1-800-LES-B-INN (May 2005)

Editor’s Note 2013- This is my favorite story to tell IN LIFE.


For our third anniversary, Kathleen planned a road trip from our home in Alexandria, Virginia, to a lesbian-owned bed and breakfast in New Hampshire (Their phone number? 1-800-Les-B-Inn. You can’t make that up, folks…). When we arrived, our room was decked out with a romance package that included sparkling cider, M-M’s, incense, and temporary tattoos (I definitely want to know who was on *that* committee. No, wait… the embarrassing part is that I was all like, “I’m going to put them on my skin and then try to get really tan before they wash off! Oy vey.). We spent the evening lounging about the place, swimming, hot tubbing, going out to eat, etc. By midnight we had *two* problems. The first was that the town we were in was so small that we’d seen everything there was to see. Twice. The second was that this trip was kind of a last ditch effort for Kat to reignite whatever it was she felt for me, and it wasn’t working. Once all the planned activities ran out, she went from being mildly annoyed to nitpicking everything about my presence and my person.

So I did what any self-respecting lesbian would have done in that situation. I called up my ex-girlfriend and asked her how far it was to her house, because I couldn’t handle the current one all by myself. And there was an alterior motive involved- Kathleen had never been outside of the country, and Meagan lived in CANADA. I might could save our trip by showing her something new and exciting- we could tool around Ottawa for a day, see the Parliament buildings, and successfully avoid an entire DAY of talking exclusively to one another.

So we called Meagan and her partner, Deah, and asked them if we could meet up for supper. But that plan had to be scratched because our figuring was off… it was actually closer to five hours to get there. When they asked us if we wanted to sleep over, I could see the relief in Kathleen’s eyes. She didn’t even care that she was losing the money she’d already paid to the hotel. It was worth it to her to have me completely wrapped up in something else besides, well, her.

We didn’t even have to set the alarm. By seven or eight, we were on the road, barreling toward all of the salvation Canada could offer. Meagan called somewhere around 9 or 10 and asked us where we were. I told her that we were almost to Montreal, and we were going to stop at Tim Horton’s for breakfast.

Meagan: You have to order a TimBit.
Leslie: What the fuck is a TimBit?

I wasn’t even going to try and play it cool like I did on our first “date.” Around Chrismastime of my senior year of high school, Meagan came to pick me up before school so that we could go to Starbuck’s. I had never been there before, and I ordered a Frappucino. Meagan was like, “are you sure?” Like an idiot, I answer “of course, I get them all the time…” THE DRINK WAS FROZEN. IT WAS DECEMBER. I WAS A COFFEE FUDGESICLE BY THE TIME WE GOT TO SCHOOL!

Meagan: You’re just going to have to trust me on this one.
Leslie: I thought we had established early on that that was NEVER A GOOD IDEA!

Ok, so Kathleen and I drive up to Tim Horton’s and I am instantly jealous that there is nothing like it within five minutes of my house in DC. We go in.

The illusion shatters. If the trip hadn’t been bad before, this is where it got a WHOLE LOT WORSE. I’d forgotten that Quebec is the only province in Canada where they don’t have to put signs in both French and English. The entire menu is in French. Not only do I not know what a TimBit is, I don’t know how to ask for one. I am standing there in a puddle of self pity. ALL I WANT IS A DONUT AND SOME COFFEE AND NOW I’M IN A FUCKING FOREIGN COUNTRY AND I CAN’T READ!

I go up to the counter. I ask for a TimBit and a large coffee in English. The woman points to the menu overhead. You can’t get one TimBit. The quantities and prices are scattered as if put there by someone with a killer hangover. I point to the one I want. I pay. It’s like ten dollars. I don’t care.


We’re walking out of the restaurant, and I’m going to kill Meagan. All she had to say was, “it’s kind of like a donut hole, eh.” So I call her up. And she’s laughing hysterically. “Oh man,” she says. “I never should have done that to ya in Quebec.”

So by this time we’re both laughing and my bit of annoyance has passed. I tell her we’ll be there in a couple more hours and hang up.

“I wish you’d asked me for help,” says Kat. “I took French in high school.”

I replied, “Oh, I wish I’d known that, sweetheart…”

But I thought, “Friends help you move. REAL FRIENDS help you move bodies.”


Because this was originally written in 2005, I haven’t told you the best part of the story. A couple of years later, after Meag and Deah’s daughter was born, Deah and I schemed to get me into Canada without Meag knowing. I was supposed to come for Thanksgiving, but I bought the tickets for the wrong weekend due to not remembering it was a *revolving* Monday. As it turned out, I think it was better that way, because I got the girls all to myself. 🙂

Anywho, because Deah was a rock star, she showed up at the airport with the biggest fucking box of Timbits I have ever seen before or since. She hands it to me and I know instantly what this is about. I’m going to go and knock on the door with the same smile I had when she screwed me over at Timmy’s to begin with.

So we get there, and I knock.

Meagan comes to the door, as beautiful as I’ve always remembered her, and involuntarily, the Timbits just drop out of my hand and I run toward her. We hug so hard that it’s like a contest to see who can get the most life energy out of the other one. It is a magic moment, the one moment I am blessed to say there are no pictures. Because that look? The one of amazement and shock at seeing me for the first time in years? That was just for me, and it always will be.

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