Bring it on

Baltimore, oh Baltimore.  You serenaded me into the city, and then back out again, with the sounds of police helicopters.  Your street art should make Providence weep.

Today I'm worried about sequestration.  It is clear to me that it would be worse to lose a HeadStart slot than to be delayed weekly in the airport, but everything in my life is such a delicate balance right now, I really don't want to be delayed weekly at the airport.

Just days after reading about guerrilla queer playdates on the Lesbian Family site, we were invited to a guerrilla queer playdate.  Maybe we all read the same social media?  In any case, the invite was much appreciated, although I'm not quite sure what one brings to such an event.  My best guess: organically grown local heirloom apples harvested by workers paid a living wage, and a bag of [redacted].  The stakes are high. I had a "friend" who brought a bucket of Popeye's chicken to a queer potluck of the Dykes to Watch Out For persuasion.  Mistakes were made.  Shunning occurred.  My worst similar experience was showing up to meet my new college advisor, a noted lesbian feminist scholar who once suggested banning men from our campus after sundown, wearing a short (short!) vintage dress, heels (chunky), and carrying a matching purse.  I looked into her eyes and saw The Revolution die.