**************************************** WARNING! THE FOLLOWING IS COPYRIGHTED MATERIAL, AND MAY NOT BE REPRODUCED OR REPRINTED COMMERCIALLY WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION. COPYRIGHT 1994. SHELLY ROBERTS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. FOR PUBLICATIONS WISHING TO CARRY Roberts' Rules, PLEASE CONTACT AUTHOR DIRECTLY AT shellyr@bcfreenet.seflin.lib.fl.us *************************************** ROBERTS' RULES by Shelly Roberts Having A Ball. It was the fourth annual All Girls' Barbecue, the kind of party the seasonal Northerners throw for themselves in their South Florida winter homes to celebrate the fact that the only things they have to shovel off their driveways here in the middle of January are bougainvillea leaves, and palm fronds. And, as happens annually, some of us year-rounders were included in the invites. (By the way, if I haven't convinced you by now that you should be considering giving up shivering for a living and shifting to some South Florida sunshine, The-Ft.-Lauderdale- Is-A-Great- Lesbian-And -Gay-Destination Club will be coming around to tear up my contract as Newsletter Editor. Com'on down.) Anyway, this was my fourth year at it. I'd been to every AGB so far, and I know all the dialogue by heart. "Lookin' great! How was the Summer? Business is great. The market is better. Is the market better? How're the dogs? Is the boat in the water? When are you closing on the house?" This year, I decided I'd done all those conversations already, and it was time to put a little more excitement into it. You see, every year at the AGB, some time after the "Hi-how-are-you's" a major chunk of the party turns up missing. They all disappear into one of the bedrooms. Ooooh. And, this year, I wanted to join them. Now, those of you who speak fluent Lesbian know exactly what was going on. For you uninitiated, let me pass you a clue. At weekend, January, over-30, lesbian parties, when that many women disappear into the bedroom, (Oh, you have such a dirty mind.) it can mean only one thing... Right!...FOOTBALL! This year one of the football queens must have won the coin toss, because the TV was set up in the living room. Unheard of! But not disastrous to a Ft. Lauderdale party, because every house here comes equipped with what they call a "family" room, and which we all refer to as the "Dyke den." Parties happen in the den. Living rooms are for walking through to admire how exquisitely they're decorated. We'd all long since admired the life-sized rattan baby giraffes and the signed Kate Millet litho, so this unused space was available. FOOTBALL!!!!! In a public room! Whoa! It was a diversion too intriguing to pass up. Especially since I'd already learned the states of the bond, flower, stock and real estate markets. Now, I am not what you normally call your average girl jock. Oh, sure, I do have some butch tendencies, but I pretty much keep them under a couple of coats of high gloss Revlon Pink Pearlessence. Unless there's an emergency ceiling fan to install, or roof to pressure-clean. I know an inning from a quarter, a TD (Touchdown, for those of you of the absolute femme persuasion) from an RBI (Ask your girlfriend, girlfriend.). Of a Christmas or New Years, I have been known to hunker down in front of a set to watch groan men with buns and assorted other apparatus clearly defined by very tight, very revealing clothing, throw themselves at each other without benefit of a Donna Summer tune or a revolving, mirrored, ceiling ball. I could be cool. I could be with it. I could walk the walk, talk the talk, fit in with the gridiron gals. "Hey," says I, pulling up an O' Doul's and an easy chair. "I recognize that black and silver shield. It's the Oakland Raiders. Cool. But who are they playing?" Well, did I get hoots over that, or what? "Oakland? Oakland? Where have you been, woman?! It's the L.A. Raiders." "Really? When did they move?" (Open mouth. Insert Foot. Bite Down.) More hooting. "Eight or nine years ago," I was informed. OOPS. What did I know? So I'd missed a few quarters. They let me stay anyway. Although I did almost blow the privilege again a little later, when I asked who we were voting for. We were, it seemed, *voting* for the Broncos, which no one in the group seemed at all concerned were from... Denver...in the dreaded state (sic) of Colorado. It was a thoroughly enlightening and somewhat surprising experience. Several of my sisters could spout stats. Impressive. They knew quarterbacks by actual name. Last and first. They could cite their injuries! It was an interesting afternoon. Football wives carried on conversations is distant rooms, and came by occasionally to cuddle their honeys. Or to get them chips and dip refills. The Pigskin Polly's punched each other on the upper arm, and cheered good blocking. Many of them spoke actual English in between quarters. At half time, they arose as a group, leaving cap/sweater/program markers to keep their reserved seats reserved, and joined the rest of us in light supper conversation. Then, someone blew the whistle for the second half, and let the games begin. Again. I asked a number of dumb questions of the group, such as "Um, uh, so whatever happened to the Rams?", which were given all the same tolerance I used to get from hetero dating when my oh-you-great-big- handsome-date-decider brought me along to see, oh, say, boxing. They all thought I was cute. And answered my silly inquiries with studied patience, never making any eye contact which would require removing their eyes from the actual action. When the score hit 35 for the Not-Coloradians, and a Serves-You-Right-For-Living-There-In-Homophobes'-Heaven 24 for the Broncos, I got up to go back to the rest of the party. Football wives had wound themselves into conversations of other interests, and, glancing over my shoulder at their tube-tied mates, inquired the score. "Almost all over but the complaining," I responded. "Ah." they all echoed, hopefully, and returned to their Moscarpone and sun dried tomato dip. It was an eerie flashback to thousands of other parties I'd attended alongside Whatsisname so many years ago. It made me wonder what was actually so different now than what I was doing then. And then I remembered. The sex is better. Go team! Rah. ________________________ 1994 Shelly Roberts. All Rights Reserved. May be reprinted only in its entirety with written permission. Shelly Roberts is a nationally syndicated columnist, and author of The Dyke Detector, and Hey, Mom, Guess What...??!! 150 Ways To Tell Your Mother, Paradigm Publishing.