SC Part 3: Belle Curves, Outer Space and Inner Peace

Here we are friends with the weekend running away from me at the speed of light, can’t keep up with it all even in flats. Go, go, toujours go, now, now, and encore de now, Still mentally unpacking from SCC. The clothes and surface things are hung, slung and bunged into various chests, closets and tranny crannies Chez Bellejambes. And so with the surface things out of the way, time for a deeper dive within.

It is just so damned nice to hang out with great numbers of guys and dolls of a similar or sympathetic disposition for a few days. You can feel it just a couple of hours into the proceedings. Our non-normative narratives join a swelling chorus. Our deviations from the mean become the standard, our out-of-tolerance behaviors are not just tolerated, they are dominant. We statistical outliers move to the center of a societal bell curve.

Conference attendees constitute the majority population for a few short days. The hotel staff gets past our differences pretty quickly. The accidental tourists and stowaways from Drabistan camping out at the hotel kind of cling to the walls and shadows. Whatever they have in their wallet is not coin of the realm here this week, and we special people wear the crown.

And this feels good, dear friends, truly good.

I am not generally much of a "joiner", quite cautious and guarded about the company of Earthlings really. I get mellower with time, but still draw on pretty deep wells of what many regard as cynicism or snobbery. I am just a little awkward around “us”, not ever entirely certain about how we are supposed to behave, or fully proud of how we do, you know?

Against all logic, I still remain hopeful of a rescue mission from my distant home planet, The Council of Elders will of course shake their outsized, fragile, translucent heads in disbelief while reading my report. Said report will have much to do with just how replete with shit the proverbial fan gets when we Earthlings gather in great numbers around practically any theme.

One of your great thinkers, Kurt Vonnegut opined smartly on these matters, referring to groups of people affiliated through a shared identity or purpose as members of a Granfalloon.

Good old Kurt.

And for all that I enjoy practically every waking and dreaming moment of SCC, I feel within me cautions against uncritical Granfalloonery. I am a better loner than a team player, and always have been.

I tell you this now because while I am breathless in anticipation at for the start of SCC, it is not all a fairy tale fantasy for me. I see thorns amongst the roses. Back now to the roses.

I stand (with slightly pinched toes) in complete and utter shoulder-back, jaw-slack awe at the countless tall and short, thick and thin, dark and pale, blonde and brunette, demure and daring, alto and baritone, big city hicks and county crossroads aesthetes, gun nuts and peaceniks, drop-outs and post-Docs and everyone else who each uniquely found a path to SCC this year.

To each of you who paused for a few minutes on your path, and shared it with me, I am terribly grateful that you did. I may have said something nice about your outfit or your beautiful smile. Perhaps we got to talking about our home towns or sporting heroes long forgotten. We may have spoken a bit about the whole ball of gender wax that we got rolled up in years ago, or just how the pleasant the shade and birdsong in the back courtyard of the Crowne Plaza is.

Whatever we spoke about, it all seems now, and seemed then, pretty much normal. Normal with the highs a little higher, and the lows about the same. I very much enjoyed your company and hope I left a little something of value with you too.

Some weeks later, looking back, taking a few years of SCC experience in at a safe remove, I think the value of coming to such a conference is now clear. We get to be a majority for a few precious days. Being a priestess in this church makes it a little easier to be a heretic everywhere else. This company of friends and perfect strangers with a sympathetic perspective on the world fortifies me the rest of my Voyages en Rose, out in the bigger wider world, uncertain of the reception, hopeful of a smile here and there.

So, come to SCC next year would you? Or Keystone. Or Esprit. Or Be-All. Or Fantasia Fair. Or wherever. Whether you are completely private and closeted or loud and proud, newly on your way or long decades past trying, you owe yourself a few days in the majority, a few days of glittering normality. Does a guy or a gal good.

SCC Part 2: Girl (Politely) Interrupted

My minutely considered editorial calendar, beautiful friends, was torn entirely asunder upon receipt of a loving and welcomed comment just this morning. You know who you are, my Dear Anonymous pen pal. You moved me greatly today. Thank you.

I do not know the why behind Petra. I have looked long and have not cornered the prey. This Golden Fleece is on the protected species list, never to be pursued with vigor, and left to roam peaceful, unperturbed by my clumsy footfalls.

