DART: Hits and misses

So, here's the Divorce Action Response Team (DART) progress report.

(To recap: Dr. M gets me drunk; Bubba is supposed to get me laid; S2 and The Debutante are supposed to listen and say all the right things.)

Monday morning: Bubba and I have breakfast. In addition to her explaning that her apparent hopelessness at the prospect of getting me laid is because she has a hard enough time getting any action herself (even though she's cute and women just *love* her), we make plans to attend the Pride parade on Sunday. This might be the only venue I come across in some time where I will be surrounded by lesbians. (And as I told S2 today, the fact is that one will have to fall out of the sky and land on me to get my attention and actually provoke any kind of response from me these days.)

My new, solid mahogany sleigh bed is due to arrive in less than two weeks, so that's pretty much Bubba's deadline. After that, I think she'll be off the hook. Because there is no way in hell I'm gonna break in my bed with meaningless sexual activity. That's bad juju for the bed.

Monday night: I'm walking down the street, taking the pup on his evening stroll, and The Debutante and I run into each other. This seems to be a fairly common occurrence, mainly linked to her preference for a video store at one end of my street and a coffeehouse just a few blocks from my loft. We took an absurdly circuitous walk through the neighborhood, weaving back and forth -- half way to her house, half way back to mine, neither of us quite getting there. All the way, we were talking. Some of it was about my divorce, which gives The Deb credit for doing her duties as assigned by Dr. M.

Tuesday: S2 gives me a little talking to on the topic of "How to Celebrate Birthdays." Anyone who has known me for a good long while knows what a sticky fucking topic this is for me, but S2 pretty much stumbled into it based on a couple of stories. Our exchange was emotionally charged for me. (I started crying when I was riding my bike home.) But she made her point simply: She'll make sure I have some kind of birthday something or other this year, given the absence of a GF or any family who would do such a thing for me.

Wednesday night: Dr. M plays her role in spades, in a near-Bacchanalian wine feast that included a bottle of Tyrus Evan 2003 Syrah, which Dr. M note is "exactly what wine is supposed to be like." There was also a pleasant port. And more than twice, I think, I told Dr. M that I had just that afternoon purchased a bunch of shot-sized drinking cups made Belgian chocolate, from which we shall sip port on Saturday night. ... Suffice it to say, she gets credit for her DART duties.

Thursday afternoon: S2, her children and I go out into the countryside to pick strawberries and raspberries for a few hours. This was the first time I'd ever been in a strawberry field, and I had the Beatles running through my wine-fogged brain for a while there.

While out in the fields, S2 and I talk about a little bit of everything, including the strange waiter at the wine bar on Wednesday night who kept asking me to say, "lesbian" to him. (Why I kept obliging him, even as Dr. M appeared on the verge of puking from disgust, is anyone's guess. Truth is: I don't harbor the same disdain for men under 6-feet that Dr. M does. Height means something to her. Men mean something to her. But *I* will say "lesbian" to a man who's 5-5. He told me it was making him "tingle" when I did it, so ... how often do I bother doing that for a guy? Call me absurd; call me magnanimous: It's your choice.)

I think I'll keep most of the berry-picking conversation private. But let's just say that I'm neither unable to get a man, nor a man-hater. I'm just a woman-lover who will probably be woman-less for some time, even if Bubba is successful at her task. (Not looking likely....) S2, as always, gets credit for doing what she's been "assigned," but she was already doing that all along. And that is just one of the many reasons for which I love her. And, note: I do not use the term "love" lightly here. (She also makes a pretty good tequila sunrise, god bless her.)

Friday's coming, and I have laundry to do, errands to run, a cello lesson to take. So aside from *someone* telling me not to be uptight about the prep work for the party I'll be throwing on Saturday, it should be a DART-free day.

But then, come Saturday, all these fine women should be over here having some fun and helping me celebrate a new phase of my life, and that is probably the best DART duty of all.

Bubba should know, however, that Dr. M expects her to bring a me a harem of single, attractive lesbians as a loft-warming gift. "Bubba," she said, "knows *all* the lesbians, so she'll bring them with her." ... We'll see about that. My bet is Bubba shows up with apples, cheese and a Cotes du Rhone and then asks *me* where all the lesbians are. Anyone care to wager on it?