Til Death Do Us Part

One of the solemn vows I have as straight-wife is that I step up to fill all hostess or date social duties for my gay husband when my gay husband-in-law is ill, or otherwise committed.

Now, of course there is a codicil that says anybody recovering from A Move is exempt from any and all social obligations for at least one entire week (possibly six months if the movers, say, happen to rip out any utility lines). Nonetheless, my gay husband somehow sneaked past the plumbers and painters on the first floor today (I haven't figured out a way to get them to announce guests yet/Murphy Brown style) and made it upstairs where he fell to his knees and begged me to come along for an evening with the Swanky McSwankertons.

Gesturing to the rooms full of unpacked boxes, I explained, "but I have no pants."  Modeling my Homebuilders Association t-shirt with the holes, I reminded him, "I don't have any shirts either." And footwear was limited at that moment to either pink garden crocs or birkenstocks.

I sorta pulled it together -- I don't think anyone could tell, for example, I'd washed my hair with soap  -- and my college buddy Phoef, luckily, had dropped some emergency party shoes at the foot of the stairs during the move.

We ended up having a lovely time -- great food, great company, and an impromptu concert on the grand piano from my husband (who knew?) -- but I caught hell when I got home.

There were a few designated straights who'd also requested my company this weekend, for various occasions of food, fun, etc. -- and I had turned them down flat. Politely, but without a second thought.  They took it a little personally that I did, in fact, spend a night on the town. Just not with them.

I had to explain -- as far as I know -- that's how marriage works.