July 2004. Our beagle, Pickles, died of various medical complications. Mark had found him at Greenhill after our England trip in 2001, and conditioned him from an obese, so-fat-his-back-is-flat chow-hound obsessed with food to a lean, mean eating machine obsessed with food (able to steal cookies out of children's mouths with a single bound).
Living with Pickles was sometimes a challenge, because he used all of his low animal cunning to eat things like other people's Thanksgiving stuffing, other people's children's Halloween candy stashes, and slug bait. Sometimes I think Pickles was practice for having a child. And we still had Muriel, the world's crankiest, old-lady cat.
August 1, 2004.
I married Mark in a garden, in a ceremony not legally recognized by city, state, or federal governments, and overseen by the Rev. Caroline Colbert (the Unitarian Universalist minister at the local UU church). Our friend, Lime-Green Larry From New York was the best man: he compiled and presented all the statements about marriage and love that we'd asked everyone to write. My sister, Julie, gave a very funny toast. My friends in a recorder ensemble played Renaissance music.
The wedding was a huge affair -- a lot of our friends and both families gathered in our landladies' garden and cried as we exchanged vows. Mark said his. I was a wreck when I said mine. Afterward, we had chocolate cake in white suits. And I led folks in a round of "The Shark Song."
But since I couldn't exactly say, "Mark is my husband," without it being a political statement, I sometimes referred to him as my "husband out-law."
December 2004. I started this blog on Blogspot, back before it was slurped up by Google. Before this, I would send out e-mail missives to a long list of folks.
At the beginning of the decade, I was interested in the spiritual lives of gay male Neo-Pagans and in the expression of deity as a gay male. I was hoping that I'd find something like a gay Cernunnos, or a gay male Isis. Or maybe something like a spiritual minded sacred band of Thebes. I'd even asked Starhawk if she knew who a gay male Starhawk could be, but she didn't know.
I put together the beginning of a e-newsletter called "Lavender Leaves" hoping to attract like-minded men, but it never amounted to anything -- and the musings, book reviews, and general thoughts on queer theory and theology were channeled into this blog.
I turned 40. For the birthday celebration, we set up a throne for me to sit on, and guests were required to bring a Wonder of Science or sing a song. Turning 40 was a breeze, especially compared to when I turned 30. Mark teased me that I was middle-aged, which I denied -- claiming that I planned to live to a hundred, and I wouldn't be in the middle of my life until I turned 50.
She's a total snuggle-butt; very sweet and curious; and will bark three short, sharp, "gruffs" at strangers at the door and gate. She's been trained, as she understands "sit" and "stay" and has good leash etiquette. 
The cats are not amused. Smokey is threatening to go live with our neighbors across the street (where he already gets kitty treats), and Cicero is hanging out with his brother, Spencer, two houses down and generally pulling the Great Disappearing Barn Cat routine. 