I do know precisely why I write though. Much of that why comes down to the periodic payoff of a nice word from a reader. Terribly shallow of me I know. The work itself should be sufficient dividend, yes? Hmmm. Well theoretically, yes. But while I have over the decades attained a few precious and sometimes pharmaceutically aided moments of clarity, I simply do not live on a very high plateau of self-actualization. Periodic roses tossed in the path go an awful long way with me.

And so, thanks again, Anon the Third. Especially for the pleasant reminder of my encounter with Leisl in the Belk bargain shoe racks way back in springtime ’09. A very special day for me. I had a happy return to this same sort of unexpected intimacy while out in the Vanilla world all Tuti Fruti’d up a couple of Fridays ago. I’ll tell the tale here today and come back to bigger picture observations about the Southern Comfort Conference the next time that time allows. 

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It was a sunny Friday, my Day 2 of SCC, after a perfect makeup session with Monica Prata of Nouveau She, and a smart luncheon of grilled chicken salad. Ashley and others of the pretty Minnesota cohort jumped a ride with me to Perimeter Mall for a little shopping therapy. I got a too hung up in Ann Taylor for my friends, and so we parted ways in part so that I could continue to rifle racks and fondle frocks.

I recognized the woman who was helping me. I had a particular thing in mind, and asked her where I might find it.

“Where o where … forgive me, I am just here today from my home store at Northpoint, not sure I know where things are quite yet…”

“No worries, take your time”, says I, “ you have helped me out on a couple of occasions there and I love your style”.

This earned me a double take as she tried to match the present woman with the past man. We found a couple of items together, she prepared a fitting room in that courtly AT manner, and then more or less vanished to help a few other shoppers out.

I have written before how the private sanctuary and world of wonderful mirrors is a place of near religious revelation for me. Honest, open, and intimate moments happen here amongst the girls. Moments that chaps cannot buy for money. Very enlivening moments on a good day. Did I mention I was having a great day?

Bag dumped on the booth bench, booties kicked off, side-zip slacks peeled down, the flowing lace overlay skirt pulled up, zipped up, and door swung open for the short toddle over to the fiercely opinionated 3 way. An interrupted toddle as it happened.

“What do you think? ...” the stranger posed of me, indicating the plum pencil skirt she had shimmied on.

“I like it. I do. What’s the occasion, Oooh, and turn for me would you?”

Her skirt hit a couple of inches north of beautiful, dark complexioned knee, The blouse threw off complementary floral sparks of pink. Fit and curved, lovely altogether from bare foot to popping smile, bright eyes and swept hair.

She pirouetted and seemed not to mind my rather baritone register.

“First date. And he is younger, only by a few years, but you know how men are, I just don’t want to be … too old. I just don’t know if this does it…”

“You’ll be fine. For starters you are beautiful, honestly, and if he doesn’t get that, he shouldn’t get past a first date. Show again? How did you meet him?”

“Oh, friends hooked us up, they always worry about me, I have been out of the dating game so long and you know I don’t mind really, but it all tugs at me you know?”

Honestly darlings, I do not know. I perceive that dating is mostly pure and utter awkwardness, dashed hopes, dropped standards and disappointments, and I thank the cosmos daily that I have been sidelined for 17 years. But that leap into the unknown, the need for optimism, the hope for Prince or Princess Charming, I can still summon up electric memories and a bellyful of butterflies at the thought.

“OK. Listen up: forget your age, you are a stunner. What about the guy? What do you know about him? Will he want to talk football?”

“Golf. I think. Yeah, he is supposed to be a golfer.”

“OK, quick primer. The Tour Championship is in town this weekend over at Eastlake. It is a cliffhanger. Tiger Woods has a shot at the win, but he is in tough against Brant Snedeker and Rory Mcilroy. Eastlake is where Bobby Jones learned to play, legendary place. Ask him if he is watching the tournament and that should wind him up for at least a few minutes.”

The saleslady came back with another armload of gear for her, and I padded off with my too big skirt into the shop to find the skinnier version, and O, while I am at it, that blue half-sleeved just-above-the knee shift dress in pretty jewel blue looks tasty...

Chit chat continued in open volleys over the walls of our adjoining confession booths on this that and the other thing. The lady who was helping her out was not really hitting the fashion mark. Wrong sizes and colors and out of the who-knows-where suggestions where being pried in the door and I could just feel the tension building. We stepped out to the mirror together again with the area to ourselves.

