12 December 2008


Weebles, as you may remember, wobble, but they don't fall down. I have been blessed with incredible friends. As someone whose most intimate cohorts were men until my 30's, including a few awesome gay "boyfriends", I look around me now and realize that I have somehow collected an amazing assortment of deliciousness and delight in my girlfriends. These are women with insight, creativity, strength, passion, and stories to make your hair (or toes) curl. These are women who have been knocked hard, wobbled, yet refuse to fall down.
They have also generously agreed to appear here, shown through my eyes and words. This is a bravery beyond expectation, for it is one thing to anonymously share my life and fantasies with any and everyone who may read this, and a far other world to be shared by me, to read my perception of them and my versions of their exploits. Poetic license may be taken, but I can never fully convey the respect and awe I have for these ladies.

Peneleope and I met through our daughters, who attended the same elementary school. She was the ONLY other mother at that school who reached out to me to be friends, and in my typical walled-in fashion I was shocked and amazed that she would. Penelope, who is tall, intelligent, sexy, well-educated, generous, frank, beautiful, brash,wild, wooly, cultured, driven, lush, and strong, is a fantastic mesh of seeming contradictions. Whether she believes it or not, she is often "the pretty one", and she is a broad in the best sense of the term.
She believes that red-headed men are all well-endowed, she believes in whiskey and the redeeming power of good food, she believes in treating herself and her loved ones well and in demanding respectful and worshipful treatment of her lovers. Penelope believes in herself. She is amazing to know. I no longer believe that I cannot be surprised by some crazy-ass comment or anecdote. It is a tribute to her passion for life and the absurd that she can always make me laugh out loud, always engage my mind, always open new worlds to me.

Penelope introduced me to "Boob Tag", one of my favorite games. I often thank the technological gods for the invention of picture messaging. This is one of the best ways to worship at their altar. It is a simple concept: Take a picture of any woman's breast and send it to all the other players in your contacts. They must then find a willing subject and reply with a picture of another willing anonymous tit. It takes no time at all to fill one's phone with beautiful pictures. Everyone loves boobies, right?
When Penelope told her lover about the game, he pouted like a child, looking up at her with his giant, twinkly eyes, and said, "Why can't I play Boob Tag?" The answer is simple: he has no boobs. At least, not the kind any of us want to see. We've tried Boy Boob Tag, but I don't reccommend it.
The game waxes and wanes, as with all networking ventures, yet it is always a pick-me-up to hear that phone alert in the middle of a boring night at home or board meeting, and find a perky "smile". I know then that somewhere cocktails are flowing and my friends are busy debauching their corner of the world. I also wonder if the collage I am making can somehow be utilized for breast cancer awareness. (Ideas?)

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