May 13, 2003


  • Wouldn't you know it, I go through all that trouble to perfect my tiramisu and the guys start screaming, "Apple Crumble!" which I don't have a good recipe for yet.  Yeah, I know, what about my Dad; wouldn't a top restaurateur know the secret?   Sure, but do you think he'd tell me?   Nope, cuz I'd tell all of YOU and pro chefs and patissiers would go out of business.  Oh, he'll give me a few helpful hints and constructive criticism, but not the full recipe.   Men.  Never satisfied.  Gotta keep us girls on our toes.  Gotta keep us guessin'. 


    Actually the stuff ain't exactly TOPS on my dessert list ever since Audrey and I got sick after eating a whole mess of it for breakfast once while camping up in the Sierras last year.   Cindie's Mom (they're from Encino) had packed a huge picnic basket for us feisty, physically fit girls to take along, complete with her super-rich, extra-crisp Crumble.   (As I recall, she doubles the topping ingredients and uses a shallow casserole dish.)  Everything was dandy until we piled into the camper shell to ride the remaining forty miles to the ranger station.  It was the first time we two ever sat back there, and we didn't realize the poor air circulation, outer turn radius, and lack of a visual ground point increases your propensity for car sickness about fifty times, not to mention the driver can't hear your cries to pull over.   And oh, the bitter smell of rotting leaves and territorial skunk, getting stronger and stronger til your nose fuckin' hurts.   Audrey was the first to succumb.  Thank god Cindie, our faithful but mischievous driver, likes to take lots of pics, and stopped just in time for the poor girl to puke over the turnout guard rail while I stood there and admired the scenery, still proud of my strong stomach muscles.   No Cindie Outward Bound was gonna snigger at Tina Romano, fun as the gal could be.   No, I held out to the very end--which I thought was never gonna come after the last five miles of zigzagging highway.  Never had I prayed so hard for us to find a parking spot.   As soon as the pickup hit the concrete bumper with a sickening lurch, I slid out the back, almost spraining my ankles, and ran through the long rows of RVs in search of the public john.   By the time I burst into the cool tiled room with its signature scent of  bubblegum disinfectant and musky dry pee pee, I was starting to heave.   But shit, all the stalls were full.   So I had to upchuck in a sink while ten travel-weary women waiting in line tried not to look.   I could've made it into one of my most embarrassing moments, but hell, I was too relieved to care.   At least I wasn't like Fran, who couldn't poop all week until she gave up on the outhouses and squatted in the high grasses on the side of a hill while the rest of us stood sentinel, proving John Crapper had a good idea to design the first indoor flush toilet low to make full use of abdominal pressure, tah-dah.  (What a subject, eh?)  


    On that trip I learned what they mean by sticking together.  Filled with aerobic exuberance one crisp afternoon, I'd forged ahead of the others hiking up a low mountain.   I had nimbly leaped down from the summit like a mountain goat when suddenly I found myself alone at the bottom in a clearing, uncertain of which way I'd gone.  There was not a soul in site but the lean silent pines, crackling chaparral, and high flying birds.   I was literally lost in the woods.  It was dizzying.  After ten minutes I began to panic; what if everybody went another way, and I was left out there with no water or shelter from the elements?   Worse yet, suppose some weirdo found me and decided to take advantage?   There are so many murders in the woods.  Luckily, nothing of the sort came down, but it was still one of the longest ten minutes in my life.


    So Saturday last me and the guys played miniature golf, much tamer sport, but challenging just the same.   After going out to dinner at Denny's, we caught a movie.   It sure was bizarre sitting in the dappled dark between Brett and Bruce, their thick denim knees pressing my leg as they fidgeted in the squeaky adjustable seats; I began to fantasize about having two lovers.  I know it turned Brett on, too, for he came on extra-hot to me that night, as if I were his woman.  No man handling, just unusually passionate.  


    It sorta reminded me of the time my folks and I went to Vegas and Dad was teaching me to play Twenty-One at a table full of dark suited business men.  Not expecting to do any gambling at my age, I was still dressed in my skimpy low-cut knit sundress with my long windblown hair and plump cut arms, my full breasts nearly spilling out as I leaned over the table, revealing coppery tan lines.  The young male dealer beamed a wicked grin, and the circle of players smiled gently in acknowledgement.   That I was young and innocent and nubile.   Or maybe I was a bumbling new call girl; put your money down.  Whatever, this was the true meaning of the goddess; how I, the one female, perched on her leather pedestal, had them all under my power.  Despite my father's stern counsel over each hand, my mind was in a whirl of aftershave and sweet tobacco smoke and body heat, and I was getting more and more sexually aroused by the minute.   It must be all those pheromones, I thought; they get really concentrated with men in quantity.   But I had to admit that the flash and jingle of the money, the golden gleam of diamond cufflinks and thick mesh watches, also had a little something to do with it.