Sweating It Out for Marriage Equality
Between Delaware celebrating the passage of Civil Unions and the stunning late-night vote to approve marriage equality in New York, it seems we’re queer, we’re here, and we’re registering at Crate and Barrel.
That’s the royal “we” of course, since Bonnie and I were married back in 2003 in Canada and now Delaware, along with New York and seven other states, will recognize our Canadian same-sex nuptials.
New York’s vote was made all the sweeter as Bonnie and I traveled in the RV to Kent Island by the Chesapeake Bay Bridge last weekend to celebrate with pride, the D.C. wedding of two very dear, longtime friends.
But the gay pride we felt was only barely more than the personal pride I felt surviving this particular camp-out experience. It was my outward bound, kids, and, as I am fond of saying, bad decisions often make good stories.
The decision was to stay overnight in the RV on the bridal party’s driveway the night before the wedding reception and the night of the party itself. Okay, on its own, it wasn’t a bad decision, given the expectation of two days and nights of eating, drinking, and dancing. So the devil, they say, was in the details of powering up the camper.
On Friday, after dinner and dancing, as I closely monitored the New York Senate marriage equality vote on my smart phone, its battery gave out, making it a dumb phone in every way. So, we said our goodnights and headed to the RV, where I could plug in the Droid and follow up our live pre-wedding party with a virtual New York gay wedding watch.
But alas, a second RV was on site as well, and with both of us plugged into the same garage electric circuit, disaster struck. Minutes after we staggered back to the creature comforts of The Bookmobile, the circuit blew, plunging us into total darkness. Minus the air-conditioner, the RV soon became a pitch-black Native American sweat lodge.
“Crap, even Motel 6 leaves a light on for you. God, it’s dark in here,” I said, ”and no guide dogs. But I’m glad they’re with the dog sitter, not suffocating with us.”
As I lay frying, indeed. No air, no light, no marriage equality updates.
“We’ll be okay,” Bonnie said, “it will cool off soon. But let’s sleep with our heads at the foot of the bed where there’s more air circulating.”
As we lay there, about-face, panting and sweating, a miracle happened, and we drifted off to sleep, aided, perhaps, by three hours of wedding toasts.
Suddenly, Bonnie let out a honking snort of a snore, I scooted over to smack her, but being upside down on the bed, I went the wrong way and fell off, wedging myself between the bed and the wall.
“What the hell???” hollered Bonnie, jolted awake by the thump and the expletives. She turned to find me, and likewise, went east, not west, plunging off the other side of the bed. Now we’re both between a rock and a hard place on opposite sides of the bed and of course, starting to laugh.
But it was searing hot in the vehicle and we were desperate. So, getting back to her feet, Bonnie starts feeling her way by Braille, inching to the control panel to turn on the fans that operate off the batteries. I reach out to guide her back, promptly poking a finger in her eye, and while she’s flailing and shouting “Ow,” she crashes into my knee caps and thank goodness the Keystone Kops are still laughing.
Back to bed. Air starting to move a little. Drifting off, we hear it—a beep like a smoke detector. Beep. Beep. Beep,
“Jeez, now what?” I ask.
“It’s that thing on the wall,“ Bonnie says, presumably pointing to the tiny red light blinking on the plastic device at the head of the bed. I inch toward it on my hands and knees, put my face up to the meter, with one eye trying to read the words by the glow of the blinking, beeping red light. The largest letters say “Replace by 2006.” Oh, goody.
“I can’t see this thing, shit, it’s like the bottom line on the eye chart. Nobody our age can read this. Wait, wait, oh for god’s sake, it’s in French. It says defaults…oh, here’s the English, F-A-U-L-T. It says fault.”
“Fault? What does that mean?” asks Bonnie.
“It means it’s your fault. This whole camping thing is your fault. Why did you ever think I could adapt to living like this? Jews don’t camp and now I know why.” So the two of us are laughing again and have to pee, and it’s anybody’s guess where the door to the bathroom is.
Finally, Bonnie deduces that the blinking light means low voltage and the vehicle battery is dying. At which point the fans sputter and stop.
“I don’t hear you laughing,” Bonnie says as the place began to heat up again.
“When’s the ceremonial purification rite? If I wanted a sauna I would have joined a health club. I’m simmering here.”
“Don’t worry,” said the sweat lodge guru, “I’ll turn the engine on and it will charge the battery and get some air-conditioning going.”
“Well, you’d better, or at least baste me and cover me with foil.” So she did, turn the engine on, that is, then fell promptly back to sleep.
Life is cruel. I finally got rid of the hot flashes and night sweats and here I am, living the dream again. Meanwhile, Bonnie is snoring away while I lay wide awake worrying we were being asphyxiated by engine exhaust.
I didn’t have to fret long. The beeping started and Bonnie shot up and back onto the floor. This time it was another kind of warning beep, probably alerting us to carbon monoxide poisoning.
So we turned off the motor, the beeping stopped and the place turned into an E-Z Bake Oven again. I was waiting for the button to pop on the Butterball turkey when we finally decided to get dressed and just wait for sunrise.
When we staggered, sweaty and sleepless, out of the RV, we met the other camping couple, only to discover that they had tripped the blown circuit back, unplugged our rig from it, and plugged theirs back in—as the sole occupant of the circuit, they had a fine night of air and light.
Grrrrrrr.
But we heard that the NY vote was a yea (yay!), had a grand time at the wedding party, and then, by nightfall, the other rig pulled out and we had the all-important electric circuit all to ourselves. Now that is my kind of circuit party—celebrating marriage equality, luxury camping, and Gay Pride.
Those are the important things. I’m not sweating the small stuff.
Fay Jacobs is the author of As I Lay Frying—a Rehoboth Beach Memoir; Fried & True—Tales from Rehoboth Beach, and For Frying Out Loud—Rehoboth Beach Diaries. Email Fay Jacobs