A really cheesy version of "Girlfriend in a Coma" plays on my sister's cell when I call.
Back when my sister left Tacoma for Hungary, then France, then the United Kingdom, the state of being "from Tacoma" was a social condition not unlike a plague; Tacoma was sort of like the herpes simplex of the Northwest.
When The Smiths came out with the Strangeways album, I made my own lyrics to the song, "Girlfrind in Tacoma I know, I know, it's serious." --But I never wanted to get out.
Now my sister lives in Orlando, Florida (Windermere, actually) with a screened-in pool so the reptiles don't get into it, going from air conditioned space to air conditioned space, hopefully avoiding fire ants that will eat you alive & screaming and palmetto bugs the size of baby hummingbirds.
And I live in a reasonably-sized home with a decent yard for the dogs to play in; I can run to Point Defiance Park, and as I jog I can breathe in water, mountain, and old-growth forest views. I can be a part of an engaged arts community that blasts me with a wide variety of culture, and I can be socially conscious and shop in indie shops and enjoy a wide range of quality restaurants and night life.
I can be a home-maker-y stay at home-ish mom, hanging out at the Y or with mom friends, or at home with my sould mate of twelve years while I explore my inner domestic diva-ness, or I can be a party animal social creature hanging out with the other friends I love.
All things are possible through Tacoma, the not-quite social disease I call home.
It's serious, yeah, but not a problem.
