LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOut: Frosty Friends and the Anniversary Waltz |
by Fay Jacobs |
According to etiquette books, a proper twentieth anniversary gift is china or occasional furniture. Twenty years and you get a gift-wrapped end table? As I write this, Bonnie and I will hit the 20-year mark tomorrow, and frankly, we've got all the Mikasa and Ethan Allen we need. In fact, we often sit, feet up on the occasional furniture, amazed we ever met at all. That we wound up dancing together on a windy March night two decades ago was an absolute fluke. I'm about to tell the story, so if you mind my getting a little mushy, bail now. I was 33 and not long out of the closet. An acquaintance mentioned a women's dance in Baltimore at the Glass Pavilion at Johns Hopkins University. My vintage '82 internalized homophobia led me to ask "What moron books a gay dance in a glass room????" I wasn't sure I wanted to go. Fear of flaunting wasn't the only thing that could have kept me home that night. Despite 16 years in D.C., Baltimore remained a mystery. I wanted a Sherpa guide. Moreover, it was unseasonably freezing out. I still don't know what made me grab my Rand McNally and my mittens and head North. Meanwhile, Bonnie might not have made it there either. Her date, a horsewoman, was riding the afternoon hunt, and asked Bonnie to meet her at Hopkins. Did Bonnie really want to go by herself? It could have gone either way. The dance started at 9 and, after riding my own frenzied hunt to Baltimore, I arrived at a pathologically early 9:01. Yes, the ballroom was glass. Purple balloons and lesbians were visible from the parking lot. Yipes. Inside the nearly empty hall, I took one good earful of the all-woman "new age" band tuning up and almost fled. Women began arriving, mostly in pairs. Finally, I saw the couple who lured me there. With no energy for games, I cut to the chase. "Know any available singles here?" My friends exchanged glances and pointed across the room to Bonnie. "I'm looking for somebody who isn't screwed up," I said. They still pointed to Bonniean attractive, nicely dressed woman eyeing the door. At that moment in my coming out process, it would be an new experience to march over to someone and introduce myself. But I did it. Sadly, I have no memory of the conversation since the sounds of the band tuning up turned out to be the actual new age women's music. It was deafeningly awful. We tried to dance, but after two tortured minutes without a detectible beat, I hollered the quintessential "Let's go someplace where we can talk" and we fled to the coat check. With that, the horsewoman arrived, minus fox and hounds, but standing an aggressive six feet tall. I started to sweat. "We're just leaving" Bonnie said slightly apologetically. To her credit, the mistress of the hunt shrugged and said "I should have known better than to leave somebody as good looking as you here by yourself." I couldn't have agreed more. So we headed to Mitchell's, an infamous Baltimore women's bar. Against tradition, March was going out like the same lion it was when it roared in. Wind sent twigs, leaves and city trash swirling around Bonnie's teeny Chevette as we drove past Baltimore Harbor and into Little Italy. We hit every traffic light on yellow, with Bonnie hollering "catch you next time" as we sailed through. By the fifth amber light it was a duet. The bar was dark, smoky and as noisy as the dance, only we recognized the music. After two hours of Bad Girls and I Will Survive, we retreated to the car and reversed directions. "Catch you next time" we shouted, as ambers faded to red. Back at Hopkins, we huddled in the 'Vette (we wished!), finally speaking below a scream and started discovering our differences. Bonnie was into softball and camping; The only diamonds I saw were at Bloomingdales. As for camping, I refused to sleep anyplace with turf between my bed and bath. My accent screamed Noo Yawk; Miss Baltimore said "I love gewin' downy ocean, dewnt yew?" It took me ten minutes to figure out she meant a trip to the beach. I'd never had a soft shell crab; she'd never had a knish. She owned a dental lab; I was dental-phobic. I directed plays; she'd seen Hello, Dolly once. Bonnie built things and wired whole buildings; I couldn't stop my new VCR from flashing 12:00. It got worse and we just laughed. Me: obsessively early; She: generally late; my Manhattan clan loved museums, contemporary furniture and worked in advertising; her people hailed from Virginia hill country, decorated early American and plowed for a living. She was D.A.R. eligible, I was Ellis Island. And forget about religion. Amid howling winds in the deserted parking lot, opposites attracted. So we exchanged numbers and promised to call. By early April we were an item. By the following November we'd bought a home together. Somehow, our different lives meshed, as we practiced the high art of compromise. I direct shows and Bonnie does tech. We get everywhere exactly on time, rushing Bonnie and panicking Fay. She gets me to the dentist by heading toward the outlets, then diverting. And I got her to trade camping for boatingit still involves ice coolers and bug spray, but there's carpet between berth and bath. And every December we try not to burn down the Christmas tree with the Hanukkah candles. Sure, we occasionally scream "Princess!!!" or "Hillbilly!!!" at each other, but overall it works out very well. And I have only one tiny regret. Collectibles. Way back in 1983 I bought a Christmas ornament with a cute little seal on it because my mate loves seals. I was too stupid to notice the phrase "Second in a Series" on the box. In 1985, I thought it would be nice to have a similar "Frosty Friend" ornament with a penguin on it. To my horror, I realized I was now collecting. I felt compelled to buy the "collectible" every year from then on, waiting and praying for the words "Last in a Series" to appear. So far, no dice. I must have been in a coma in 1996 and a dither in l998, because somehow I missed those editions. Well, with our anniversary coming up, I decided it would be nice to have the whole set of Frosty Friends, since the Collectible Series (phony marketing ploy that it is) began production the year Bonnie and I met. I mentioned my quest to a friend and she introduced me to eBay. When I looked online for missing ornaments, I was flabbergasted. Hundreds of people were embroiled in chaotic bidding wars for those hunks of Hallmark plastic. Get a grip, folks. These aren't Da Vinci. According to the descriptions ("Original box, never opened, mint condition, blah, blah") the cardboard packing is worth as much as the plastic geegaws. Just before last Christmas, the '82 and '84 editions were in auction battles topping $200 with "just 12 minutes to go!" I may be nostalgic, but I'm not nuts. Then, after Christmas, we were able to get our hands on the late '90's editions for $27 and $29 each. It was outrageous for cheesy plastic snow scenes and arctic animals, but also somehow satisfying. In February, a friend found the '84 Frosty Friend (with a missing box, tsk, tsk) for just over $40 and I bit leaving only the elusive 1982 Hallmark Frosty Friend out of my grasp. So that's it. Bonnie and I are celebrating twenty great years. We hope to make it legal whenever we actually get our civil rights, meaning we'll be lucky to have the ceremony at the nursing home. And while tomorrow is our day to celebrate, tonight I have to check out eBay again before I go to sleep. God knows, after 20 years, Bonnie and I have everything we need, but if anybody knows where we can get an '82 Frosty Friend cheap, telling us where to look would be a better present than all the occasional furniture in Johnny Janosiks. Happy Anniversary, Bon. The '82 junk is up to $337.50 and I ain't goin' there. If I ever again even glance at something that could possibly become a collectible, shoot me. Fay Jacobs may be reached at CampOutReho@aol.com. Her car has been detailed and smells okay now. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 12, No. 03, April 5, 2002. |