Love.

It’s official. It was eleven years ago this evening that two men stood at the end of a pier at Penn’s Landing in Philadelphia, and in front of two witnesses and a passing boatload of Marines, Earl and I exchanged our vows and made our commitment ’til death do us part.

It was a beautiful moment.

And no one fell in the Delaware River.

Looking back at those 28 and 36 year olds, we didn’t really know a lot about each other, but we both knew we knew enough. And we were right.

I wouldn’t trade one second of the past eleven years for anything else. It’s all good.

Since Earl and I are currently preparing for a weekend with his family in Philly, I thought it was appropriate to repost one of my blog entries from my baby blogger days. From 2001, here’s “Deck The Halls With Vomit.”

~~~

This Christmas marks the sixth festive holiday season that Earl and I have been together. Let’s see… 1996 was 1, 1997 was 2, 1998 was 3, 9, 00, 01, yep it’s the sixth holiday season together. I always lose track, because our fifth anniversary is the day after Christmas, so that makes six.

Where were we now. Oh yes, it’s the holiday season once again in our merry little household. The tree is decorated so festively. The outside lights have been up since the weekend after Thanksgiving, and are now blowing fuses left and right. (I don’t know whose idea it was to decorate the 25 foot pine tree in the middle of our yard, but why did we put the connecting plugs at the top?) The tinny little caroling voices are screaming through Mr. High Fidelity and No Bass Speaker in the mall. Jingle BELLS Jingle BELLS, JINGLE ALL THE WAY. All of these are wonderful clues that it’s the most wonderful time of the year. But the real cincher on the arrival of holiday spirit is my partner Earl. God love him, his body just falls apart at the thought of the holidays. It’s like his warranty has expired or something.

Our first Christmas together, he warned me. “I always get sick around the holidays. Actually Rick (his youngest brother) and I take turns, he gets sick one year, I get sick the next.” And to think I was marrying into this festive little family the day after Christmas! The giddiness of it all! Because the way the holidays fell that year and because our families weren’t quite adjusted to their newest couple, Earl went to Pennsylvania for his family’s Christmas, I went up north to my folks and then met up with him Christmas afternoon. “I was sick yesterday, but I feel great today, since you’re here sweetheart.”

So I made it through a holiday season without actually witnessing “The Near Death holiday experience”.

The following year he was just stopped up in the sinuses a little bit. I reminded him, “Isn’t it Rick’s turn?”

“Aren’t you cute,” he replied, and proceeded to suck up the entire boxes of Kleenex into his nose. Had I not been holding his baby niece, she probably would have followed the Kleenex. The honk was heard as far away as Peoria, Illinois.

I don’t even want to mention the holiday season of 1999. Let’s just say I should have decorated the toilet seat instead of the bay window.

Last year, as we were getting ready for a Christmas party at my father’s, he broke the news to me.

“I’m having a stroke”.

“So soon? We haven’t even gotten the Christmas shopping done yet and the bills won’t be here for a month, how could you be having a stroke already?”

“You know, you’re going to feel really rotten when I drop dead into this wretched egg nog.”

“How do you know you’re having a stroke? Do you feel like Grandma Walton in that 1960s version of the Waltons movie?” I asked, trying to sound sincere.

“You know, you could show a little more compassion for a man who’s having a stroke. My left arm is numb.”

“Well then, it can’t be a stroke if it’s your left side. It’s got to be a heart attack”, I said, with all the wisdom of Nurse Needles.

“No, I’m not having a heart attack”, he nearly hissed back at me. I didn’t even know he could hiss. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

So I didn’t.

I don’t like to sound insincere or uncaring, but I think that the inner child in him gets so worked up with excitement about the holidays that his body can’t take it or something. Maybe it’s because I have a somewhat twisted philosophy on sickness. I simply refuse to be sick. I won’t do it. I won’t catch a cold, I won’t harbor pneumonia and I refuse to take part in a flu epidemic. I am going to trudge through life healthy and that’s just the way it is. I try to introduce him to my philosophies on the matter, but he’s not having any of it.

This morning I noticed he started sniffling, so I suggested “Try some of the Echinacea. It suppose to boost your immune system. Or maybe you want to start building up on Cold-Ezze”.

“I hate that stuff. It tastes awful.”

“Yes, but sweetheart, maybe it’ll herd off this cold that you seem to be catching.”, I replied, trying my best to be the doting lover.

“No, I’m going to have a cold. It’s because of the holidays.”

Tonight we went on one of our annual “Ride Through The Snobby Section of Town and See The Lights” rides. Since today was such a beautiful, mild day, I took the opportunity to vacuum and clean the car, and I put an air freshener in it.

