A Life of Its Own

I posted this picture because this is what I plan to wear to our civil union picnic.  ha ha!  Actually, I posted it in honor of Lucy Lawless' birthday yesterday.  Happy Birthday, warrior princess.

First things first: one of the victims of my unfriending fury last week has apologized--yes, one of "the others" wrote AND spoke to the wife yesterday and was very apologetic.  This brings a tear to my eye.  I highly doubt my unfriending spree had anything to do with it.  I am impressed and I know the wife is relieved.  Thank you, Baby Jesus!  Perhaps "the others" will fall, one by one.  See? The Baby Jesus really does hate homophobia.

Seeking all creative cures: the wife is still struggling (and I do mean struggling) with sciatica.  This must stop.  I can't have a lame wife and she can't have this ongoing pain.   We are seeking all recommendations at this point--nothing is too weird, too expensive, too simple, too complicated.  (She doesn't do illegal, though.)  While the acupuncture is definitely helping, she is still rather miserable, groans when she moves for any particular purpose, can only sleep on one side and still has pain, pain, pain.  I am proud to say she is doing her daily stretches and addressing her fears (go with it--it's part of the problem, we are sure).  Tonight, I will see if she wants to do a relaxation tape.  I do love a good relaxation....can't hurt to try, it's free and she can stop whenever she wants/needs to.

We must heal her--how is she ever going to be able to do "The Chicken Dance" at our civil union picnic if she is not healed by then?  (Note to Argo and Three Hawk: Are we doing the Chicken Dance at our picnice and you are doing the Hokey Pokey at your party--or, is it the other way around? I can't remember.  Damn peri-menopause!)

Ah, the civil union: the event is trying to take a life of its own.  Our wonderful, supportive, excited friends are full of great ideas, all driven by love, friendship and the best of intentions.  We basically stand here looking like deer in the headlights while things swirl around us.  One awesome suggestion was to have a "wedding" website--the websites are free and all the fabulous in-the-know-brides of the world create a site to post general wedding information, directions to the venues, place to RSVP, story of the proposal and of the wedding party, ad naseum.  This is actually a great idea; however, we're not having a wedding and once I started to make one of these web pages (for the purpose basically of gathering RSVPs and of providing driving directions), it got to be very overwhelming.  It just made me realize how much we haven't done or even thought of and this was of no comfort. The wife looked terrified when I started talking aloud, spouting out all the thoughts and questions that were developing in my brain:

Me: "What time do you want to eat? Hmmm. What time do people eat at a civil union picnic?
Wife: Blank stare.
Me: "What do you want to eat?"
Wife: "Picnic food."
Me: "Do you know any caterers? I don't know any caterers."
Wife: Blank stare.
Me: "Huh.  What the hell am I gonna call our page? Every website address has the word wedding in it."
Wife: Blank stare.
Me: "Proposal? We don't need a proposal page.  How the hell do I delete this page?"
Wife:  "Do we really need a website? I thought we were keeping this simple. This civil union is starting to take a life of its own."

I stop and ponder this statement: a life of its own. 

I agree.  The thing is alive and trying to take us over.  We.must.fight.back.  Although I am a technology whore, I scrap the idea of a website and stick to the plan.  We really do want to keep things simple. We are going to have to stand firm every time someone gives us yet another new suggestion......

.....we will smile and nod, smile and nod.

It's while I am reading various web pages developed by the organized brides in the world when I realize that I have made a grave mathematical error: when using the Christmas card list to develop the invitation list, I only counted how many envelopes I annually send out.....not realizing that more than one person lives at each house.  This means I grossly under-estimated the potential number of guests by a lot.

Oops.

I break the news gently to the wife.  She handles it quite calmly.....until I start talk about catering prices and she starts realizing that my gross miscalculation means the food costs are going to be much different than the numbers swirling in her head.

She was shell-shocked.  I had no idea she had no idea about food costs.  Here I am thinking how reasonable the prices are and what the total will be and she is thinking that this is way, way, way more than she ever envisioned.  Suffice it to say, she was quickly educated.  Once she regained consciousness, all was well.

This planning thing is hard.  I am a "here and now" kind of grrrrl--thinking two months ahead is really a stretch for me.  But, time is of the essence, so we really can't just sit around, looking clueless and constipated. We must move forward while trying to keep the thing from growing.  I think I'll make little business cards that say: "No showers.  No bachelor-ette parties. No gifts.  No website. No public ceremony--just a picnic." This may or may not help as we move forward.

I've had more than one friend say to me, "you did this once before--how can this be hard for you?"  This always makes me burst into laughter:  that was in a previous life, when I was like 12 years old, completely naive to the fact I should have been terrified (and running far away) and most likely in a drunken stupor. I had a grasp (albeit limited) of what was expected in the wedding world and my amazing parents thankfully and generously led the way.  I worked for a priest (stop laughing!) who was full of wedding wisdom.  The pending father in law had connections to the printers in town, so invitations were a no-brainer. My parents took care of reception-planning.....

....we basically hung on for the ride.

