The price of private dancing

This weekend M. and I were in Provincetown for our friends' -- aka the Tallest and Most Outdoors-iest Gay Men We Know -- wedding.

I could describe the knot that caught in my throat when the officiant pronounced them legally wed in the state of Massachusetts and my subsequent discussion with M. regarding the actual-versus-perceived concrete and emotional benefits of that little thing they call a Marriage Certificate. I could.

Instead, I will simply declare how Grand it is to attend someone else's big gay wedding and revel in one's ability to sit back and seagull their raw bar, and see how they navigate the vows and the place cards and the first dance, and watch them sweat the small stuff...and then, at the end of the night, slice one's thumb wide open grinding up and down on their center tent pole. D'oh.

The good news is that we will be on a plane headed for Italy in just a little over 48 hours, where I can soak my thumb (and brain) in red wine and cannoli filling.

Me and my shadow

When I was younger I used to lay awake at night, bemoaning my chicken boney shoulder blades and ribs and plotting vengeance against whoever had called me "skinny" that day.

Yeah...that doesn't seem to be so much of an issue anymore.

In Lieu of Dead Mice; or, where does Emmet Smith get off having such enormous hands?

Wedding registries are the gifts that keep on giving.

Tonight, for example, I went to UPS to pick up a beautiful shesham rosewood salad bowl from one of our dearest friends.

Not as exciting, perhaps, as the Lite-Weight massage table the sketchy man in front of me picked up* but, still, it's like a little bit of Christmas every few weeks.

A little bit of Christmas which doesn't make everyone else in line look at me like I'm a filthy little whore.

*insert tossed salad joke here.

Where's Waldo?

Highlights for Children: Can you find the mouse that two grown men couldn't?

Rhetorical update

Which is worse:

Being filthy enough that a dead mouse needs to start decomposing before you have time to notice it's there?

Or live blogging about it?

Update

D'oh.

Found it.

Dead mouse.

Hiding amongst a thousand dust bunnies.

Right under the end table.

Pretty much disgusting.

Helpless

As of this morning at 9:53am:

1. My iPod still has the same sad face it has had since last night, despite my attempts at following the instructions on the iPod website.

2. My living room still has the same dead-animal smell it has had since last night. M. thought someone was cooking cabbage last night. But now...it has occured to me that it is most definitely a dead animal smell, a conclusion I have reached based on the comes-and-goes character of the odor. We're thinking maybe the other trap got tripped by Mouse #2 last weekend, who escaped with a mortal flesh wound and a) in my scenario, ran under the floorboards or behind the wall to die, or b) in M.'s scenario, ran under our couch and somehow climbed inside to die. The latter choice, of course, makes me vomit a little bit. Although it would give us that excuse we've been looking for (other than the complete discoloration and broken springs) to buy a new couch.

3. All of the above is going on while I'm sitting here taking a sick day (digestive bug) and watching the September 11th coverage on all three major networks, sitting in my underwear, at the computer, writing about insipid things and worrying about minor concerns, just like I was 5 years ago.

I Win.