“She just doesn’t get it. Honestly is she listening ?... "she said helping me up with my zip “ Oh but I like that. You like?”

I only nearly liked the dress, just a little drapey for me. I am slender at the waist and hate to give up this pleasant inheritance simply for the sake of an of-the-moment silhouette (ed. Vanity, thy name is Petra…).

And so it continued. We talked. Zipped. Unzipped. She talked me out of the strappy sandals, and she was right. Too high a tone and too low a heel for my liking but tempting still. It is lovely and necessary sometimes to have a suspicion confirmed by a woman with an admitted shoe addiction. She got the skirt. I talked her down a size, a size she didn’t believe in, but one that worked a charm on her.

She was bright, alert, and absolutely paying attention. It was plain to see, and plainer to hear, that I was equipped with a non-standard solitary X chromosome, not a fully pledged member of the Sorority, plain as day that I am not, in the broadly accepted way, a woman.

And it just did not matter, did it?

Maybe my difference did matter to her. Perhaps she was spinning the karmic wheel, whispering goodness to the universe and paying forward a small measure of acceptance. A measure of acceptance that I am sure she has been denied by people with a pale complexion as she stood hopefully at one crossroads or another needing only a smile and an encouraging word.

Maybe my difference didn’t matter. Perhaps the fitting room warren is very much like a train minus the jostling and unsettling aromas, with a destination and separate paths bought and paid for and soon, complete with virtual bungee cords that save us all the effort and hurt of the endured commitment to kindness.

And maybe goodness and openness is just good and open. Free and priceless when a moment presents and the spirits conspire.

We parted with a hug. I did not ask her name, and I did not volunteer mine. She won’t read this blog post. And we are likely not to see or recognize each other again. But I am hopeful of a couple of things:

I hope her date did not talk golf. I hope he asked her about a favorite meal, the best smell ever, or a sunset that she would not trade for gold. I hope he told her about a terribly embarrassing moment in his life, one where he prayed the ground would swallow him whole but that he can laugh about now. I hope he held the door. I hope he lost track of time. I hope he wanted the privilege of more of her company, and asked for it like he meant it.

I hope she said no when he pressed for yes. I hope she did not need to look over her shoulder when her key hit the door to know that he was watching every gorgeous, womanly step she took walking away from him, desirable as all hell get out as she no doubt looked.

Yes, I do know how men are. 

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Postscript. An open letter to Anonymous 3.

I did intend to write today. At the start of the day I had not picked the lock on a theme or approach to the labor. Your comment cleared a path and cheered me up.

I did not intend to dress today. This is an anniversary weekend for Mrs. Bellejambes and I. On such a weekend, well, we really don’t want Petra stepping out of the Sleek Chorus singing unsettling verse. As is happens though, Mrs. B had a few beautiful hours scheduled with friends this afternoon, and so prior to writing I did dress, for just a couple of loving hours. Favorite shades, purples and pinks like my friend. Minus the makeup, nails and fragrance, but nearly fully the Petra I so love to become from time to time.

I have thought of you today, and projected myself into your life a little. Five years, cold turkey as you say, is a daunting thing. I reckon though that there will be such a time for me. A time when the clothes do not fit, where the outer surfaces do not meet the inner dreams sufficiently, a time when this appetite diminishes as many other appetites have in my life.

I do not know you from Eve. But I believe that you have access to a beautiful measure of your inner Eve. I want to live my whole life hanging on to mine for dear life. She makes the outer Adam much more agreeable whatever he is wearing, doesn’t she?

Sincere thanks for your visit.

Much love to you all.

Getting back to Petra. SCC Part 1

The Southern Comfort Conference finished up, dear friends, just last weekend, and your fickle Pen Pal was en scene, embedded, engaged, bedecked, bejeweled and altogether beguiled for two glorious days of full Petra immersion. This was my third visit, and SCC, is now pretty well established as where and how I wriggle out of the summer cocoon and spin myself up in slinky silky stuff for a new life, a new season.

Still shocking too how natural and easy the chrysalis is. Lasting too. Par example, I was in a drab social setting later that weekend, after my SCC time was over. There I was, unshaven, butch wallet, no spritz of perfume behind the knee, and I still had to absolutely bite my tongue when introducing myself to strangers. Having spent the prior couple of days with “Hi! My name is Petra …”, I was still quite in the habit. It took the full evening to comfortably find my way back home to my more commonly known given name, with some damn near misses along the way. I had to smile.