Here's a photo of me that might help explain things.  Sorry you can't see the blue hi-tops I am wearing.  See? Definitely a previous life.  This person cannot help me today.  Friends, the "bride of yester-year" is not going to provide one ounce of useful direction.

Out of respect, I will not post a photo of the wife in her brides maid gown (but, I sure want to!).

Back to today.  Here and now. We will work with what we've got into today's civil union world.  And, for all you well-intentioned friends: we love you, we appreciate you, we listen to you, we thank you. Please don't take offense when I hand you that business card mentioned above.

For the record, we are incredibly fortunate that my family remains super-supportive and are available for "civil union planning consultation."  For instance, last night food questions were addressed, thanks to the much sought input from my mother and sister. I know my family will do whatever they can and whatever is asked.  The wife's family is coming around and there is hope for them--my money is that they will do what they can, too (in their own time).  Our friends are the bomb.  My co-workers are unbelievable.

My mantra: "We are having a picnic.  We can plan a picnic. We are having a picnic.  We can plan a picnic." Take that, you civil union monster, you.

I'd write more but I have to go plan a picnic, slay a monster and find a cure for sciatica.

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The Dreaded Post-Swedish-Smorgasbord Food Coma

I write this blog feeling as if there is a brick in my stomach. I am suffering from the dreaded post-Swedish Smorgasbord food coma.

I have a food injury.


Last night, the gaybors asked if we wanted to go to the smorgasbord at the local Swedish restaurant.  As there is almost nothing more delightful than a well-made Swedish Pancake, our eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.  We NEVER say no to an opportunity to eat Swedish pancakes, so how could we say no to an opportunity that included Swedish pancakes at a buffet?

Here's a photo I took of Flat Stanley visiting the restaurant. I took this photo a while back for a Book de la Face friend's project.  Flat Stanley is obviously welcoming you to the mecca of Swedish food in the area. FS knows where to find the good eats.

A note about Scandinavian in the Addiverse.  Where I grew up, it was Polish and Italian--no Scandinavian folks floating around.  So, when I moved to this town in 1980, I was really confused by the lack of names ending in "ski."  I was surrounded by a plethora of last names ending in "son."  I had never eating a Scandinavian food product in my life (well, at least not to my knowledge).  I didn't know there was a difference between Swedish people and Norwegian people. I had never heard of "glogg" (a classic Scandinavian hot-spiced drink that was designed to take the bite off those cold Swedish winter nights and most certainly make you drunker than a skunk without knowing it until it's too late) and I didn't have a guess at what the hell a lingonberry might be.  Suffice it to say, my ex-husband (a true Scandinavian) introduced me to all these things, including the Swedish pancake.

Thankfully, I was able to keep my lips off pickled herring during my initiation to the way of the north. 

Unfortunately, I was unable to keep my lips off glogg.  Those in-laws knew how to make a mean glogg.  I didn't like the taste very much--I'm not a spice-kind of grrrrl--but, one had to have some glogg when hanging out with them. Hmmmm.....there is a chance I may have put my lips on pickled herring during a glogg-induced fog.  I'm not sure.

I digress.  Back to the buffet.

The wife and I do love a good buffet; in fact, it is just wrong how much we love buffets.  It's no wonder we both loved eating at the college cafeteria--we were always first in line for lunch.  Seriously. Anyways, we try never to go to buffets because they just encourage bad foot behavior--meaning, we eat ourselves into food comas.  I am a "grazer:"  I eat all through the day but do not enjoying large meals. Worse is eating large meals at the end of the day--it makes me miserable and thus I enjoying going out for breakfast or lunch more than dinner.  I try to pace myself when we go out for dinner, no matter what the food.  But, a Swedish smorgasbord!  How can anyone say no to that?

Oh.my.god.  It was orgasmic.

It was also a carbohydrate nightmare.  Those Swedes don't eat a lot of veggies--it's hard to grow veggies in the cold, dark lands of Scandinavia.  They are all about potatoes, nothing green.

I think I would have been all right had I not included three Swedish pancakes with my meal.  I couldn't stop, though. I ate my potatoes in various forms and my desserts like there was no tomorrow. I ate a salad (a waste of space, actually) and then I slapped those three pancakes onto my plate.  I slathered them with an ice cream scoop's worth of butter and waddled back to the table.  I had a tear.  That's how good they were.

I ate the pancakes, smiling all the way....and, upon completion, realized I had eaten way.too.much.  I had a food injury.  I felt rather miserable.  I shrugged it off, figured it was plenty early before bedtime and thus decided to eat a cookie.  Sure, I'll be fine in a few hours.

I was wrong.  Talk about miserable.  Most people are fine a few hours of a big meal--they have a burp and a fart and they are fine. Not me.  That stuff was like a rock in there. Even though it had been several hours since our smorgasbording, I couldn't lay down--I was too miserable to lay down.  I have a slow moving system, so I swear those three Swedish pancakes were hanging out in my esophagus--there was no room for them in my stomach and they weren't going anywhere fast.  I basically slept sitting up.  Every time I would lay down, I felt sick.

