Ah, so that happened. A few weeks ago, out of the blue, a NY Times reporter gave me a buzz at work. I was so flummoxed by it, I actually asked him to prove that he was a reporter for the Times. Somehow, I believed him.
Anyway, he was doing a story on Gay Marriages and Engagements and wanted to know more about our relationship. I gave him a brief rundown of our lives together, when we got engaged (on the day the California Supreme Court announced the legality of marriage, in front of cheering strangers) and our actual marriage ceremony. A good story. No. Really. He was intrigued and we arranged to be interviewed by him the following week.
We spoke to the man for about an hour one morning. We shared a lot, were engaging, were funny and had the guy just seemingly really interested. After the hour, he said he'd call back in the next week or so if he had any further questions and said that if the paper wanted to, they'd send a photographer. We were thrilled.
Then, no call. No photographer. And, this evening in the Times, the article and no Miles and Carl. We're on the cutting room floor on the NY Times.
And it really doesn't matter because we still have each other and it's Valentine's Day and we're going out in our little L.A. neighborhood for some so-so Mexican food and some really fantastic margaritas and that's just gonna be great.
