From the proposal on the Rim of Crater Lake to the actual Union in Vermont, follow along as we develop plans for our Union Ceremony scheduled for August 2004, celebrating 10 years together.
Holding the Key to Our Virtual World. Unforeseen challenges arise when you put your life on the web. While it doesn’t bring the same side effects as walking down the street naked, it does allow people to page through your life from a computer screen. Visitors to BarnesPlace.com invariably begin to feel a connection after scrolling through just three sections, thinking they’re our best friends, and we theirs. Since this interaction is stagnant with pictures and words, it goes without saying it’s one-sided—much like the relationship you might have with a department store mannequin. They look glamorous, appearing to have all the qualities you might look for in a friend—always listening, never interrupting you mid-thought, and never leaving you behind when their cell phone rings.
It’s good to keep this in perspective, that these folks—these “internet stalkers” as we’ve come to know them—are not your best friends and therefore, should not be allowed the level of access best friends earn. They shouldn’t know where you keep your bottle opener or the flavor of your favorite cocktail or which shape Tiki glass you prefer to drink from. It’s an unsettling feeling when you walk into a room, and a stranger who is just as unknown as the clerk at the grocery checkout asks, “Shall I get you the usual?” as if he’s your bartender at your local watering hole.
So when we meet unknowns who have perused our website, we approach the relationship with cautious intrepidness. The browser thinks he knows us through a few keystrokes and clicks, but it’s not really true. What he’s fallen in love with is really just the carefully crafted image of our website, and reality is simply not necessarily the same. (I like to think it is more, but others might have a different opinion.) If not careful, visitors to BarnesPlace.com begin to live vicariously through our website. They long to be with us—attending the same events and living in the shadows—like an ex-boyfriend who just won’t go away.
When I was fourteen, married men at the mall would look at me, making funny gestures with their mouths, as if they had something hot stuck on their tongue they were trying to cool. Only, we weren’t in the food court, we were in the bookstore standing on opposite sides of the bargain books. It always made me queasy and nervous when this would happen. It’s the same feeling, I’m sure, Jackie Onassis probably dealt with most of her life (the knowledge that Jackie and I have shared something, at least, offers some comfort).
“You’re my new best friend.” “I think you’d be fun to hang out with.” “I feel like I should know you.” These are the opening lines of an Internet Stalker.
Meeting Dan and Sean was no different. We’d shared a really good evening on the town before they went to our website. Strangers, sitting next to us, we made small talk, and discovered we have friends in common. We discovered our social circles overlap. We discovered two of us share the same college major. None of these facts groundbreaking in and of themselves, but they were coincidences that connected us and moved the conversation forward. We clicked our drink glasses well together, laughing at the right moments and dancing through conversation like professional championship ballroom dancers. And like ballroom dancers, the evening was best left on the shallowest level with nothing more and nothing less. But as the energy at the bar faded, it seemed appropriate that we exchange e-mail addresses—a hint, I guess, that we might dance again.
The morning after, I sat down at my desk, and saw the e-mail address scrawled on a crumpled cocktail napkin. I’ve had a lot of experience with this. Recalling the evening, sure, I felt a bond, but I’m not a fool. It’s comparable to bonds developed at a religious retreat, with a false sense of depth. You walk away feeling these people will be there to pick you up when you’re down and out, but the truth is, they’ll never return your phone call. We shared a moment, a connection. That’s all this was—a really good one-night stand on barstools.
Despite this, I started to type a message: “It was nice meeting you last night. Both Tony and I really enjoyed the conversation, and I hope we can see you again soon.” It’s the most I could muster in my hung-over haze—each character bringing me one keystroke closer to exploding nausea. And before hitting “send”, I realize, while sincere, I couldn’t quite remember what they looked like. So I hit “delete”, and returned to bed to cuddle with my bottled water.
So when I awoke from my nap to a message from Dan, I naturally assumed we had simply acquired two new Internet stalkers. Either that, or they were humoring us, making us feel as if we really had been entertaining, and they really had enjoyed our conversation. For all we knew, the bar could have been so crowded, they couldn’t move away from us quickly enough, with yelling the socially inappropriate “fire” being the only thing they could have possibly done to get away from us.