I woke up still feeling quite full, rather miserable--the brick of food remained in my stomach.  But, I wasn't bitter; in fact, I was happy.  I was still in delight over how delicious that food had been, how much I had enjoyed every little morsel.

I am enveloped by the Scandinavian food coma.  The only cure is time and a poop.  For the love of Odin, let me poop!

This is Odin, from Xena Warrior Princess.  Great story line, complete with golden apples and Reingold. I pray to him for a great Nordic movement of the bowels.

For now, I will get dressed and go to church.  Nothing rumbling in the Addiverse.

And, so I say, "Go. Go forth and find the smorgasbord."  It's worth the price of a food injury.

Swedish pancakes at a Civil Union picnic, anyone?
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Civilized Unfriending

We've had such the wonderful response to the announcement of our civil union--the emails are flying in, warming our little cockles in every manageable fashion.  In case you are wondering, my "Straight of Honor" and "Gay of Honor" and the wife's "Person of Honor" have all graciously accepted their roles.  (I am still waiting to talk to one more person to learn if she will take part in the fun. Please say yes, Culver Griffendorr! All you have to do is drag your husband to the event and smile a lot. Nothing else.  I swear. You don't have to spend money or sing or hold anything or do an interpretive dance. You just have to be you.)   I think about the picnic invitations all the time and am always busy creating them in my head and on the computer, so if I'm looking at you and it looks like I'm listening but you're really not sure if I am listening, I am here to tell you I am not listening.  We haven't gotten to any of the serious planning, as the wife is knee-deep in the semester and there are four zillion things that need to be taken care of (i.e. order heart worm pills and kibble for dogs, get new wiper blades for car, change Book de la Face status, get excited about parental units upcoming 50th anniversary) before I immerse myself completely in the land of blushing brides.

I'm all giddy and bouncing around, singing little happy songs.  It's very obnoxious.

We are trying very, very hard not to let "the others" poop on our parade, but this is very, very hard when one considers who "the others" are.  This is what we've heard from "the others:"

The silence is deafening.

Don't try and make us feel better by saying, "oh, maybe they just haven't gotten around to contacting you" or what-not, because it isn't true.  "The Others" are freaked out.  We'll give them time....but, I can't stand to see how sad the wife looks.......so...... 


I took things into my own hands. 

I took drastic, decisive action:   

I unfriended AND blocked "the others" from my Book de la Face page.

Take that, asswipes!

Isn't that HILARIOUS? All this serious angst and my course of action is to unfriend people!!! That is totally HILARIOUS!

I realize that deleting and blocking people on a social network is SOOOOOO seventh grade but it sure made me feel better.  That small, juvenile action brought happy, sweet bubbles of joy to my evening.  Unfriended and blocked. POW POW!

My silence will be louder than their silence. I giggle.

How can you not laugh?  I unfriended people in retaliation!!! Oh my god, I am in middle school! I actually laughed out loud.  Crazy as it is, that small action put a much lighter spin on everything.  I go back to being giddy and bouncing around, singing little happy songs, being very obnoxious. 

You know what? Forget you!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e1_B9FCZJMA
I feel so much better already.

Getting Civilized

We have movement!

Although the wife did not go for the civil union softball tournament, she was fabulous with the idea of a picnic.  Who doesn't love a good picnic? We've had a couple awesome picnics over the years, most notably the wife's 40th birthday party a few years back.  We love being by the lake.  The wife loves the idea that no one will wear their muddy shoes into our house because they'll be at a picnic five miles away. I love the idea of a picnic because I can do all sorts of immature, fun things and not get in trouble for it.  Water balloon toss or potato sack race, anyone?

Besides, how can a picnic threaten anyone?

First comes picking a date.  Thankfully, we are very much in agreement about this. We contemplate family vacations, another couple's civil union, graduations, holidays and such.  We determine my birthday weekend really is the best weekend around.  Saturdays are always better for those traveling (and many of the wife's peeps will indeed be traveling), so Saturday it is.  We don't ask anyone about it.  We just decide.

For the record: always ask the "really significant peeps" before deciding a date. Sigh.

While the wife is verbalizing the pros and cons of a picnic, I hop on the Internet and figure out how to check the availability of local shelters.  I see the shelter we want on the date we are aiming for is already booked.  I let the wife continue her external processing while I take a gander at other selections at the park. As our date is technically still flexible at this moment, I check a few other dates, too. Nope.  Not conducive to what we are aiming for. I reflect on how I should proceed. I see that the reservation fee is only $25.  The shelter right next to the one we originally wanted is available. I know exactly what it looks like and know it has a "bigger" view of the lake.  As it is only $25, I make my move: Click! Booked. I can always cancel it, easy enough. I wait for the wife to stop talking and come to the same agreement.  I know she will come to the same conclusion because we have been together a bazillion years and know how her mind works.  Sure enough, in minutes she decides this is a great idea--as long as we go look at the site tomorrow.  I'm all good with that.