I had much to smile about.

This year, I chose to stay at the host property, the Perimeter Crowne Plaza. Mrs. Bellejambes, you see is quite concerned about Petra getting clocked making daylight dashes through our close knit neighborhood. I take her point quite well. Yes, there does lurk a silly adrenaline junky within who rather enjoys the thrill, the sound of the drum pounding away inside my amply padded chest cavity. That cheap thrill doesn’t tip the scale when measured against the value of my wife’s peace of mind though. And on the upside, a second or perhaps a third glass of wine would not be out of order if I was only a short elevator ride from my crib rather than even a shortish drive home. Virtue and necessity do accessorize perfectly from time to time.

And so I rose early Thursday morning, burned through the final thousand requirements of the work week, set auto-reply and phone messages for the long weekend, and stepped off the grid. I then took a deep breath, the first in a series as it happens.

After that moment of calm collection, I proceeded to pack like a refugee.

Ginger Grant wheeled 3 full seasons of glittering evening gowns aboard the S.S. Minnow for a 3 Hour Tour. Ginger Grant ain't got nothing (but looks) on me. I had been too damn busy to really have anything more than a sketch of a wardrobe plan, and this absence of forethought showed in the Sherpa-sized bail of gear that I schlepped across town. What really stands out though are the things forgotten. A decent facial soap for instance, or hey girl, would it kill you to bring a camera maybe?

No time for regrets on these matters though. It was time to change time, to slow time down, to anticipate the change and savor it. First things first, the room, Petra’s room. Not a place for either a chap or a chaperone. Petra’s room. Unpack first, populate the drawers, drape the closets and cover the counter tops with an orderly display of feminine occupation. The last vestiges of drab me folded away, given the dignity of a plastic bag burial and slid beneath the pillow array on the spare bed. 

Time for another deep breath.

Now for the body. Not the pressed and practical prep of the man day. The patient, purposeful pamper, the care of the skin that soaks in so much more than skin deep. The first autumn shave, all the shearing and plucking and gumming the plumbing required to achieve my undoubtedly preferred surface characteristic. Buffed, moisturized, painted and powdered, the body feels new and young again. 

Time then for the face. On with the wig cap and off with the glasses, the eyes another year worse for the wear, the hands and fingers months out of practice, but surely and slowly connecting with habits long gone but not forgotten. An afternoon palette for the eyes, nothing too dramatic, thin as they are, my own lashes with a few coats of lacquer will do. I am glad I cleaned my brushes before putting them to rest in the spring. A couple of false moves and uncertain strokes, nothing Q-Tips and Kleenex can’t obscure.

The foundation and powder shine up and smooth out things well enough, some cheek color and lip contour. I finish by reminding myself and a gentle reminder that I am a 50-something now, and didn’t have soft facial contours and bee sting lips for starters. I feel proud in a different way, a way unique to Petra-time.

Nails on now, and finally, the crescendo moment of the coronation, the hair. It never fails to feel awesome. I can believe myself fully now.

I know now that I am really only short minutes away from the world. Just the breath-catching moment as the dress hugs me in snugly. The shoes then, the jewelery, lovely big chunky things, the mist of fragrance, a check of the contents of clutch, a last look in the mirror, and the last deep breath of the day.

The one just before the door opens, and closes, clack, locked behind you.

More later on so many lovely people and moments.. Nice to be back.

Strange Fruit

I sprout in the autumn and flower all winter long. Come spring the leaves fall and flutter away. Then summer. The dormant time. I go entirely to ground.

It is all upside down, yes?

Upside down, back to front, topsy-turvy yes, and all that, truly but not chaotic no, nor random. Cyclical. Orbital. Predictable even when I take a peek at the cheat-sheets of hindsight.

I am a bit of a feather head friends and slow on the uptake. It only occurred to me this year that I feel the same way in Atlanta early in August as I did eons ago in March when I lived way the hell up north. For those of you who have not lived in Canada amongst Gods Frozen People or in other places of extraordinarily dark, chill, and long winters, let me describe the day of light and hope.

Up north, it happens in March. Out of the blue comes a day that nukes snow banks and sets spirits soaring. Beautiful human forms emerge from shapeless fleece and feathered cocoons. The UPS dude wears shorts. Umbrellas pop up and open on long shuttered restaurant patios. Lunch runs long and loose and, for me back then, liquid. You know with absolute certainty that you will get flattened by one more soul crushing blizzard but you know even more that you have survived another gawdawful winter.