But something was different with these two, because a few months later, we were exchanging house keys. Dan suggested they give us a key to the Hovel on Gilbert, and that they should have a key to Barnes Place. It struck me as odd and curious. We know lots of people, but we don’t have keys to their homes, nor they to ours. Even some of our closest friends who would housesit while we went on vacation didn’t have a key to our house. Once we had thought about giving a key to a neighbor or friend for those just-in-case times when you remember you left the teapot boiling on the stove before leaving for Florida. We just had never done it.
But as odd as the request seemed, we obliged, and I went to the hardware store to have an extra key made, and one night shortly thereafter, we made a less-than-ceremonious swap. So either we had unlocked the door to the most sophisticated Internet stalkers we’d known, or Sean or Dan were simply different.
The jury was still out for the verdict, though. For a time, there were a number of events that just felt premature and out of sequence for people who had just met over the rim of a Cape Cod. Two weeks after meeting them, still having trouble remembering which one was Dan and which one was Sean, we were invited to a birthday party for Sean. Ever since I was five years old, I’ve always carefully selected the attendees at my birthday parties. That year my party consisted of slightly more than half of my kindergarten class.
“How could a five-year-old have twenty-one people to a birthday party?” I remember my mother asking her card club one night as I walked around the living room with a floral print tray, serving beverages. Beginning that year, my mother trained me to whittle my guest list down to just the most significant people in my life (as long as they could all fit around the dining room table). So receiving an invite to a fairly significant thirtieth birthday only made me wonder--what kind of lives must these two live if they’d invite just anyone to a birthday party?
The next weekend we hosted our summer party, an annual occasion where we invite everyone we know. It was the epitome of American excess that year, themed “Liquidation”, a pun spinning off the summer liquidation retail sales. (No one got the theme, unfortunately, but they did get the “liquid” part, and it quickly became an exercise in binge drinking.) There was no question about including Dan and Sean; their humor and wit can captivate a room, and we thought the new faces would add freshness to the crowd of people who keep coming to our home for more.
But as the evening wound down, familiar faces gone and the other Internet stalkers off to nightclubs, it was just Sean and Dan left behind. Smiles on their faces, they cheerfully retrieved forgotten cocktails scattered through the house. Endearing? By this point, Dan and Sean had certainly proven themselves as party personalities worthy of mixing with everyone else we know. But, still, I was skeptical.
It was late in the evening the next day, past dinnertime but before the ABC Sunday Night Movie. The phone rang—an invitation from the boys to ‘hang out’. A week earlier, they had filled their home with friends and loved ones to celebrate a birthday, yet here they were calling us to hang out. With nothing else on the radar for the night, we headed over. We lounged and chatted into the wee hours as I fell asleep on their carefully appointed Rooms-to-Go Sofa.
Looking back, it’s clear these two were shaping up to be different than others who bump into you and attempt to cling-on. In fact, I vividly remember the day I realized they were wanting more than to just live vicariously through us, but they wanted share their life with us as well. I understood they were here not only to take, but also to give—and to give without keeping score. It was the day the four of us had been outlet shopping.
Now a day at the mall can try anyone’s soul. In fact, just waiting for Sean to emerge from the dressing room is enough to push any shopping enthusiast over the edge. We were on a mission with no agenda—nowhere to go and nowhere to be—just serious shopping on our minds.
I noticed how all four of us were seamless in our actions, moving from store to store, rack to rack. We were comfortable with each other, never reluctant or intimidated to say “that outfit adds twenty pounds,” or, “if you’re going for slut, you’ve nailed it,” or “‘it doesn’t look good enough to spend $10 on, even though that is a great price.” I was getting more help than I ever got from Tony, and interacting with Sean and Dan actually seemed to pull out the best in us. The four of us went together like a well-coordinated and extremely fashionable outfit.
A Toyota RAV-4-full later, we were headed back to town. The day had been long, and my dogs were barking. Yet it had been a pleasant day, all in all—a welcome surprise, because if it had been anyone else, we would have been at the wit’s end, counting the minutes until we’d be out of the car. But with Dan and Sean, what had been close to six hours really only seemed like an hour.
With no plans for the evening, Tony and I announced that we were going to order a pizza and watch a movie. I anticipated Dan and Sean would have to live their lives responsibly after spending a day away from home, needing to clean house or something. Despite my presumption, though, when we asked if they’d join us, expecting they’d see the end of an outlet shopping mission the conclusion of a great day filled with good times, they said “yes”. Without hesitation, without quizzing us on what we liked on our pizza, or the title of the movie, they said “yes”, and they agreed to come over as soon as they walked their dogs.