Next, comes the "ceremony" discussion.  So there is no confusion, I state: the picnic will not be featuring a ceremony, fondling, kissing, professing of love....well, not by us, anyways--we have no control over our guests.  We'll have fun photos, great stories, tasty food, lots of games and maybe even door prizes but we will not have saliva-dripping public displays of affection.  Middle-aged people should never suck face in public, no matter who they are.  Just sayin.'  We'll figure out a top-secret non-ceremony plan (with no date or time tied to it just quite yet) later and thus go to bed for the night.

In the morning, I decide we need to send out a "Save the Date" email, as summer schedules tend to fill up quickly. (Did I mention that one should talk to people before finalizing a date?) The wife is cleaning this and that while I am seated at the kitchen table drinking coffee.  (This is a daily occurrence--she runs around cleaning and such, while I sit at the table, drink coffee and write blogs or harass people on Book de la Face. I am one lucky bitch.) She asks me to let her see whatever I'm doing before I do it and I completely agree. I write the email, keeping it short, sweet, simple and, of course, a wee bit humorous.  She keeps zipping around cleaning (sciatica is no match for this housewife), I keep slurping. I slap in a whole bunch of email addresses--BCC'd, for everyone's privacy, of course--and SEND! Off the email goes.

You might notice that the "SEND" came before the "How do you think this email looks?"

Sometimes, I am like a 12 year old kid with terminal, unmedicated attention deficit disorder.  My "wait" button is broken.  Oh dear.  No points won by me.

Thankfully, she approved of the message I sent.  She points out (quite correctly, I might add), "You know, when people are planning something like this, they usually talk about the guest list.  I have no idea who you sent that to. Don't you think we should have talked about this before sending the email?"  I consider this, agree and sincerely apologize.  (In my defense, I did not send the email to the people we weren't sure with what to do.  That must count for something.  Or, not.)

I assure her that I've sent the email only to people I am sure we would both agree on and add further assurance by showing her I sent the email to her, too.  "I can print the list out for you."  This seems to soothe the nerves.  I promise not to do this again. And, I won't.

When she finally finishes cleaning and I finish my coffee, we load the dogs into the car and drive to take a gander at the shelter.  I know the wife is not mad at me because she stops to grab lunch at my absolute favorite fast food place--it's certainly not her favorite place.  We suck down our world-famous fries and head to the state park.   I am pleased to report that the wife fully approves of the site and we decide this is the place.  See? It only took her 14 hours to get to where I got in one minute, thirty nine seconds.  I knew she'd get there!

On the way home, we contemplate on what to do about the "others." The "others" are still hanging out there, somewhat like hanging chads. These are the really important people in our lives whom we are pretty sure are not going to be entertained by any of this and from whom we stand the greatest risk of rejection. What to do with the "others?"  I offer to write a different email, based on the original email, using the definition of a civil union as the first sentence--I figure making the whole ordeal sound sterile, legal, financial and business-like might take some of the edge off.  I promise not to send it before her approval.  As these are "her others," I know I will follow directions.  Sending an email affords the reader distance--distance to freak out, to scream/yell/cry/blame--and do so far, far away from us.  It gives the reader time to think about what to do with the information presented.  Talking to "the others" by phone or in person wouldn't afford that opportunity for reflective distance.  I do not find this to be cowardly--I find this to be skillful and quite appropriate. I write the email, read it to her, have her look at it.  She tells me to send it. "Are you SURE?" I ask. She says she is sure.  I hesitate.....and, then SEND!  Time will tell.

By the time I finish sending out the "others" emails, I report we have received many responses, most very funny and all very supportive.  My favorite response received is from my very heterosexual high school friend who served as a bride's maid in the "wedding in my previous life."  She wrote, "it's about time.  Can I be a bride's maid this time, too?"

No responses from the "others" yet but they need time to chew on all this. I figure they will need a week or two to chew on this.

Then, we get an email that stops us in our tracks.  No it's not related to the "others."  Out of respect, I will say nothing more beyond how I feel like a total schmuck and that we are now in civil union limbo.  I know it will all work out but for this minute all I can say is "limbo sucks."

Did I mention you should ask people about the date before proceeding?

As you can imagine, this will be the first of many civil union blogs, most of which I am sure will be quite entertaining...with a few of which will not.  It's a mixed bag, this ride we're on.  We'll be out of limbo before we know it and we'll be back to worrying about things like the wife's ongoing sciatica, the merits of wearing vegan shoes, the continuing saga of my toe. 

And, I thought having a picnic would be simple.
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First Annual Civil Union Softball Tournament

This photo was gleaned off yoism.org.  That website made me laugh almost as much as this photo. I give all credit to yoism.org.  I do not have rights to this photo, no injury or malice intended by using it. Just remember: Homophobia makes Baby Jesus Cry.

I have written this blog FIVE times.  Five! Usually, I sit down, crank it out and don't look back.  I don't edit for grammar or content or anything--I literally write it and be done with it.  So, to have five tries and still be thinking about it has given me pause.  The first time, it was too serious.  The second, too whiny.  The third, too wimpy and way too disappointed in myself. Where is the humor? The optimism? The light-hearted, irreverent fun? It must've been in my ass cuz it sure wasn't in the blog. The fourth, disappointing in general and not coming out the way I intended. The fifth? Well, we'll know in a few minutes! 

