Chicken Pot Pickle

Tonight, sitting in my boudoir amidst the contents of M.'s closet, which he is in the process of thinning out -- not that finding a spot for the 12x15 framed portrait of my mother in her wedding dress should necessarily fall on his shoulders; to the contrary, if Mother as Blushing Bride at Tender Age of 21 is going to reside in anyone's closet, it should probably be my own, although that would require that I displace my barely-used, rock-n-roll-dreams-never-die White electric guitar and/or my large box of long-forgotten He-Man action figures -- my belly satisfied by a lovely Winter meal of sauteed pork chops, asparagus al dente, and winter squash en microwave, I find myself at an awkward impasse.

I created this blog with the intention of writing about planning our wedding. That, or locating other 20- and 30-something blushing gay grooms-to-be with whom I might find a sense of collective Team Sympathy, or being discovered by a wayward literary editor and scoring a six-figure book deal, or at the very least landing a spot on some failed-before-it-even-began gay wedding reality show. Mainly, though, the wedding planning thing.

Yet, whenever I find myself In The Thick Of It -- scoring some minor triumph in the bloody, ongoing march to the Altar of Eternal Bliss and/or Nuptial Parity -- and skip gaily to the keyboard to share my mirth, I am not halfway through my first sentence when I find myself betrayed by my own gag reflex (no minor feat), horrified that I am about to publicly announce my glee over the fact that we have decided on a color scheme for the invitations, or have had a successful preliminary meeting with our sister-of-a-close-friend photographer, or have found a potential DJ with a penchant for New Order as well as a reasonable pricetag.

Seriously, who wants to hang out with that guy?

Who wants to listen to him natter on about navy- versus powder-blue, gardeniae versus gladioli, cucumber cups versus salmon cakes?

Who really cares how many boxes he's checked off on his Perpetual Mental Checklist?

Other gay grooms, that's who. Which, as best I can tell, do not exist, or at least have not yet found their way to this safe haven.

So instead we discuss things like subway rides and body hair and, perhaps, the occasional coveted Staub chicken pot. Which, by the way, M. refused to let me visit at Williams Sonoma yesterday afternoon, even though I begged and pleaded, because I had already visited her last weekend and, evidently, one supervised chicken pot visit per month is all a girl's entitled to these days.

In the off chance that there is one other sad and lonely groom lurking out there in the ether, however, I shall present a choice tidbit of wordly wisdom, if for no other reason than to get my mind off my poor caramel-skinned baby, shivering pathetically atop her display case, dreaming of the day when she will find a warm home on Ninth Avenue.

Here it is.

Rule #7 in Planning a (Gay) Wedding: Connections, connections, connections.

We met with our aforementioned photographer this afternoon, who has graciously offered her services at bargain-basement prices as well as set our anxious minds at ease with her cool and calm and collected demeanor. Not only that, but she also directed us to the best and cheapest paper procurer in town and, as if this weren't enough, may also be putting us in touch with a cash-strapped graphic design undergrad to help us with layout and printing. There is a book called The Tipping Point by someone whose name presently eludes me, in which the author talks about "connectors" (I'm paraphrasing), which are People Who Know Other People and connect them with one another to make good things happen. Applied to the present situation:

Planning a Wedding + Knowing the Right People = Avoiding Financial Ruin.


And for those who are not planning a commitment ceremony anytime soon, I'm pleased to announce that, after weeks of fruitless searching, I have finally found my Dream Jacket, which is puffy, down-filled, reversible -- shiny-green-on-the-outside/black-on-the-inside (or, I suppose vice-versa) -- and topped with a faux fur-lined hood. There is vague concern that I look like a 6'3", pale, male L'il Kim, but I'm pretty sure I can work it.

At the very least, my newfound power of reversibility will allow me to make an additional incognito monthly conjugal visit to Williams Sonoma.