Breaking news! Dr. Brokeback finally shows up.

Yes, this post was a long time coming. I’ve been on vacation for weeks, and I’m finally Broke(back).

Let me first start by saying that if you have never seen an ice luge, you have never lived.

And then let me dedicate this post to my dear friends Katy and Tracy and also to all of the anonymous readers who are so closely following this pregnancy. (I swear that they exist. I hung out with at least one devoted but anonymous fan last week. She confided that although she has never met the amazing women who write this blog, she is very emotionally invested in the future of their family. In think there’s a chance she’ll make a contribution to the boy’s college fund. I’d send a shout out, just in case. I do know that she wants to send a shower present despite the fact that she’s worried that it might be weird. I assured her that no one says no to a hipster onesie.) And now I will move on to my reflections on Kate-a-Palooza.

Katy and Tracy and I started our week of vacation at Katy’s thirtieth birthday party. I viewed the party as a chance to get in some well-wishes and I hoped to see some old friends. I got both of these things, but I also experienced something that I had totally forgotten.

I actually should have remembered “the Weber-Tierney phenomenon” because I still tell everyone I know (or, at least, anyone who will listen) the story of their wedding: I was expecting it to be a giant lesbian party, with hundreds of attractive women throwing themselves at me. Instead, I found myself sitting at the reception with the only other two lesbians in the place. There were no half-naked women looking for solace (well, at least none within 20 years of my age or sharing my sexual orientation); instead, the party was mainly populated by the incredibly supportive extended families of the Weber-Tierneys. Aunts, uncles, and third cousins twice removed all showed up to celebrate Katy and Tracy’s relationship. Their upcoming status as the first civil union in Connecticut (and the resultant Washington Post front page picture) paled in comparison (And I love fame and/or publicity.). As I shook my booty to the Chicken Dance next to a drunk red-headed relative, I had a moment where I nearly forgot my cynicism. Well, not quite. But it felt good for a moment.

I arrived to Katy’s thirtieth birthday party again expecting hoards of single, interested lesbians with nearby hotel rooms, but once again my dream was dashed. Although there was one incredibly hot but taken straightish friend (sigh), the party was again mostly supportive family. It was also amazing homemade and catered delicious grilled and Italian-themed food. And there were tents and kegs and a pile of cakes, brownies, seven layer bars and something I refer to as “peanut butter chocolate bliss,” and then there was the ice luge (I’ll get to that). As I stood by the dessert table, my mouth so stuffed with high sugar, high fat sweets that they spilled onto my lips, I felt a wave of something I don’t feel all that often. It wasn't hyperglycemic-induced nausea, either. The love and support in the house was palpable.

As the party wound down (I had to drive to Provincetown that night, after all), the crowd gathered in front of something called an “ice luge.” It was a three foot tall ice sculpture sitting on a table with grooves running down the slanted front. The basic idea is that if a person was to stand at the bottom of the slant, a drink could be poured from the top right into that person’s waiting mouth. My flashbacks of spring break, Ft. Meyers, 1989 went away after my third shot of cranberry and soda (I couldn’t drive drunk, after all). And as I watched my friend’s three year old daughter shoot apple juice (teach them young, I say), I smiled and hoped that one day I would have a party just like this one.

I hauled ass to Provincetown as the night wound down. Katy and Tracy would arrive the next night after a long day of party clean-up. We had a great time during our vacation week despite chilly weather. I’ve never seen a pregnant woman like Tracy, I don't think. Her level of trooper-dom sets an amazingly high standard for potential pregnant women everywhere. I knew she came from hearty stock, but as I stood, hands empty, watching her 33 week pregnant body lug thirty pound kegs and giant coolers full of gourmet food, I was even more impressed. Yo, Dog, you’re amazing. Rock on.