Yesterday, I received a link from a FB friend (ya gotta love FB friends) pointing me to "Understanding Civil Unions in Illinois." I was uber-excited about this, as the wife and I have had many questions about this whole pending civil union thing.  Here's the link in case you have some burning desire to learn more about this whole business:  http://eqil.org/cmsdocuments/Civil_Unions_FAQs.pdf    I printed out the five page document and showed it to the wife.  We both read the information, which led to much discussion. Can I just say that this has the potential to get complicated?

So complicated in my little brain that this is my fifth attempt to write about it. 
  
I really hadn't thought about the details that might be involved with getting civilized.  If we were of a straighter orientation, we would would know that society dictates that there is a wedding and a reception. You have to get a marriage license.  You have to send out invitations.  You basically know what to wear.  You know who will actually marry you.  You don't have to worry about what people will think about a wedding. Simple.  Expensive, but simple.  You have options--you can elope to Vegas if you want. I do so love a good wedding.

With a civil union, I figured there would be some paperwork and a dinner: go to courthouse, prove your identity, prove you are divorced (in my case, not the wife's), sign some papers, pay some money, go eat dinner somewhere, done.  Truly like a business transaction.  This was fine with me and the wife.  We're simple folk. We're cheap.  We've been together a bazillion years.  We really don't need an official ceremony--as long as I get new jewelry, I'm all good with not having an official ceremony. We like a fun dinner with a few close friends.  We'd rather buy some new furniture or some new jewelry or go on a trip at this point of the game. 

After reading the document, we realized we were wrong--it's not that simple. Yes, we do indeed need to go to court house, but there are other steps.....we have to get a license, pay a fee, wait at least 24 hours....and then "deliver the license to the person who will certify your civil union.  After the ceremony....."  WAIT.A.MINUTE!  Ceremony? Persons who certifies us?  "Your civil union may be certified by a judge....or a public official whose powers include solemnization of marriage.  You may also have your civil union certified in accordance with the rules of any religion...."

Who the hell is going to civil union us? It's not like you can just walk in any church and ask them to do this.  We don't exactly live in the valley of gay support. I can't even imagine standing in front of some judge....I liked my business transaction version better....what to do, what to do...

For the record, I went on line and see what it would take to become an ordained minister.  It's really easy! Maybe one of our friends could get ordained.  You know, maybe I'll get ordained....there is gonna be a need for this kind of thing--second job, here I come!  We are hoping Master Pastor Reiki is an ordained minister.  You are probably asking yourself how the hell a Master Pastor would NOT be an ordained minister, but this may be a legitimate question. I have a phone call to make.  If she's not ordained the way the State of Illinois requires, I'm gonna tell MJagger to become an ordained minister so she can lead the ceremony.  We'll let her husband be the ring bearer.

The wife and I put the ceremony thing aside and consider what the document actually spells out. I'm not exactly sure what the union actually affords us.  The written information indicates that Illinois Civil Unions entitles partners "the same legal obligations, responsibilities, protections and benefits that state law provides to married spouses."  Cool!  Further reading suggests being civilized helps a lot if one of us dies or if one of us is hospitalized, which although rather maudlin is a very important benefit. It's not federally recognized, so nothing there.  Damn. Employers in the State of Illinois don't have to offer spousal benefits to those who have had a civil union, so no bonus points there.   It does indeed provide public recognition of our relationship. I am all for public recognition of our relationship. We are a handsome couple, don't you think? Besides, the wife should get something out of being with me for so long.  She's earned a party and recognition.  Yet, after re-reading the information, we start to waiver.....our friends already recognize us.....perhaps Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell might have gotten things right.

Side note: This photo cracks me up.  Rainbow explosion!  You know, I AM looking for a new ring.....ha ha! Rainbow paraphernalia will NOT be sported at any ceremony held in the Addiverse.Well, not unless we have a civil union softball tournament.  Then, rainbows will be smattered across the field and the union party like there's no tomorrow.

As we waiver, I voice my concerns to the wife. I am all about the romantic notion of a ceremony--I really do love weddings--but, seriously--does anyone really want to watch two middle-aged women have a civil union?   Besides, I keep thinking,"I can't kiss the wife in front of so and so!"

So much for being a romantic and/or brave soul.

The wife and I have held several long discussions about what to do.  Being the good spouse that I am, I won't write about the details. I may be dumb, but I'm not stupid.

To be honest, I have been VERY disappointed by the old-fashioned, close-minded, scare-dy pants thoughts swirling in my brain.  My outsides say, "who cares what people think?" while my insides are saying, "I care very much."  UGH! It frustrates me to no end that after all these years I care at all.  Those two years at my previous job set me back twenty five years--I let that two year experience mess with my mind. It's now I grasp how much an non-supportive environment can really befuckle things.  How did I let this happen?  Me, queen of the queers, befuckled;  me, March-in-Parades-Pink-Triangle-Wearing-Grrrrl is now unable to contemplate a civil union without sweating, fretting and second-guessing myself.

