I know! By the time you get to the end of this post, you'll be calling the Pulitzer committee on my behalf to show them my deft talents at weaving two disparate topics into one seamless, artistic, finger-on-the-pulse-of-the-American-Zeitgeist headline. What can I say? It's a gift.
But first, I have to tell you that we ran six one-mile sprints yesterday morning. In rain that could be alternately described as sprinkles, heavy downpour and diluvial. And I was wearing what are quickly becoming my least favorite running shorts. The shorts' little pockets routinely cough up the stuff I put in them for safekeeping—keys, running gel, harmonicas, bougainvillea—and spit them to the ground. No matter how carefully I tie the shorts' thick gray waistband cord, it eventually snakes out of the little panty portion of the shorts and hangs down my leg like a steroidal tampon string. And the mesh material in the shorts' panty portion is starting to get chafey. And by "chafey" I mean "sandpapery." Especially when it's drenched in diluvium. I remind you: This diluvial sandpaperiness is located 100% in my delicate panty region. What's more, the domestic partner's running shorts responded to yesterday's torrential rains in a similar fashion. This may be way too much information for some people (Hi, Mom!) but after running for an hour and a half in wet sandpapery shorts yesterday, our ... um ... toys are pretty much ruined for the next few days. So we spent yesterday afternoon snuggled up in bed, swathed in Desitin® brand diaper rash ointment and watching a marathon of My Life on the D List, Project Runway and almost two DVDs of Sex and the City. Which is probably how most gay people ... um ... express their love for each other. But not on the weekend of their second anniversary.
And yet, rusty Buicks won't get in the way of our marathon training. In fact, I'm heading out to run three or five miles (I never decide how far I'm going to run until I hit my first mile and see how my aging joints are feeling) just as soon as I post this bit of rambling. Because six hours of TV doesn't make for tight abs.
But on to the intended point of this post! Finally!
Part the First: The domestic partner and I finalized our wills, powers of attorney and other binding legalities on Friday, spending an hour signing our names and making decisions about whether we want to be left to die with or without nourishment if we ever become vegetative and Tom DeLay tries to diagnose our condition via videotape from the House floor. So we are now bound together by a formidable pile of notarized documents ... and we're as legally married-ish as the United Kakistocracy of God Hates Gay People will allow. And now I guess I should start sleeping with one eye open, because the domestic partner will stop at nothing to get sole custody of my dishes.
Part the Second: The will signing adds one more gift-worthy entry to my 10-day marathon of momentous July anniversaries, which in 2008 mark eight years of living in Chicago and five years of blathering on and on ad nauseam right here on poor, unsuspecting blogger.com. Here's the current lineup, for those of you keeping score at home ... and mapping out your July gift budget:
July 12, 2007: I proposed to the domestic partner
July 16, 2000: I moved to Chicago
July 18, 2008: We signed our wills
July 19, 2003: I started this blog thing
July 22, 2006: I met the domestic partner
July ??, 2008: I accept my Pulitzer