“That air freshener is a bit over powering, isn’t it?”, he nearly snarled.

“Why don’t you wrap it up in a napkin and put it in the glove compartment?”

He wrapped it up like a dead minnow and shoved it in the glove compartment, underneath all the manuals and everything. He then rolled down the car window and hung his head out like a sick dog. Since we live in Upstate New York, and it’s winter, I needn’t point out that it was 30 degrees. “You are going to get sick if you keep up the dog routine. Shut the window!”

As we held hands and enjoyed the beautiful Christmas displays, I noticed he was sniffling more and more. So we headed home, had a mug of hot chocolate each, and then I announced I was going upstairs to update the website.

“I’m going to watch a little television”.

I had just started up the internet connection when he dropped the news.

“My leg is numb.”

Always the concerned lover, I went downstairs and dug my fingernails into his leg.

“Ouch! What the hell are you trying to do to me?”

“I thought your leg was numb. I wanted to be sure.”, I replied, trying to sound as authorative as Marcus Welby, M.D. “If you don’t feel good, why don’t you lie down?”

“People lie down when they’re tired. I’m not tired. I’m numb.” he said, a little exasperated.

“You didn’t sleep well last night, maybe you need some rest.” I suggested.

And so he did. He actually took my advice. I just went and checked on him… he’s snoring away, once again making the cows down the road restless with all that noise. I just know he’s going to be all sniffly this week. And being the loving lover, I’ll be there pushing the Echinacea and Cold-Ezze… after all, what are lovers for? But isn’t it Rick’s turn this year?

I think the song says it all.

Sunlight.

Originally uploaded by jp2.0.

The day didn’t start as well as I had hoped it would. I awoke late, realizing that Earl was out of town on business. Luckily, he called me to wish me a good morning. He asked if he had woke me up. Of course I lied. Hearing his voice from two states away put the day back on track.

The sky was full of sunshine. The thermometer showed 50 degrees as of 9 a.m. I decided to shuck the boots for the day and went with sandals instead. I’m not hypertrendy as I’m not wearing socks with my sandals, but I feel übercool wearing jeans and sandals. I don’t know why.

My one class today went well. Today’s lecture was in my Sociology class. Classmates were awake and actually participating in the discussion. There wasn’t any of that awkward silence that comes about when no one has completed the assigned reading and the professor is desperately trying to engage someone, anyone, in the topic at hand (I usually start saying things to try to spark my peers – it occasionally works.) At the end of class my professor announced that we would (finally!) be getting our papers back. We had to write a paper back in early March. It counted for a quarter of our grade for the semester.

Imagine my relief when I discovered that I got a “98” and an “Outstanding!”. I hate to brag, but I was so relieved that I did this well that I almost teared up right there in class. I never felt comfortable with the paper as I didn’t know if I had a handle on the topic (we had to write a critique of a sociology journal article – I tend to stray into all opinion territory, which you may find hard to believe.) Must be I didn’t stray as far as I thought.

When I came out of class the recent change in weather hit me like a delightfully welcomed hammer. It felt like spring. The air smelled like spring. The sun shined brightly and the sounds of music were coming from another hall on campus, not to be drowned out by the songs of birds hanging out in the many trees around the quad.

So now I’m sitting on the front porch, drinking in the sunshine, watching the planes land at the local airstrip and just enjoying the sounds of nature and rumbling man made flying machinery.

I noticed our little lilac tree is the first in the yard to start showing buds. Hibernation is definitely behind us.

Hello, world!

Driving Responsibly.

Originally uploaded by macwarriorny.

I was chatting with a group of my peers on campus the other day when Jennifer, a very outgoing, very likeable young woman asked me a simple question: “Why do you refer to your spouse as your partner instead of your husband? I mean, you wear the wedding rings and all…”

You know, that’s a good question and I told her so. Earl and I know several gay couples that have become legally hitched, however not in New York State because The Empire State isn’t doing that sort of thing yet (though I feel that we’re thisclose to having gay unions legalized). I admire the way our friends Sean and Jeffrey got married – they left the state and country to get hitched in various flavors. I find this to be delightfully interesting.