I need therapy or an exorcism:  Get out of my head, Old-Job-Satan!

As with "real" weddings, there will be people who will not support us. I need to keep reminding myself that sometimes guest lists for "real" weddings get complicated and icky and that not everyone will support the union. I do not like the notion of this, but we know there will be people that we know and love very much who will not support this move nor will they attend a ceremony or a picnic or party or a softball tournament to recognize the occasion.  They tolerate us and love us but they will not approve or recognize this; in fact, they will do just the opposite. It's easy to say, "who cares what they think--their loss?" But really? We care. We love our peeps.  We want our peeps to party with us. This was so much simpler when this was a business transaction.  Not very romantic, but simpler.

So, we are now fretting.  We are fretting about the reasons to have or not have a civil union, the potential guest list, the logistics of this and that, the pros/cons of a ceremony, about ideas for a party or picnic or a gathering or a dinner or that ingenious idea of a softball tournament (THAT would be fitting).  Perhaps we should have the ceremony on the softball field of our alma mater.  (We certainly will NOT be getting civilized at the church on the campus of our alma mater--already got married there once, thank you very much. Didn't turn out so good.) Thankfully, the wife does not lose her sense of humor when we are talking about all this. She astutely points out, "You won't be able to be serious during any of this, anyways." Touche.

At least the day was easy enough to pick out.  For the record, I voted for my birthday.  Easy to remember, awesome birthday present.  I'm not sure we'd be able to do the ceremony and party on the same day, but at least we have a day in mind for on part of the ordeal.  If not then, I voted we wait until next April.  (Who knows if civil unions will still be legal by then?!!)  The weather will be nicer for a softball tournament in June as opposed to April; but, if we wait til April, I can save up for a new rainbow-themed softball uniform.

Will there or won't there be a civil union? I am not sure. There is plenty of time to decide. Plenty of time for the wife to cure her sciatica, for me to get an exorcism and for someone to get their minister's license.  Plenty of time for me to envision a ceremony of some type or another.  Plenty of time to argue the pros and cons of taking advantage of this opportunity. Plenty of time for the Baby Jesus to cry over my internal homophobia.....

.....plenty of time to dust off the ol' softball shoes and to find my thirty year old softball mitt.  Rainbow Tournament, here we come!

Fish Fried

Last night, we went out with the gaybors for an all-you-can-eat fish fry dinner.  The wife LOVES a good fish fry and thus I indulged her with going to a local bar for dinner.  Usually, there is not much I can do in a bar, unless I want to eat fried appetizers or a plate of ice burg lettuce, but this place as a good menu, so I obliged her need for a fish fry.  It IS Lent, after all.

Funny that the wife wants to observe Lent when she is not a practicing Catholic. Ah well, once a Catholic, always a Catholic.

The place was pretty packed.  Combine St. Patrick Day festivities with Lent and you have a pretty busy Friday night Fish Fry.  Incredibly to me, they have a black bean burger on the menu, so I was a pretty happy camper.  We are eating dinner, talking serious topics with the gaybors, minding our own bee's wax....when we notice this lady at the next table is staring at one of the people at our table.   Openly, obviously, rudely staring.  It was getting kind of weird, when the lady finally blurts out, "Has anyone ever told you you look JUST LIKE Jodie Foster?"

Um, I don't think the lady eating dinner with us looks anything like Jodie Foster, but to each her own.  We stare at Jodie, stare at the lady, stare at Jodie.  Nope, doesn't look like Jodie Foster, but our Jodie says, "Other people have told me that."

Huh.

This must be the invitation the lady needed because she now turns around, faces our table and starts talking about various random subjects of which make little sense but are very entertaining (kinda like reading this blog, I'm afraid--although, I'm not drunk when writing it, so I really have no excuse).  It is obvious this woman has had one too many beers, not only evidenced by her slurred speech, hilarious comments and embarrassment by those eating dinner with her but also by the fact that the bar has given her a plastic cup while the rest of her party is drinking out of fancy glass beer mugs.  When one of the gaybors points this out to her, she acknowledges her "drinking receptacle" was not the same as the people in her party.  Drinking receptacle!  This woman is going to be fun.

She saunters over to our table and states: "I'm not drinking one of those FANCY beers in a FANCY mug, like you.  I'm drinking Miller Light in my plastic drinking receptacle."


The wife keeps shoveling fish fry and the lady keeps talking.  First, she talks about how much she hates when people wear "those ashes" on their foreheads all day.  "What the hell is it with these people keep those ashes on their foreheads all day? God-d*mn ashes.  Like I want to stare at their ashes all day.  Why do they keep those ashes on all day? I just want to wipe them off. I hate those god-d*mn ashes." 

For no reason, the woman stops talking about ashes and moves on to how she is in the process of "making four dreadlocks."   She shows us one of the dreadlocks (of which I cannot see but take her word for it) and slurs about about how she loves the dreads and is working hard to "make" them. When Jodie asks how one makes dread locks, the wife casually states, "you don't wash your head to make dreadlocks." This completely insults and infuriates the woman: "I WASH MY GOD D*MAN HAIR!"  Pissed off, the lady rants at length about how she is growing these four dreadlocks but certainly washes her hair.  "I wash my hair every day.  I have really clean hair!" The wife wisely chooses to focus on the fish and not the lady's ire about dirty hair.


