I haven't written in awhile because, like so many others, I'm simply numb. My hopes to wake up to the election of our country's first female president- hopes shared by more than half of our country's voters- evaporated into a horror show of bewilderment, disgust and crushing disappointment. I know that we did everything we could, and that the flaws that caused this fiasco have always been well beyond my control. But the tears and the sleepless nights have been there, nonetheless.
I also know that four years can go by in a heartbeat. Whoda' thunk that it's been four years since I married the most wonderful man in the world? It seems like yesterday. But now, even though I realize that it's unlikely, a new worry has begun to gnaw at my peace of mind- whether or not my marriage will continue to be fully recognized in the country that I call home.
My mind has begun to work overtime. Where to go? What to do? I started to research where we could go to remarry, should we be forced to. We are in London often, but that will require some planning in order to comply with the 7 day residency requirement, followed by a 15 day posting of notice. Let's just say it isn't Vegas. But apparently Gibraltar is, as is Denmark. It's all rather daunting.
To think that four years ago, we navigated through the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy in New York, and ended up taking the subway to the marriage bureau in the Bronx, as the Manhattan office was under water. There, on the Grand Concourse, I couldn't help but think about TV's beloved Rhoda Morgenstern, and how she too had to take the subway to her own wedding, because her friend Phyllis forgot to pick her up. I took it as an omen, and the good fortune continued. In the basement of the county courthouse, we were married by an angel of a woman sent by central casting, a cross between Whoopi Goldberg and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. After our teary ceremony, attended by just us and one witness, she concluded, "And now you may both hug me."
Following that, we hightailed it to the just re-opened airport to catch a flight to Milwaukee. There, we were joined by family and friends for a weekend celebration. Both sets of our parents co-hosted a Friday fish fry to welcome everyone- on Saturday there were brewery tours and other activities- and that evening we all gathered at the University Club of Milwaukee's rooftop dining room for a fabulous, big blowout of a cocktail party. It was the very first same sex wedding reception ever at the University Club. There have been many since. Finally, on Sunday morning, we welcomed everyone to a game day brunch at our house in Wauwatosa. The Packers walloped Arizona.
So now here I am thinking "What do I do now?" I know that the answer is probably nothing, but I can't help myself. In the aftermath of the election, that marvelous song from the Broadway musical, "Mame," keeps running through my head. Secretary Agnes Gooch, played by the hysterical Jane Connell, finds herself knocked up after a one night stand at the Shangri-La Motel in East Stroudsberg, PA. She sings about her situation to her employer, the urbane Mame, played by Angela Lansbury. It remains one of the great laments of American musical comedy.
And here we are in another comedy- a comedy of errors- except this one's not so funny. Who knows how this will play out? I'm pretty sure it won't be winning any awards- and I also have a funny feeling that it may even close before its investors get paid back. Serves them right for backing a racist, misogynistic turkey of a show that features a homophobic sidekick.
If only they had cast Nathan Lane.