Anyway, back to Jennifer’s question. Earl and I have always referred to each other as “partners”. Once in a great while I might refer to him as my husbear or husband (it’s very rare and usually when I’m drunk and being hit on in a gay bar, where I point in his direction and say “that’s my huzzzzband” over there in a weird drawl.) We find the term “partner” best describes our relationship, because when we exchanged our vows and rings at our commitment ceremony almost 11 years ago, we took two halves and assembled them into one unionized piece. We are partners in life. When one of us is struggling, we both tow the line; when one of us hurts, the other hurts as well; when one of us is giddy, we both get silly.

Earl and I are not legally wed or unionized. Once same sex marriage/civil unions are ‘allowed’ in New York, we’ll be having one big party, asking our friends and family to join us as we become a legal couple. Will we change what we call each other? No. Will one of us change our last name? Likely. But the partnership started a long time ago.

And that’s what we are. Partners.

Earl and I were suppose to leave to visit his family outside of Philadelphia this morning. Our plan was to head down there until Saturday night, where we would then come home and enjoy our traditional Easter picnic near our home. We use our picnic to officially bring our winter hibernation to a close.

Yesterday morning Earl decided that he needed to work this weekend, so we rearranged our schedules so that we would be in Philly at a later date and he would work on Friday and perhaps a little bit on Saturday.

Imagine my surprise when I turned around in our family room around 11:00 this morning and found him standing there. Luckily for me, he caught me actually cleaning the house, complete with Swiffer accessories and a running vacuum cleaner in hand. This earns me valuable points for a future date.

After finishing the cleaning bit, I told him I had intended on going to the market this afternoon and do some needed food shopping. He offered to take us out to lunch, which I wholeheartedly enjoyed. We then hit Hannafords.

Before I became a full-time student, Earl was the chief cook of our household. The kitchen was his domain, so I kept my mouth shut and helped out by cleaning up behind him, fetching things when asked and occasionally bursting out with a “Cook’s not a ‘tall ‘appy” for comedic purposes. I also accompanied him on the trips to the grocery store, dutifully pushing the cart, helping him select various vegetables and riding the cart like a bucking bronco across the parking lot to the Jeep.

This all changed when I became a full-time student. I took over the cooking duties and therefore I went to the market, solo.

Today he joined me.

I am happy to say that while there was no reprise of the “Great Chip Encounter of 1999″*, we have decidedly opposite ways of grocery shopping. He believes that stores are built backward and produce should be browsed last, as it goes on the top of the cart, I prefer to follow the store somewhat in the order in which it was designed. There were no hostilities exchanged between us, not even close, but there was a bit of tension as I picked up my fresh green beans before strolling by the canned goods and naked chickens.

This slight bit of tension carried through to a little home improvement project I had planned for this afternoon. My father built us a beautiful spice rack for the kitchen as a Christmas gift, and with this being spring and all, I thought we should hang it up. I had a planned all worked out on how to achieve this feat, and like most home improvement projects in our household, Earl did as well. And the two didn’t match.

Now we’re both order givers, not order takers. We both know how to do it and as usual we have two different ways to get to a common goal. In our first house, when it was apparent there was work to do to spruce it up, it was easier just to sell it and buy something newer.

The spice rack needed to be leveled. As I’m yelling “up, up!”, he’s yelling “down, down!”. Of course, I’m talking about one side, he’s talking about the other. While the lingering grocery tension increased a bit and the volume level increased while we were working on this task, I am proud to say that no blue words were bounced, no fingers were flipped and no hammers flew.

And the spice rack now hangs proudly in our kitchen.

The Great Chip Encounter of 1999 is not spoken of in our household, except in the acknowledgement that it happened and shall not happen again.

We have a birthday in the house today. Today is Earl’s forty-mumbleth birthday and to celebrate we have completely opposite schedules. I’m yinging while he’s yanging.

Perhaps tonight we’ll have the cake I baked after my class gets out at 10 p.m.

I offered to take him out to lunch today, but the universe helped with his birthday celebration by collapsing the roof on one of the buildings at his plant. So he’s running around like a maniac.

At least the activity keeps him young.

Happy Birthday Sweetheart!

College is closed today. For the first time in a decade, Earl has closed his plant due to weather and has canceled his traveling plans, so he’s home all day too.

And it’s Valentine’s Day.

The snowblowing can wait until tonight. After all, if you’re going to move one foot of snow, you might as well move two.

Everybody snuggle!