First let me say Mea Culpa. I’m sorry. I realize now that I’ve failed miserably in my obligation to keep my loyal readers fully informed. What we had here was a failure to communicate.
Three times during Rehoboth’s October Pet Parade, fairly irate readers, none of whom I’d ever actually met before, stood before us, hands on hips, indignantly saying, “You didn’t tell us you got a second dog!”
Well, with my humble apologies, I now announce (belatedly to be sure) the arrival of Paddy, the second Miniature Schnauzer to move into Schnauzerhaven. He joins his older half-brother Moxie, rounding out our brand new family. Which all goes to prove what a difference a year makes for pets and people.
Whew. Halloween night marked the first anniversary of the passing of our beloved Max. In the Jewish tradition, family and friends gather a year after the death of a loved one for a ceremony called an unveiling. It’s a great comfort to be together again a year later, grief in perspective, to unveil the cemetery monument. Then you go pig out on lox and bagels. I’m not sure if I’m the first to have hosted a canine unveiling, but I figured a loved one is a loved one and why not.
And, as always accompanies these kinds of things, came reflection. Here we are, on the cusp of Y2K, with champagne and survival supplies at the ready. I can’t believe we’re here. Not in Rehoboth, not in 1999.
As I got dressed for Halloween costume parties around town, I remembered the first time I ever thought about the turn of the century. It was 1961, when my best friend and I, decked out in Roy Rogers holsters and cowboy hats (and we had no idea of our future orientation?) sat counting the decades ‘til 2000 on our fingers (which, by the way, is still how I do my checkbook). Holy Dale Evans, we’d be an ancient 51!!!!
I don’t have a clear picture of the drooling old biddy I imagined at the time, but you can bet I didn’t conjure a 51-year-old lesbian, dressed for Halloween as Tinky Winky. Reality rocks.
No crystal ball ever foretold this Big Apple native, happily partnered, overwhelmingly Schnauzered and living in the small town equivalent of Gayberry RFD.
But I can tell you exactly how I got here, based on my own personal Cliff Notes—my life on a single page. It arrived in the mail, compliments of an anal-retentive pal who’s had the same address book since the Kent State shootings. She photocopied the “Fay page” for me. The antique address book entries are in bold. I’ve added an accompanying travelogue.
Fay @ American U. Dorm - Theatre major; insane crushes on leading ladies, but no idea an alternative future is possible. Dating male law student. Why am I miserable?
Fay & Bobby in Bethesda - Oy. Still lusting after Dolly Levi & Hedda Gabler but married, just to pacify the folks, to that accordion player. Start visiting fabulous disco 70s gay bars with the community theatre crowd, me as the token straight. Yeah, right.
Fay @ Mary Jane’s - Bless the friend who takes me in after the divorce. Too scared to explore alternatives, but watching a lot of tennis and Jody Foster movies.
Fay in Annapolis - Final heterosexual adventures fail. Tell the folks I broke up with the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker.
Fay @ Mary Jane’s Again - One toe out of the closet, the 1980s era of lesbian potlucks and furtive bookstore visits begins. Folks are clueless.
Fay @ ________ - Okay, edited for propriety. Suffice it to say that when I told the folks I broke up with the Jewish banker, I kept it gender neutral.
Fay @ Bonnie’s in Baltimore - About time. Folks still clueless. Learn to love hard shell crabs and the Orioles, hon. Fay very, very happy.
Fay & Bonnie’s Townhouse - Got a Schnauzer, got a Subaru. Come clean with the folks. “Well…this is 1982,“ they say, bravely. The rest of the family doesn’t miss a beat, asking “So, is she Jewish?”
F & B, new house in Md. - March on Washington ‘87 & ‘93. Life is good. Gay 90s. Vacations to Rehoboth begin. After 14 years, folks start sending us anniversary cards, just like they send to the other kids.
F-Hosp. Rm, 625-B - Do you believe the address book commemorates the farewell to my uterus?
F & B on boat - Summer weekends on Rehoboth Bay, writing for Letters, and experiencing a totally gay friendly environment. What can be better?
F & B in Reho - Better is buying our Maryland Ave. condo so we can be here winter weekends, too!
F & B @ mini-condo - Better yet is selling that hole in the water into which we throw money and buying the world’s smallest condo to weekend on land year round.
F & B @ Mort’s - At Dad’s in Sarasota, February ‘99. Float the idea of quitting my job, uprooting Bonnie’s business, downsizing and moving full-time to the beach. By now, nothing surprises the folks.
F & B Reho house - We did it! Moved to Rehoboth!
Move again and this address book is trash! warns the antique collector. No problem. After one long schlep for mankind, the eagle has finally landed. I’m here to stay. Write it in ink.
Since this is my last column of the century (now that’s intense) I get to wish you all a happy new Millennium. And I promise that there are no more closeted Schnauzer puppies I haven’t outed.
Like Dorian Gray’s aging painting in the attic, somewhere out there, there must be a wrinkly 51-year-old hetero woman, gagging through her accordion player’s zillionth rendition of the Beer Barrel Polka.
As for me, give me Tinky Winky and downtown Rehoboth. See you for Valentine’s Day, and don’t let the Y2K bugs bite.