Remember me? I used to write a blog here. But then work happened. And early-morning workouts. And errands. And tattoos. And my fabulous new antique (well, technically old antique) china cabinet, which arrives tomorrow and I’m so excited I could just pee. But apparently not excited enough that I could find the energy to move furniture to make room for it this week. Which means I’m getting up extra-early tomorrow since I billed 12.75 hours today and right now all I want to do is sleep.
And you know what else happened? Iowa! And Vermont! And, to a lesser degree, Washington, D.C. Which doesn’t get an exclamation point just yet. But it all happened in a matter of days. Which just blows my mind. And suddenly the domestic partner and I have been discussing maybe having a big ol’ legal gay wedding in my home state (Iowa! Join us at the picnic! You can eat your fill of all the food you bring yourself!) in the very near future. Of course, we’ve been talking about having a big ol’ illegal gay wedding in Chicago since the day we met almost three years ago but we haven’t muted the TV long enough to even discuss wedding themes yet. I’m pulling for a theme that’s simple and easy. Like “garden.” Or “prison.” Or “octomom.” But you just know the domestic partner will make a fuss if we don’t do “Golden Girls”—though I refuse to wear anything resembling that toilet-paper-tube-festooned monstrosity Dorothy wore in the series finale. We may be hell-bent on destroying the very one-man-one-womanness of the sacred institution of marriage, but I’m not doing it dressed as a failed Project Runway challenge.
I even had a blog post kinda started in my head about our newfound freedom to marry legally without crossing time zones. I was going to use the Iowa state motto as my headline: Our liberties we prize and our rights we will maintain. But before I could think of anything weepy or profound to say after that (and trust me, I’ve been weepy and profound over the news all week), the walls in Vermont tumbled. And this time it was at the hands of Vermont’s legislature. And the American Taliban’s insultingly moronic and criminally misleading “activist judges” argument tumbled right along with it. Damn those activist elected officials!
But the fact remains that we’ll be able to make a short drive across the Mississippi in a few weeks—right after my birthday!—and get ourselves as legally married as Newt Gingrich or Rush Limbaugh or John McCain was any of the eight times they got married. Only we won’t be so morally repugnant when we do it. And we’d never copy their wedding themes. Besides, we’d have no idea how to decorate for “hypocrite douchenozzle.” Not even in a toilet-paper-tube dress.