Phase I: North by Northeast

Among other things, this I have learned: there are many rocks in Connecticut.

Wendy and I were fortunate enough to attend what we hope will be but the first BlogFriends gathering. Face to face with people like us. Some we had previously met. Some were strangers. Most are bloggers. We are parents. We are not. We are women. We are lesbians. We are young. We are old. We are tall. We are short. We are loud. We are quiet. We are bold. We are shy. We are white collar. We are blue collar. We are blonde, gray, brunette and red-headed. We are all colors of the rainbow. And we are everywhere.

That fine Saturday, however, we were in Connecticut, land of the plentiful rock.

SassyFemme and her delightful wife Eagle Eye Fran put forth the invitation: Come to our house, BlogFriends! Eat our food! Make art in our snow-covered yard! Use our toilet paper! Scare our dog into hiding! Revel with us as you enjoy our hospitality!

Oh, those two are brave. Quite.

Here's a random picture of my fierce dog shadow puppet about to maul eb's weenie little snake shadow puppet. She didn't stand a chance.

Months prior, with the emotional commonality of sons in college, Wendy and I were the recipients of what has been deemed a Drunk Dial. No, no. It wasn't Sassy. It was Weese and her Absolutely Amazing Wife. It's no secret they live in Connecticut also. During that phone call, they, too, had extended an invitation for us to visit.

It hadn't just been the wine talking. A plan was hatched, approvals gained. Wendy and I would hie to Connecticut, be guests at Weese and her AAW's suburban estate. Together with them we would attend Sassy and Fran's party. The plan twisted as the timing of my sister's visit overlapped. Perhaps she could come with us!

Because isn't that what everyone does? Plan a visit to a friend's house then invite your family along?

Graciousness abounds. My sister, Sherab Khandro, was welcomed on the adventure.

And what an adventure it was!
I sit here still in awe of the entire experience.
Details will come out along the way as details have a tendency to do.

Right now I am savoring the glow.
I want to bottle this feeling.

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Planes, Trains & Automobiles

Phase I of Suburban Lesbian's Excellent Adventures has ended. If we survive Phase II, I'll be back to tell the tales.

Y'all behave.

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I Blame Public Transportation

I have a vicious cold.
It blew into my life the same day all the sleet did.

The frozen sheet of sleet can stay around as long as it likes.
But this sickness needs to go.

As I pulled the last tissue from my box of Puff's Plus, a tear ran down my cheek. I was certain it was the last Puff in the house. I'd have to use something other than a wonderfully soft, delicately lotioned tissue to wipe my stuffy yet dripping nose. Imagine my delight---yes, sheer rapture---at the chance discovery of an almost full box of tissues behind the stack of books next to our bed. Score!

My usual cold remedies have done nothing to quash my symptoms. So I lay like a lump, drink plenty of fluids and moan.

Have I mentioned my sister arrives tomorrow?
This sickness needs to go now!

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In the Soft Glow of the Streetlamp

It is 11:30 pm.
It has been sleeting all day.
It is sleeting right now.
It is supposed to sleet all night.

I glanced out our picture window.
It is all shiny out there.
I spied a bunny in the front yard.
Just hanging out.
In the sleet.

Where is he going?
Why did he pause in our yard?
To catch his breath?
Why is he out in this weather?
Does his mother know where he is?
Why isn't he curled up in his rabbit hole, warm and dry?
Who goes out voluntarily on a night like tonight?

Odd circumstance for a bunny, I thought.
He stayed about 10 minutes then departed.

That bunny could use a sweater on a night like tonight.

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Comment Comment

A comment my friend Liz from I Speak of Dreams left on this post hasn't sat well with me since I read it:

"... The deal is, though, people who switch teams after having kids... it is hard on the kids, as the team-switching implies the death of the family of origin."

Team-switching implies the death of the family of origin? With all due respect, I couldn't disagree more.

Such could be implied in any instance when parents split up and change is wrought to an existing family structure. Team-switching as a component adds but another wrinkle to the whole process, just one among many.

Or am I just talking out of my ass to cover my own guilt at the merest implication my own life caused something as tragic-sounding as the demise of The Boy's family of origin?

I know better. How a family--an entire family--handles such an issue determines the experience a child has. Implications aside, reality counts. Family can be fluid and strong as steel. I'm happy to say ours is.

On a completely unrelated note, our crocuses bloomed last week. It's only February. I'll miss seeing them when Spring really arrives.

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I'm Too Sexy for My Car

The first automobile I ever owned was a 1960-something Fiat Spyder convertible. I bought it with money my maternal grandfather gave me. Bright yellow with black running boards and roof, my nineteen-year-old self looked damn good in it.

Three years later, I was driving a cherry red 1983 Ford Mustang GT 5.0. Yes, a muscle car of sorts. Yes, my then-husband picked it out. But I liked it just fine. Zero to 60 in second gear made getting on the highway a rush of pure joy. I got my first speeding ticket in that car. I got my second, third, and fourth speeding tickets in that car. I learned the obvious lesson: people driving red cars receive more speeding tickets. I swore I would never own another red car.

I drove it for nine years before trading it in on something better suited to my life: a silver Toyota Corolla stationwagon, circa 1992. I had a son and two dogs. We liked to go places together. It fit.

Today I drive a 1999 Toyota Camry. It's a common shade of light brown, taupe maybe. There are at least one million others like it on the road. The missing paint on the rear bumper is one way to quickly identify it as mine in a parking lot. It's economical, functional and halfway comfortable.

I work for an engineer who chuckled, "You drive an accountant's car alright."

Man. That cut. Mocked by an engineer.
But hey, it is what it is.

Last week, a gas station attendant struck up a conversation with me as he checked my oil while I pumped gas. He said, "I have a car just like this except it's blue. 1999 yes? You like yours?" I answered without thinking, "Yeah I like it well enough. I'll probably be driving it for another five years or so."

That thought depressed me. I'm one of those people who buys a car and drives it until most of its useful life is lived. I should be pleased if my car lasts that much longer, not depressed. Still. I'm tired of the one I have. But I'll keep driving it. Replacing a car is too much work: shopping, comparing, educating, test driving, salespeople. Plus I'm cheap frugal.

My car will continue to say nothing about me as we blend into our suburban environs going about our daily tasks in an economical and nondescript manner. And I'll keep wondering why I don't enjoy blending in as much as I used to.

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