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.
Last Minute Fashion Flair Up. Tony is blaming his last-minute acne flair-up on the number of outfits I’m bringing along. But what am I to do? We’re leaving for an extended week, and the weather forecasts are all over the radar range. He’s saying I’ve over-packed.
“What do you think? I’ve got four pair of shoes. Maybe I should throw in two more,” I suggested. “You know, in case a pair gets wet.”
“I think you’re going to have to make four work. I’m not packing any more than four pair,” he explained. When it comes to fashion and comfort, better to be safe than sorry. That’s my mantra. It’s really a simple math equation derived from a fifth-grade storybook problem:
Two gay men travel 1,100 miles from Atlanta to Vermont for a total of 11 days. Daytime highs are in the 70s, with overnight lows in the 50s. There is a chance of thunderstorms during the first part of the week during a three-day side-trip to Montreal, followed by partly cloudy and partly sunny alternating days during the second half of their week. How many outfits should they bring?
(3 x 11) x 2 + (2 x 2) = 70
3 outfits per day, with accessory layers multiplied by 11 days and an emergency roll of quarters in case laundry is needed mid-week, times 2 gay men, plus 2 additional disco outfits for good measure equals 70 outfits.
Hello? Any fifth grader scoring above no-child-left-behind scores can figure out that one. And that doesn’t even include the themed outfits and audio-visual equipment.
“If you’d plan properly, you wouldn’t need so many clothes,” Tony pontificates.
Plan properly? He is completely underestimating my ability to plan. With a proper fashion forecast, when I return home, I can still have four days of clean clothes in my bag. And that’s four more days I can put off doing laundry.
On The Road. We spent last night having a casual dinner with the Best Men, then wrapped up and headed home to pack. Up early this morning and then off to the airport to fly to Hartford. We spent the afternoon waltzing through Vermont, and found this very amusing gallery in Woodstock.
After 8 hours of casual driving and a very frustrating interpretation of a French map, we are finally at our hotel in Montreal. Will update more later once we eat dinner.
No Shoes. No Shirt. As if shopping for clothes for the Ceremony was not taxing enough, Dan’s shirt finally arrived. Only two-and-a-half weeks after it was supposed to be here. He motored his cute little smile over here to try it at the close of the workday, and thankfully, it fit perfectly.
This whole ordeal speaks to the sorry state of customer service in our society. If Bloomingdale's can’t get a shirt order called in from a sales associate in one store to another store correct, then is it even possible anymore? The only
With everything super-sized in our society, clothing no longer comes in petite. We should have anticipated this going into it, selecting one Best Man who is shaped like a V and the other who is as thin as a rail. If we wanted clothing shopping to be easy, we should have picked overweight couch potatoes to stand up with us.
Oh, wait. We don’t know any overweight couch potatoes.
It’s Just A Silly Party. Last week, I went to a networking luncheon. Actually, I was the moderator of the discussion. “Emerging Trends in Retail Real Estate Marketing.” Another yawn-producing program sponsored by the International Council of Shopping Centers. The Chair of the State Committee came in as we were setting up and flashed a ring.
“We did it!” she squealed like a sorority girl. She and her boyfriend got engaged the weekend before at Walt Disney World. Everyone gathered around, jumped up and down, and wanted to know every detail of the engagement. Followed by a rapid succession of questions.
Have you set a date?
Big wedding or small?
Where?
What kind of dress?
What are you colors going to be?
I started to say, “My partner and I are celebrating our 10-year anniversary with a Union Ceremony in a little romantic meeting house on a hill overlooking a valley in Vermont with 50 of our closest friends and our colors are pretty and prettier.”
But I couldn’t even get ‘My’ out without being cut off by someone gushing over the “antique-style but totally new with somewhat modern look to it” ring.
So mouth cocked open ready to spew forth my excitement, I stopped. Mid-breath. And that’s when I remembered that I was not standing in the lobby of a sorority house. Rather, I was standing in a professional networking environment, and I was about to bring up a topic that might be too controversial.