And what a feeling that is.

Here in the south it comes in August. After long months of sprawling, sweaty summer where every outdoor breath is a soggy shot glass of 5 Hour Apathy there comes a day of lightness.  Air, first thing in the morning, is cool and crisp. At lunchtime, the car is not a hellacious furnace. Early in the evening, while the sun is still up, the dogs bark and bay for a good walk. The mosquitoes might be carrying something that will knock you flat, but the odds are that you will see Autumn again.

And what a feeling that is.

Way back in March, on a Friday, I had my last real night out en Femme. That Saturday, the wardrobe was folded, the makeup cased, the bags, shoes, wigs and the rest of the pretty accoutrements were put away. Ploughed under, furloughed away.

Here in August, come the early shoots, stirrings underground, in the quiet times before the sprouting and flowering. Foreshadows and rumblings of the riot of fecundity and flat out fun that go along with my topsy-turvydom.

And what a feeling that is.

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To those of you who have reached out with the odd hello, I am very grateful. Believe me when I say that you have my very full respect and affection. You know who you are. Thank you sincerely.

To those of you whose blogs I love, please accept my apologies for not following you on your journeys as well I would like, and for not cheering you on from the comments section. I admire your ability to write and share with such constancy and care.

And to those of you who drop in here time to time looking for something scandalous or halfway witty, thanks for coming back. I am promising to myself to have great experiences this autumn. There should, therefore, be much to propose and prose on about here on Voyages en Rose.

January seen from February.

Shamed I am, by my lack of attention to this old house, Voyages en Rose. Much to chat about after all, just precious little time available to your humble hack with which to tumble thoughts into keystrokes. I did get a post out in January, and with today’s effort, will be able to count one for February too. A streak of sorts I suppose.

This evidence to the contrary, I have been pretty well steeped in the life of Petra year to date. With my pal Ally on an extended tropical retreat, editorial responsibilities with Guilty Pleasures have taken on a life of their own. Samples from lovely vendors have been piling up here at home. For those of you with an interest in largely favorable and hopefully witty reviews of pretty intimates, do take a moment or two to visit.

Mrs. Bellejambes and the UPS man have both become accustomed to parcels addressed to this mystery woman. Not so concerned with the UPS man of course, but happy to report that my admittedly non-normative fascination with the life of women is, well, normalizing here at home. Mrs. B. does rather wish that we shared more sizes and is wondering when my wardrobe will squeeze us out of our home, but Petra is, on the whole, not a troubling tenant.

So, where was I? I did have a great January. The first planning session for the not-to-be-missed Southern Comfort Conference happened one sunny Saturday. SCC has a new-look, new-function web-site, and a massive crew of volunteers laying into the epic effort of staging a big, complex function for complex people. Wonderful stuff. Your attendance will add considerably. Please mark your calendars for Sept 21 – 25. Friends of Petra will reliably find her perched on a tall stool cradling a chilled glass.

I dressed on this day for the fitting room and was mission driven to find a great pair of wide lined black pants. This wardrobe staple was absent from my closet. Bulls eye on first pick with the always reliable I.N.C. line. Guy mode me has not worn flared pants since Frampton Came Alive and will not even long after he is dead, but Petra delights in the look. Shopping for slacks is, by reliable reports, a typically traumatic day for many women. I remain blessed by good fortune, and love the look and feel being the woman in perfect pants.

Next stop Ann Taylor where I scored a gorgeous new skirt (pictured above) for a song, and again enjoyed fashion chit-chat in the fitting room warren with other enthusiastic fashionistas. This skirt is by the way, still available in a great assortment of sizes and can be yours for a mere $15.00 for the next few days. Go click.

Last stop, the lamentably soon to be shuttered Bloomingdale's Perimeter store for a romp through their store closing clearance event. My finds from TC Intimates found their way up and over my hips and into the pages of Guilty Pleasures in the form of a loving review. The ravages of time and a general lack of exercise have contributed to a little weight gain about the waist friends. You know my vanity well by now, and so should not be surprised to see me singing praises about foundation garments that help order ones shape about. If you do not have a seriously smoothing slip in your wardrobe, you should, and could do much worse than the TC Torsette, seen below. The pull-on Nipper too helps provide a little waist to hip relief.