At this point, the gaybor is quite intrigued and decide to purposefully engage her.  "Hey, what's your name?" drunk girl asks Idea Grrrl.  (Drunk Girl has met her match but doesn't yet know it.)  Idea Grrrl answers, "Calliope."  Inebriated or not, Drunk girl doesn't fall for it: "That's not your name! What is your NAME? What do you DO?"


Idea girl replies, "Susan.  I'm a sandwich artist at Beef-a-roo."  (For the record, her name is not even close to Susan and she certainly does not work at Beef-a-roo.)  Drunk Girl doesn't fall for that, either: "You don't make sandwiches at Beef-a-roo."  Idea Grrrl asks Drunk Girl about her name and profession.  Drunk Girl answers, "Liz." She then whispers, "I'm a nurse."  When asked where she is a nurse, Liz gives us a very serious look and says, "at an undisclosed location."


Drunk but still has a filter, which in this case is probably a very good thing.

Her husband looks mortified but does nothing to stop this nonsense.  I figure he has no control over the situation so he focuses on his "fancy beer" and ignores his wife as much as possible.  We assure the other woman in their dinner party that all is well and that we are enjoying this--no worries.  At least she cared enough to inquire if she should drag Liz away from our table.

As the dinner goes on, so does Liz.  She is very intrigued by Idea Grrrl and so the banter continues.  When Idea Grrrl  says she is going to go flirt with Liz's husband, Liz rolls her eyes and says, "go ahead.  He won't know what to do.  Show him a boob or something."  Further conversation (and I do use that term loosely) included a discussion about her long eyelashes ("they are REAL!) how she is "benign," if I am Grrrl's lover (that's pretty funny for more than one reason--most notably that I am old enough to be Idea Grrrl's mother) and how she wants to do a shot with Idea Grrrrl.

It is at this point I thought it time to leave.  When people start to do shots, I run and take cover.  Besides, the wife has eaten all she can eat and I still have this stupid cough, which makes me exhausted. I no longer have enough energy to follow the drunken stupor of a conversation.


When we left, Idea Grrrrl and Liz were lined up at the bar, waiting for the bartender to pour the shots.  Liz was trying to dig her I.D. out of her wallet, as the bartender had carded her (Liz was very much over the drinking age--I think it was a stall tactic by the bartender) and Idea Grrrrl was looking very amused.  We didn't wish her good luck growing her dread locks or in wiping ashes off of people's foreheads; we just kept moving.

...Sure gave a whole new meaning to Fish Fry--more like fish fried. 
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SCORE!

When you've got a bag of o.b. ultra tampons, nothin' more need be said.

Oh---ooooohhhhh Beeee---boooooooy!

Today is a very exciting day, friends in the Addiverse.  Today, we are going to the suburbs and taking part in a very special mission. 

Today, we are making the Great O.B. Ultra Tampon Exchange.

Seriously.  This.is.big.news.  This is such big news that I am blowing off church to take part in this mission.

My high school friend has indeed secured the six boxes of o.b. ultra tampons.  This is the friend I threatened to kill in second grade by kicking with my poison sandals, so it's pretty amazing she'd want to help me in any endeavor, let alone something of this magnitude.  As the ultra o.b.s are no longer on the market and the evil manufacturer has decided to discontinue this irreplaceable product, I am quite excited to know that today I will be six boxes richer.  If I play the odds right and am very careful with my expenditure, I can make these things last six or more months.  Maybe by then the manufacture will be sick of PMS-filled women writing them day and night and will bring back this product of vital importance to all our well being.

I will reward her handsomely.  Photos are sure to follow.

Yesterday, we went to the land of cheddar for yet another birthday event within the wife's family.  As we were zipping along, I spotted a sign that literally almost made me drive off the road.  I gasped!

I had spotted a Dunkin Donuts sign.

As they have closed all the DD in our town, this was VERY exciting.  I whacked the wife (who was dozing) and announced that we would be stopping at the DD at this exit.  She perked right up and faster than I could say "medium coffee, cream only," she was awake and gathering her money.

Suffice it to say we enjoyed every last drop of the nectar of the Gods.

Today, we will have another opportunity to have DD as they are splattered all over the suburbs. I am thinking we should stop when we get there and again as we are leaving town.  Although microwaved coffee never tastes very good, leftover DD coffee for breakfast tomorrow morning sounds heavenly.


Dunkin' Donuts and o.b. ultras, all in the same day.  This might be the best day of my life.
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Chicago-gaga

I went to my second Lady Gaga concert last night, this time in Chicago.   Like me, you might find it hard to believe that I thought the crowd in Chicago was older, tamer, straighter and less costumed than in Milwaukee.  Go figure.  

BTW, these boots are being sported by a man.  Just sayin'.

