, “we would have phoned the scoop to the
New York Times
.” So this is retirement. 24/7 with my spouse the comic.
The next day, we headed out to cross the Southern portion of the state, through the Everglades, along a route called, appropriately, Alligator Alley.
Inside the car, the vacation vs. retirement debate proceeded. After decades of punching the snooze button for ten more minutes before long, frantic work days, the delightful reality of retirement was upon us. In fact, we were so deep in our glee that we missed the last gas station before Alligator Alley and forgot to fill up.
Naturally, the moment we hit that spot when it was no longer possible to U-turn, the laughing yellow low fuel light popped up on the dashboard. To make matters worse, we were in a new car, with no knowledge of whether the light was a gentle suggestion or a Category 5 warning.
Idiots. We were trapped on Alligator Alley, gas gauge on empty and green-brown alligators staring longingly at us from roadside creeks. Okay, there was a fence between us and the gators' jaws, but walking for help alongside beasts of the Southern wild was not on my bucket list.
Should we drive at exactly 55 mph to preserve gas, but prolong the agony, or speed up to see how far we'd get before tragedy struck? The GPS advised that the only gas station before our Ft. Lauderdale destination was 42 miles away at an exit at Snake Road. Somehow, not all that comforting.
“Don't panic,” said the driver. “We have Good Sam Roadside Assistance.”
Really, out here? I guessed we'd get to see just how good Good Sam actually was.
Suddenly, I was oddly ambivalent. This fuel emergency might be a double edged sword. I hoped to make it to the filling station before wrestling gators, but driving that far with the gas light on meant a disquieting future.
How annoying would it be, when forevermore, I would suggest filling up at a quarter tank, with my spouse laughing and recalling running on empty through the Everglades?
By the time we rolled off at Snake Road, both the dog and I were panting and drooling, the alligators were pissed they'd missed lunch and the driver was grinning like a Cheshire Cat.
So we avoided catastrophe and made it to Ft. Lauderdale. Contrary to what we were afraid we'd find in Southern Florida (nickname: God's Waiting Room), we found the nightlife, they like to boogie. Lauderdale and Pompano Beach rocked, with plenty of entertainment, good restaurants and gorgeous beaches. If Rehoboth is Ying, Lauderdale is Yang.
So we've decided that until global warming turns Rehoboth Beach into Savannah, we will interrupt our beach retirement each winter for a Florida vacation.
On the return trip, we stopped in the South Carolina Low Country for a night in Beaufort (vacation), hoping we could stretch our funds just a little further to pay for the hotel (retirement). We took one of those wonderfully cheesy horse and buggy rides around the historic town to view its ante-bellum mansions and shrimp boat-filled harbor (vacation). After a feast of greasy fried shrimp, grits and hush puppies, we headed back to the motel for Prilosec and bedtime (retirement).
Back on the road in the morning, I asked a question and was immediately rewarded by my worst fear.
“Aren't you stopping for gas before getting onto I-95?”
“Pshaw. If we had enough in the Everglades⦔
Back in Reho, as we did the mountain of laundry we had created, and looked at trip expenses on our Visa card, vacation quickly became plain old retirement. But frankly, both are pretty darn good. Every night is Friday night, every day is Saturday morning. Ahhhhh.
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
â
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 breaksâover 1000 benefits we do not now enjoyâto 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. âCause we ain't done yet.