I had that dream again last night. The one where I'm standing
in line, waiting to get into this women's club. No, not the having-tea-and-cookies
kind of women's club. The kind of club where there's a long line
of people waiting to get in, standing behind velvet ropes. Where
there are bouncers at the door. To check you out. To see if you
belong inside.
And sure enough, there are these two women standing guard
outside, checking ID's. And when I look at them? My heart sinks.
Because they are this particular type that I dread. You know
the ones. The ones who can't have a conversation with you, even
about a recipe, unless they know who you're sleeping with. No,
not the exact person, mind you -- they need to know the TYPE
of person you might conceivably sleep with.
Why? Why must the secret handshake precede every conversation?
Can't we just talk about the latest fashions or our new pastel
window treatments or our cats, for God's sake, without first
declaring who we're bonking? I mean, my aunt had a great recipe
for broccoli and cheese casserole -- can't I pass it along without
being asked to imagine everyone's sexual partners? Jeez Louise.
(CONTINUES )