That was the moment that really solidified these two were different from anyone else in our lives. It didn’t matter we were having pizza. It didn’t matter what movie we were watching. And it didn’t matter that the plot was slow and arduous with corny dialogue (I think it was an art flick about someone killing people for their nice-fitting denim jeans). The fact that I can’t recall the exact title of the film speaks volumes to how insignificant the movie actually was that evening. What mattered was that we were sitting on the sofa together, sharing a moment and a space that was uniquely and collectively ours.
The invitation to Sean’s birthday party, which at first had appeared premature, suddenly seemed appropriate. Their sticking around to clean up after an evening of hedonism seemed anything but intrusive. And, falling asleep on their sofa just felt natural and comforting. There was no one else in our life like these two boys. Dan and Sean managed to wedge their way into our lives despite our initial reluctance to embrace them for what they were bringing to us.
Maybe it was stubbornness. Both Tony and I were struggling with our relationship, neither willing to be the first to “give”. After five years, we found ourselves at a point at which we could either figure out how to finally make it work together for many years to come, or we could part directions, claiming we had given it our best shot. So at the moment we were at a total impasse in our relationship, Dan and Sean appeared, unknowingly unlocked the door, threw it wide open, and gave us a hearty shove in the direction neither of us had been willing to move first.
Having keys to each other’s homes actually made sense, and that night, the key to the Hovel on Gilbert took on new meaning. It began to occupy a new important place in my heart. And knowing there is a key to Barnes Place is in their pocket today provides me the comfort of being wrapped in a cozy blanket. To me, these keys began to represent not just mutual access to our homes and lives, but a trust in their proper use. They symbolize a commitment to safekeeping of one another. They honor a growing connection that distinguishes the bond between us from the bonds with others. These keys do more than open doors. They are a constant reminder of a presence in our lives. One that lifts us up, and thrusts us forward. When your house is on the web, you virtually let anyone into your world. But they’re not really there. Not like those who hold the keys to your house.
Nervous Fortune. I am so nervous about tonight, pacing around the house. Not nervous that it won’t go well. Not nervous that our Best Men will say no. But nervous that it is over-planned, or too much. I think I’m driving Tony crazy with my pacing back and forth. He’s much more relaxed about this than I am. Almost everything is set in place, and I’m just waiting for Charlotte to finish editing my story, and then I’m off to Kinko’s to publish it.
I’m fighting the nausea. A few weeks ago, I’m the one who tossed Dan’s anti-nausea suppositories in the garbage after he had recovered from his tonsillectomy. Now I wish I had tossed them in my backpack. To relax, I began looking through the bookshelf. I grabbed a book given to me in high school by my yearbook advisor, “A Bell for Adano” by John Hersey. It won the Pulitzer Prize in 1945. I’ve never read it, and I’m not really sure I grabbed this one.
I opened the cover to read the note she inscribed on a Post-It and attached to the title page. The fortune from a Chinese cookie fell to the floor. I bent over to pick it up, and read the aged-yellow slip, “Joint ventures work out better than going it alone.”
I really have no need to be nervous with the men I have around me.
Finding Best Men. We’ve decided to have Best Men. But we’re not sure what role the Best Men will play, or exactly what they will do. I just know, we need help from people who are intimately involved.
Thinking about asking our Best Men to be our Best Men has been stressing me out. It’s a significant moment in our relationship with the Best Men. I feel as if it needs to be commemorated with something, a token if you will, like a new father might pass our cigars. Particularly since I really can’t articulate what it is I want them to do. I’m afraid the conversation over dinner might go along the lines of “So, we want you to be our Best Men.” And they will respond, “Okay. Sure.” And then we’ll say, “Great. Do you like your pot roast?” So a small gift might underscore that we’re serious.
And that’s what I’ve been struggling with. What do you give that appropriately celebrates, but is not cornball, or something that will be tossed in a dresser drawer only to be used at funerals? Yesterday, my ideas gelled together; now I just hope I can execute it. I told Tony about my thoughts last night as we drove over to Dan and Sean’s house for burritos. “Now you have me stressed about it,” he said, glaring through the car window as if he should have been a deer in the headlights staring back at us. “I was just going to ask them to do it and be done with it.”
“I know,” I said. “And that’s what you’re going to do. Ask them, and then I’ll take over.” And I think I’ve got a plan. One that will celebrate their role in our lives--our Best Men.