Before I get to the actual concert antics, I have to tell you that only hours before I left for the concert, I was one sick puppy--as in flu-sick, not just weirdo-sick (although I cannot deny I am one sick puppy on any given day).  Saturday at noon (precisely), I was run over by a truck with a 102 fever.  My teeth were chattering, I couldn't stop shaking, my lungs were trying to hack right out of my rib cage.  It was horrible.  My guess: the flu.  The real flu.  I was down for the count by a punch I never saw coming. 

I spent all day Sunday on the couch, praying for a quick recovery.  As the person who I am pretty sure "gave" me this flu missed a week of work, I was really freaked out.  I didn't have a week to get better--I had until Monday night at 5 PM, the time I'd be leaving for the Gaga concert in Chicago. I was ready to bargain: "Dear Baby Jesus, I will [insert plea bargain of your choice here] if you heal me in time for the Lady Gaga concert on Monday night."  I utilized a virus cleansing method and slept with athletic socks on my hands so I wouldn't touch my face or eyes.  I visualized all sorts of happy, healing things floating in my body. I envisioned myself in a Gaga-egg of healing. I was incubating, getting rested for the concert. I was confident I would wake up cured on Monday morning.

When I woke up Monday, I knew I was screwed.  I still had a fever, albeit only 101.5.  I still felt like crap.  I still looked like crap.  My entire body ached. At least I wasn't hocking fur balls and lungs, but there was no doubt I was far from cured. I still had the flu.

I was bitter.  Being bitter does not help one bit; in fact, it just makes things worse.  I got pissed off and threw away my virus cleansing jar.  I threw the biggest pity party on the planet.  I was a miserable, bitter bitch.  I was too tired and weak to stomp around or throw things, but if I could have, I would have.  I waited months for this concert!  Damn you, seasonal flu!  Bitter, table for one.  

About noon, I took my temperature.  It was still 100.  I was on the verge of tears.....but, instead of crying, I slapped that pity party right off the map and decided to stop acting like a sick person.  I put away all the pills and the thermometer.  I did a final virus cleanse.  I took a shower and got out of those stinky sick-person pajamas. I took two Tylenol and got dressed for the concert.  I laid down and tried to rest.  I demanded myself to be better.

And, I was.

 I don't know what exactly transpired, but around 4:30 PM, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest.  I emerged from my egg, felt less achy and was no longer feverish.  The cloud lifted from my brain.  I can't say I was dancing in the streets but I was able to walk and talk at the same time.  I was as cured "enough" to be appropriate for concert-going.  I loaded kleenex, Lysol, hand sanitizer and even masks in the car, ready to be one with my Mother Monster.

I didn't end up going alone; a peer decided to buy a last-minute ticket joined me for the fun.  I offered to wear the mask for her own flu-safety, but we lived on the edge and I didn't end up wearing it. I'd like to give a big shout out to the Universe for making everything run so smoothly...it was almost unbelievable.  No traffic jams whatsoever.  A parking space within two rows from the entrance.  No traffic jams on the way home.  No return of the fever.  Thank you, Baby Jesus! Thank you, Universe!

As for the concert, we had a great time.  I'm still quite confused as to how it is possible that a Chicago crowd would be tamer than a Milwaukee crowd, but I can't complain--there was still plenty at which to gawk. All versions of Gaga were part of the fun--from soda-can hairdos to police line yellow-tape outfits, they were all there.  Quite to my dismay, I didn't see a lot of drag queens....they must have been somewhere else, perhaps on the dance floor.  (Or, maybe I did see drag queens and didn't realize it. Hmmm.)  Here's some guy who let me take his photo.  Actually, everyone I asked for a photo was quite accommodating.  (Funny how you can now take cameras into concerts.  I'm guessing that the advent of the cell phone with cameras ended the ability to prohibit cameras--what's the point?)

I regret to report there were people in my section seated during the show. What the hell were people thinking sitting down during a Gaga concert?  I was APPALLED!  For Monster sake, I just shook off a 48 hour fever and I had enough oomph to stand up--it was a travesty.  Mother Monster would have been very disappointed to see this....I hope she wasn't carrying binoculars.

Lady Gaga had less to say in Chicago in comparison to the Milwaukee show in September.  She was still wonderful and entertaining and liberating, but.....   Maybe she was sick.  Maybe she was tired.  Maybe she had used all her energy celebrating the release of her new video earlier in the day. Maybe she picked up on the tame feel of the crowd, leading her to be a bit more tame in overall performance.  Maybe she wasn't tame at all but rather I was warped in my flu-ridden brain. Maybe she's said it all.  Maybe she was hung over.  Maybe she didn't feel like wearing clothes....whatever.  She just didn't seem to have as much to say.

Maybe she's decided to just let the show do the speaking for her.  Works for me.

As I wrote last time, it's impossible to leave a Lady Gaga concert not feeling all warm and fuzzy and empowered.  You can't help embrace your inner little monster.  How can you not have a good time when it's raining unicorns and gay teddy bears?  You can't.  You have a great time and you build your self-esteem while doing it.


Flu? What Flu? Paws up, little monsters--we were born this way!
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