The nose have it

The RSVPs are trickling in. So far none of my family can make it. Kelley's boss is busy. And our friend Fergie, perhaps the only guest who could aptly read Gertrude Stein, is being her cool self and bustling around the world with her new fiance. Picture me with my bottom lip sticking out in a pout. OK. I've pulled it back in.

I found a poem in the Best American Poems 2005 anthology that I thought would make a great addition to the ceremony. It is a poem that plays on the sounds of words and the repetition and rhyme doubles back on itself just as the pattern is getting old. But Kelley thinks it is sophomoric and that I could write something better. She loves me. So, I am including it here to everyone to enjoy.

I Want to Be Your Shoebox
Catherine Bowman

(Memphis Minnie's classic blues line "I want to be your chauffer" was miscopied in an early Folkways recording song transcription as "I want to be your shoebox.")

I want to be your shoebox
I want to be your Fort Knox
I want to be your equinox

I want to be your paradox
I want to be your pair of socks
I want to be your paradise

I want to be your pack of lies
I want to be your snake eyes
I want to be your Mac with fries

I want to be your moonlit estuary
I want to be your day missing in February
I want to be your floating dock dairy

I want to be your pocket handkerchief
I want to be your mischief
I want to be your slow pitch

I want to be your fable without a moral
Under a table of black elm I want to be your Indiana morel
Casserole. Your drum roll. Your trompe l'oeil

I want to be your biscuits
I want to be your business
I want to be your beeswax

I want to be your milk money
I want to be your Texas Apiary honey
I want to be your Texas. Honey

I want to be your cheap hotel
I want to be your lipstick by Chanel
I want to be your secret passage

All written in Braille. I want to be
All the words you can't spell
I want to be your International

House of Pancakes. I want to be your reel after reel
Of rough takes. I want to be your Ouija board
I want to be your slum-lord. Hell

I want to be your made-to-order smorgasbord
I want to be your autobahn
I want to be your Audubon

I want to be your Chinese bug radical
I want to be your brand new set of radials
I want to be your old-time radio

I want to be your pro and your con
I want to be your Sunday morning ritual
(Demons be gone!) Your constitutional

Your habitual
I want to be your Tinkertoy
Man, I want to be your best boy

I want to be your chauffeur
I want to be your chauf-
feur, your shofar, I want to be your go for

Your go far, your offer, your counter-offer
your two-by-four
I want to be your out and in door

I want to be your song: daily, nocturnal
I want to be your nightingale
I want to be your dog's tail

My delicate flower

 

Bloomers

We are trying to introduce a little color into our wedding costumes. Somehow we both purchased exactly the same color outfits. Call it champagne or ivory or cream, but it is the same -- and a tad bland.

I've been looking up wedding leis to do the job. Kelley would look pretty in a petal necklace. My nickname for her is "delicate flower." That seems pretty queer (paging Georgia O'Keefe) until you find out why.

KQ screams at mice. Her ego is easily bruised. A sinus headache slays her. Commercials featuring grandmothers make her cry. She can only be wooed with soft, kind words and tender hands. Cuddling is her hobby. She likes it when you rub her back in circles. Yes, she is a delicate flower. I am her constant gardener.

Rose bud lei

Orchid and rose lei

Chicken nuggets

My mom was in town for an Easter visit. I hinted several times about the ceremony, trying to get her to say if she had changed her mind about attending. I asked her if she discussed Provincetown with my sister, Becky. No. I talked about how we can't start saving money for a place until after the ceremony. Nothing. I showed her the Secret Garden Inn web page and our www.weddingdetails.blogspot.com site. Didn't trigger anything.

She did ask to see my dress. I held it up, rather crunched in the garment bag. She thought it was pretty. But she didn't say if she wanted to see it now because she wouldn't see it later or if it was just a sneak peak. I'm such a big chicken I didn't ask her point blank, so we're assuming she's still a no show.

Bottom line: I've talked on multiple occasions to both of my parents -- and even saw my mother in person -- but have not had conversations with them about whether or not they are coming. I am officially rewriting the Carly Simon song and singing myself the refrain in the mirror. "You're so lame. You probably think this song is about you. Don't you, don't you."

Naked fruit

Feeling shy but determined to rid my body of any hair that could poke through my ivory sheath of a dress, I subjected my self to body waxing at a Divison Street salon on Saturday.

Pause while I swallow a yelp.

The pain. How can I describe it? It was like being a child covered in scabs, crying each time a Band-Aid is swiftly ripped off, sacrificing tufts of unsuspecting hairs.

But, I am proud to say I did not cuss or cry. Flinched, yes. A gasp or two, of course. But no tears. Until I got home, anyway.

The damn waxing didn't work. It was all pain and no gain for these white legs. Apparently a weeks worth of stubble wasn't long enough to actually take to the wax. So I am left with a rash and my natural cactus texture.

The jury is still out on the parts only Kelley can see. Well, Kelley and the surprisingly hot Albanian salon technician who had me in yoga poses, with my knees on my chest, so she could do "the back."

Uh, what?

I wish I could replicate exactly what she said and how she said it. But the upshot was that some ladies don't do "the back" because, well, it is private. When they get home and look in the mirror, everything is sleek except for "the back" and they get very surprised and grossed out.

Oh boy. Being a girl is hard.

Bottom line: I think getting a tattoo may be more comfortable than waxing, but I will go back because the waxing lady was pretty and I am determined to kill every last little hair follicle on my body.

Also of note: While laying all exposed on the waxing table, I was told that red hair is "the worst." Tough little red buggers, those Irish hair follicles. Just so you know.

Three-hour tour

So a friend, who shall remain nameless, has rewritten the theme song for Gilligan's Island as a tribute to our upcoming three-hour whale watching tour. She has requested the lyrics be kept secret (they do include the words "lipstick lesbian" for extra points on creativity).

She called dibs on being the Howell's, so looks like KQ and I will have to fight over the Ginger and Mary Ann costumes. Or, wait a minute, maybe I could be both Ginger and Mary Ann and Kelley could be the professor.

Ahh, role playing. 

Dancing Queens

Dear Kati,
Will you be my partner ... in dance class?
The Chicago Dance School offers Fred/Fred & Ginger/Ginger.
Here's the class description: In this gay-friendly class, we will have a blast covering fun dancers! This is a great class for men who want to learn more about the follower’s role, and what a different experience it is to follow, and for women who want to learn how to lead.
Starts in May. I promise not to step on all of your toes.

Your Fred,
Kelley

Vanity Fair

Some of the things that are really on my mind in advance of the commitment ceremony:

1. When should I start experimenting with waxing?

2. How can I make sure I'm not on my period during our trip?

3. Can I get away with not wearing underwear under my gown?

4. Is it really worth it to pluck my eyebrows?

5. Are flip-flops or ballerina slippers the better choice?

6. Remember to change nipple rings. This one is too noticeable under silk.

7. Is having a sports bra tan line on my back the end of the world -- if I am wearing a backless dress?

8. Will my arms look as skinny as Angelina Jolie's?

9. Is there a cheap and fast way to bleach my teeth?

10. Should I really be more concerned with my vows?