thematically fickle

I’ve written before about my skepticism of the validity of relationships formed online. Before I became addicted to the glow of my computer screen, in the days before I became a victim of the irresistible Upload Urge, I didn’t understand how you could meet someone in the virtual world and subsequently become friends with them.

Lo, how things change: I’ve spent the last three days immersed in the company of friends made primarily via the interwebs. With the exception of JesshiCA!—as Ruby calls her—all the other women I’m mentioning here were cyber-friends before they were flesh-and-blood friends.

On Saturday, JesshiCA! and I drove to Palm Desert in her husband’s really fast and really fancy car (that he is selling so JesshiCA can buy a Prius). I did not take a picture of it because I was afraid of appearing pretentious by posting a photo of me in a Porsche Cayman. Instead, I decided to be pretentious by writing about the fact that I got to ride in a Porsche Cayman. It was fast and fancy and caused funny noises to come out of my mouth as we swerved down the mountain pass into the desert. Mostly though, it was the conversation during the ride that made me giggle. I wanted to lean across the console, lick JesshiCA!s cheek and purr in her ear, I was so overwhelmed with the love you can only get from your close girlfriends.

We spent Saturday kicking around Palm Desert, watching the sweater-over-the-shoulder crowd. Saturday night we ate Katie’s delicious Chicken Tortialla soup poolside, while Susan’s neighbor offered us bong hits for Obama. And really, who can say no to that?

All but one of us, that’s who. I’ll let the partaker remain anonymous.

On Sunday, we took full advantage of Susan’s husband’s generosity and, in my case, his reputation. Like last spring, Doug hosted all of the ladies at the Country Club, even as he was hours away, toiling as men toil. Which is to say, sitting on the couch watching college hoops. Or something. Of course, I have no buisness even looking in the direction of a Country Club, much less dining in one. God forbid should I do something inappropriate like crawl around on the floor of the lobby.

I do think I deserve props for my extra effort in meeting dress code requirements: I did not wear my ball gag or bring with me my dominatrix whip, and I actually went so far as to wear white capri pants. Which is saying something. It’s majorly saying something. It’s saying, “I belong here! I belong here and right after I leave here, I’m going to run the kidies to the soccer field and then slip into CostCo to stock up on bulk goods!” That’s what white capri pants say. They also say something else when worn by a person who will go to any length for the perfect shot.

It doesn’t take a gynecologist to see what’s gone terribly wrong here. Let this be a lesson to each of you, my dear photographer friends.

The lovely ladies who lunch are Susan, JesshiCA! , Katie, Margot and Tiny Tam. They are no fun at all. Nope. Not a bit.

And as if this self-indulgent weekend wasn’t enough for me, I took Ruby to a pre-Bossy Road Trip dinner last night. Alas, I didn’t bring my camera because I was running late, as usual, and instead of driving around the block to retrieve it, I drove around the block to retreive a bottle of wine for my hostess. Turns out there was plenty of wine and simply not enough cameras, as there were only five. You may see photos of the gathering over here, here, here, here and here. I want to write more but WordPress is being eeeee-ville and I can’t beat the bitch into submission.

SOS, Mr. Administrator…