Even us totally straight girls should have one or two. Platonically speaking of course.

I shall never forget the day a friend, R, took me to a Storm basketball game. The Storm, for those of you not into women’s basketball, is Seattle’s women’s basketball team. We’re big fans, my friend and I, though she’s the bigger fan, being the owner of season tickets, and me, well, I don’t even live in Seattle anymore, so getting to the games is a bit difficult. We were standing outside before the game, and R’s parents were there also, also big fans. We were talking about my impending move away from Seattle, and how much R would miss me, and I said, “That’s okay, it’s not that far, and you’ll come visit me,” or something to that effect.

Friend’s father looked at me, straight on, to make sure I didn’t miss his meaning, and said, “Wives should be with their husbands.”

While this is a perfectly valid point, it really had nothing to do with the subject. I wasn’t advocating taking R away from her husband and making her my love slave in the house I share with charming husband. I meant, y’know, visits. Now and then. Like friends.

I neglected to ask R’s father what he was thinking I had meant since he was still glowering at me, so instead R and I laughed about it later. Sometimes, at a game, I’d put my arm around her and ask her if she’d run off with me. She always declined. It’s probably just as well. I had no idea where we’d run off to anyway. Besides, we’d miss our husbands rather desperately.

Prior to my wedding, I introduced R to S, another good friend who lives in the area I was moving to. I generously made them my wedding attendants, being the kind person I am, and when the two of them met it was love at first sight. Platonically speaking, of course. When the three of us were together I was certain they were flirting with each other, in the way that straight girls do, and I was shoved aside, a mere extra in their courtship. Since the wedding was supposed to be all about me me me and no one else I should have been a bit miffed, I suppose, but the thought never occurred to me. After all, they were so cute together.

Everyone needs a good lesbian lover or two. After consigning Stew’s ashes to the deep, it was R who took me out for “a” drink – a couple buckets of grog later I was feeling much better, partially because I wasn’t feeling at all. Sometimes that’s what works, no? The last time R came to town S and I took her out to a play, and as we drove around Portland, hitting Powell’s and Cacao before the play, I laughed so hard I was afraid I was going to have an accident and have to return home to change. This is what happens when one ages, I hear.