And that’s when I became ashamed. Ashamed because I didn’t have the balls to deal with the awkwardness that would come shortly after my riveting statement. I wondered if they would squeal and jump up and down as if I just won the Showcase Showdown on a network game show when I told them the story of how we got engaged on the rim of Crater Lake. Would they giggle when I told them I presented Tony with a ring and a card suggesting that we tie the knot in Vermont? When Tony opened the card and started laughing, would they relate to me nearly vomiting because I thought he was laughing out loud at the concept, but later came to find out he was laughing because as he opened the card, he ripped the most obnoxious, altitude-induced fart he thought most certainly echoed off the rim of Crater Lake?
I thought not. I thought I would see dropped jaws like those you see when a joke simply doesn’t fly. And that’s when I became mad and sad.
I’ve thought about my relationship beyond the colors and the colors and the size of the reception and what sort of music will be there. I’ve pondered the true meaning of those traditions and the messages they send. And I don’t get to talk about my relationship. But she gets to talk about hers.
But then it dawned on me. Maybe they really don’t care whether she’s happy or not. Maybe all they want to know is the flavor of her cake and be done with it. And maybe I’m thinking about this too much, and if I could just make it about the party, everyone would be happy. After all, who can’t relate to a silly party?
Going into the closet. Our Best Men are going to host a bachelor party, of sorts. “Boys Night Out” a few days before the Union, we’ll be heading to the Rainbow Cattle Company in East Dummerston. It’s one of two gay and lesbian bars in the State of Vermont. We thought it would be a fun little excursion, and I’m sure it will be.
But in counting up the R.S.V.P.s, we’ve got 4 gay boys and about 18 straight people who will descend upon this establishment. Our Best Men are going to prep the Rainbow Cattle Company about our pending presence, but the challenge is prepping the Straights, who simply have never had to think twice before walking into a bar. Or who have never had to drive back and forth on a street, looking for some sort of signal that indicates what’s behind the door with a single light fixture above it and no sign is a bar that welcomes men who love men.
Our photographer was excited about getting some great candid shots that night, but I said no, that cameras would probably make people uncomfortable and cause a scene. And given our reception last time we went, loading this bar with straight people and then bringing out cameras might simply throw them over the edge.
How do you explain to straight people around us who have been nothing but accepting and supportive of us and our relationship that not all gay people are as comfortable with who they are as we are? How do you explain that many gays and lesbians in rural areas live a life of secrecy, and this bar is the one place where they can relax, let down their guard and be themselves?
For these folks at the Rainbow Cattle Company, to have their straight friends and family share in their gay life (as we will do that weekend) is simply an unimaginable dream. Our guests might see the things they would see in a straight bar—dancing, flirting, kissing—only between two men. What happens there will stay there. Hopefully, our guests will realize for one night they will be going into the closet with us and will experience how many gay men and lesbian women have to live.
The Celebration Around Us. We had a lovely evening down the street at the Burke’s house last night. They threw together a great little shin-dig in about three days, and about a dozen people were able to attend. What struck me is how much celebration around us exists for us to be us, and for us to be the couple we are. It was just the right crowd for many heart-felt conversations, some really good food and wine.
I wish we could take a bus of people to Vermont, and everyone who came last night could be a part of our celebration. One of the books we’ve selected for a reading during the Ceremony is a children’s book by Joan Walsh Anglud, A Friend is Someone Who Likes You. The theme of the book is about how friends are all around you, sometimes you might not know it, but if you simply look, you’ll see they are there.
There are many people who are not comfortable with the concept of two people of the same sex having their relationship confirmed publicly in front of friends and family, and bound by a legal document. But one thing is becoming clear: we’re realizing who our true friends are, because they are celebrating with us—loudly, clearly, proudly.
Becoming one? I think not. I just polished up my vows. Exhausted, that’s when my latest anxiety attack hit. We’ve decided not to share our vows with each other before the Ceremony, and as I was saving them onto my laptop, that’s when it hit me like a stripper at a bachelor party. What if what I wrote in my vows completely contradicts Tony’s vows? How foolish we will look. “These folks are doomed,” people will most certainly think.
Just to make sure I’m not completely off base here, I sheepishly asked Tony, “You don’t have anything in your vows about becoming one, do you?”
“Hell no!” he said, his face making a horrible grimace. I was so relieved, and that’s when I realized how silly I was being. Of course he doesn’t have anything like that in his vows. We’re completely separate people with our own identities. We allow each other to be our own individuals and that’s why our relationship works.
In an odd way, preparing for this weekend is building my confidence in us.
