  I'm not one of those women that takes girls' weekends, I don't like leaving my family for a few hours, much less a whole weekend. The forces of the world--our busy schedules, long work hours, etc.--keep us apart enough, when we make our way through the week and find ourselves together at the weekend, we cherish it. As close as I get to a great feminine get-away seems to be the occasional visits of my best friend who moved to Florida a year ago. Michele, affectionately called Michie, arrived Friday. Last night we went to a club, a funny experience since I've pretty much given up clubbing. I know now that was the right choice. Michie also has virtually given up clubbing, deciding she'd rather hang out in a cafe or at someone's house where she could talk to people and enjoy music--and drink without going broke, I'll add. It's hard to justify spending money on the cover at the door, on the drinks, and on the parking (although we saved that, and the need for a designated driver, by taking the bus! ) for the experience of music too loud to talk w/o screaming, smoky rooms that hurt your nose and throat. It was so much fun to see the friends we hadn't gotten together in so long, but we didn't really enjoy them b/c of the difficult environment.
So we all escaped at long last to my house, fortunately just a few blocks from the club. John won husband of the year for hosting six or seven people at five minutes notice at one in the morning! Yolanda, the domestic goddess who helps me with the house and kids for three hours once or so a week, certainly warmed her way even further into my heart because the house was perfectly ready for surprise guests. Cue up imusic, light candles, poor grappa and lemoncello, and bam! instant party! It didn't last long, most guests had to drive back to the burbs.
Throughout the evening, I noticed my wedding ring was effectively the anti-club. Even when we clubbed while John and I were still dating, I felt pretty comfortable with the nature of the atmosphere being one of mating acquisition, but last night, that whole dance seemed odd and surreal in light of my husband and two children waiting for me at home.
I was younger than everyone we met there, but I felt like a school marm chaperoning the kids. Or more appropriately, like the yuppy mom taking her pre-teen and pre-teen's friends to see Britney. I liked the band, but why do they make the music so loud it hurt my ears? I love to dance, but my groove was lacking from this discomfort. God knows I've been to plenty of the alternative lifestyle's parties: the tired wine tastings or Friday museum socials. Gag me! -to show my age and, a little more, the point. Am I so odd-man-out between dominant ideologies and consumer groups that I can't be social in public at all? I want a social occasion where my kids are welcome, where I can drink and listen to great music (without burning off the cilia in my ear canals), music that's ambient and groovie while peppered with dirty illusions and swear words. I want to be surrounded by a pluralistic community of people who aren't like me, but appreciate me as if my beliefs were their own.
I used to think bloggers were this, but I know they're not. When Michele still lived here, she was always fun to go out with because even if we clubbed, we'd find a cozy couch in a corner quiet enough to talk, and cuddle ourselves back to a sane place after the week stripped all our positions of strength. But things change, right? isn't that my schtick? That river can never exist again, I can no more set my foot back down into it than I can hold its water in my hands.
I'm comforted at least that my husband is everything in every way that I need in a social companion. The point that eludes me here is that I had a great time catching up with Michie and I hate her program in Florida for taking her away. And nothing ever soothes the fuzzy, next morning feeling like gunpowder green tea. 
