My best friend is going to Paris. URK UGH BWAAAA!

Sometimes the Goddesses travel in February to beat the winter blues. We went to Florida to visit friend Sue - what a great time; and then four of us went to Charlotte, North Carolina (here we are, the gorgeous quartet in the world's most fabulous candy store in Lexington). Notice our spectacular lips - we are nothing if not makeup experts. Also please notice the HUGE bag of candy Trudy has scarfed up. We are (from left) Trudy, The Queen, J and D. Great traveling companions until we got into a fight on the last day about who was going to stash all the wine bottles in their luggage that Trudy bought while on the tasting tour at The Biltmore Estate. There was also disagreement about how many times you can truly go to Krispy Kreme Donuts without people getting suspicious of your presence. The staff there knew us by first name and greeted us joyfully each time we herded through the door.

I'm thinking of heading south again in February or March with D. to visit friend Sue in Melbourne. The lure of the warm air, the sea, the manatees at their wintering spots, a leisurely visit to amazing wildlife refuge, and the cut-throat games of Boggle in the evening with a good bottle of wine on the table - they just keep creeping into my head. It can be a bit disconcerting, especially when the manatees and the spoonbills try playing Boggle in there.

But Trudy can't go this time - she is going to Paris. Yes, there it is. The ugly green monster has reared its head. Not only is she going to the city of Luuuuuuuv, but she is going with someone who sounds fantastic.

Trudy's son D is doing a spring semester of college at the Sorbonne and his roommate's mom, S., is Trudy's companion. S is an amazing woman: smart, lovely, politically active, funny, smart, did I mention politically active (which is like an aphrodisiac for Trudy.) I am totally convinced that she will steal Trudy away and after a year-long tour of the world, they will end up feeding orphaned refugees in Africa and will only come home to protest occasionally on the mall in Washington D.C. She will, of course, call and write frequently at first but the letters will come farther and farther apart and their tone will be more and more distant. Until she disappears altogether, only to be heard from during her annual campaign for food for her orphans every December.
I know that this makes me a horrible best friend, being so jealous of this "new" woman in Trudy's life.

I mean, Trudy is mine. MINE I tell you. And I'm not letting her go.
No, I'm not chaining her to the pipes in the basement.
I won't lock her in one of the spare rooms of the Mansion, feeding her only her two favorites: black coffee and dark chocolate.
I won't feed her amnesia pills and then convince her she is my long, lost sister who is agoraphobic and can never go outside and she is allergic to cell phones and Skype and cannot communicate with ANYONE except me.
I won't write a fake story in the newspaper that the terrorist level is RED and all travel overseas has been suspended.

Oh damn the lure of Paris. Gay Paree. Eiffel. The Louvre. The Arc de Triumph. Driving on the wrong side of the road (do they?). The cheeseries. The bakeries. French horns. The chocolatiers. The gorgeous men. The sidewalk cafes. The countryside, the rivers, the sea, the mountains. French kisses. The sound of the language which makes "I'm can't flush the toilet" sound like "You are the most spectacular creature on Earth." The cinema. The tiny-waisted ladies walking arm in arm with men with tiny pointed moustaches. French fries.
Oh hell.
When it push comes to shove (oh, could I shove her in the backseat of my car and hide her in a little cabin by the lake?) I will of course wish her a safe and wonderful journey, think of her each and every day, knowing that she is on a great adventure and will have fabulous stories for the Goddesses when she returns. She will be a converted Francophile. She'll be wearing a beret and carrying a cigarette in a holder and will constantly be mumbling things like "Merci,'' "au revoir,'' and "oui, oui.'' Her breath will smell like chocolate and she will take to posing with her chin up, while leaning provocatively against a wall, with the smell of French perfume swirling around her. She will move her dining room set outside on the driveway and begin calling it The Cafe. She'll feed her family French soup and baguettes and mounds of French vanilla ice cream.

But at least I know she eventually will come home, not because she cannot live without me or the other Goddesses. But because she will HAVE to tell us the stories...
And she better bring me a present.