I spent a couple of hours wandering about, bags slung from shoulder and honestly enjoying what amounted to a spa day for my soul. Never an unkind glance or unwelcoming word from any of the civilians and staffers I chatted with, and this in broad daylight at the busiest time of the week in a thriving suburban setting mall. I have said it before, and reinforce it here: Even just a few hours out and about with the world from time to time does the rest of me a power of goodness. Lovely memories to carry about long after the bags are emptied, and the wig and the rest of it all folded away until next time.

Next time did not wait all too long either, and I claim a personal first on this recent Voyage en Rose. I packed a second bag for a business trip to the sunny west coast and saved myself a gruesome red-eye flight home by allowing for a little LA time en Femme. I had a theme of holy pilgrimage in mind as I begged off Friday evening invites, swapped identities and strode out of my hotel for a drive up to Studio City and a visit with the famous and fabulous Alison of Faire Frou Frou fame.

Faire Frou Frou is the epicenter of intimate wardrobe luxury, and I have enjoyed a friendly on-line relationship with Alison and her equally darling mom Gail for some years now. Nothing will get you past the rigors of LA Friday traffic more quickly than a little visit and modest shopping splurge in this Oasis of Underwear. Entirely refreshing and luxurious for the blogger to meet, in the smiling flesh, someone you really admire. Loads of girl talk ranging from fashion, knickers, relationships and even business of all topics. Wonderful shopping too, bien sur, and precious moments in the prettiest fitting room in the inner solar system. Read about the whole intimate idyll over here.

From there, the sublime, and slowly into the tawdry heart of Hollywood for something closer to ridiculous. We have to give credit to Fredericks of Hollywood for romanticizing lingerie and bringing sexy to market. Their flagship store is right on the Walk of Fame, vogueing vainly for attention amongst the dispirited tourists and busking Peruvian Pan-flute bands (yes, two of them) thronging the broad sidewalks. I executed a near-perfect Carrie Bradshaw stiletto-heel, gazelle-leap, hair blowing and bag flailing, darting through the vehicular mosh pit, and burst quite delightedly into Shrine # 2 of my evening.

Fredericks is too brightly lit for my liking, and the lingerie is of suspect quality for the most part. But still, I was nearby and dressed, so a polite genuflection was certainly called for. I did genuflect around the shoe department, and could not find a comfy fit amongst the towering platforms and over-the-knee boots on display. The prices were right yes, but the costs of pinched toes and aching tendons are to be weighed more heavily in my view. Out into the night empty handed therefore, one more swan dive into and through the Hollywood Boulevard chaos, and back to my hotel for a little end of day supper and perhaps a glass of wine.

Now, the Cross Dresser is accustomed, when out and about, to feeling like the most conspicuous person in most settings. This was not the case upon my return to the LAX Westin. I popped up to my room first for a quick refresh of the maquillage, and met fascinating company in the elevator back down. You see, there was a Wrestling Convention of some sort in my hotel. I shared the ride with three entirely cute and menacing young bustier-fishnet-and-boot clad Gladiatrixes who were practicing well choreographed moves in the tight elevator confines.

Awesome physicality, youthful beauty and an outrageous sense of fun was the general vibe. I share at least the outrageous sense of fun, and so we paused in the lobby for a while together. I was introduced to a handful of their male counterparts, massive hulking presences, neon tights, cowboy hats, evil Ninjas, hillbilly bullies, you name it the whole crazy assortment of personae that populate the squared circle.

And me.

Proper in Ann Taylor, dripping in faux pearl, shining in Donna Karan sheers, and clearly the least remarkable presence in the whole damned hotel. Top that, dear friends. There was absolutely nothing I could do to scandalize the setting. Time for hugs with the new girlfriends and retreat to a smallish booth in a dimly lit restaurant. My waitress was a complete sweetie, ready with the black table linen and a warm welcome. A super evening altogether, and one I will long remember.

My senses are always a little more lit when traveling, and seeing a place less well known. These feeling are magnified magnificently when traveling en Femme. I will have occasion to do this again this year, and the thought, amongst others, helps time click happily along. Perhaps I will have another tale of this variety for you in March.

Thanks as always for your visit, for your stamina, and for your curious appetite for my odd tales.

Happy dressing and everything else too.