I’m totally SUNBURNED.    Took the shuttle to my Photography workshop on the outskirts of campus yesterday and they never came back to pick me up.    I was the only student there; guess no one else was insane enough for dark room in 100 degree weather.   So I walked the two miles back on the sizzling open country road with nothing but the bare fields to humor me.    It was MISERABLE;  by the time you realize you’re out in the middle of nowhere, it’s too far to turn back.    A young guy driving a school tractor offered me a ride but, wearing only my light green cotton princess dress (I can finally fit into it again) and sandals, I was afraid to accept, especially when he insisted, patting the seat, “Aw, come on!   There’s room up here for two.   I’m not going to rape you or anything.”   Yeah, right.   

That’s what you get for trying to keep in shape around here.   I should’ve waited for one of the T.A.’s to go home for dinner.   Speaking of which, I opened a can of Mick’s chicken tamales and didn’t notice they’re each rolled in paper.    After I arranged them carefully on a baking dish, sprinkled them with cheese, garnished them with sliced chilis, and heated them through, I had to scrape everything off.   AND that’s what you get for falling back on crap instead of a good meal.    (Mick:  “Everybody does that the first time.”)   I did wonder why those things slid out so easily!

Then Mom said Maya had a snit and took a dump behind Dad’s brand-new home theatre set, getting shit all over the cables.    You just can’t win on a bad day like this.  

Not much time to write, but Easter was fun.   Ashleigh needed to go up to Frisco anyway late last week for a business convention, so “Why not come along and we’ll do the holiday at Mom’s?”   So we did, just the three of us including Maya, whom we didn’t want tearing up the whole house during a separation anxiety attack.    

Ashleigh almost got us killed on the way there; some condensation formed on the windshield passing Santa Barbara and, when she flicked the wipers to sweep it off, the glass smudged badly, obscuring the view.   From the look of it, very bad squashed gnats.   Like trying to peer through waxed paper.  

“Tina, I can’t see,” big sister moaned, begging me to take over the wheel as we managed to follow the traffic around the bend at 70 miles per hour. 

“Pull over!”

“I can’t!”

I urged her to hit the soap button and keep going.   Luckily there was plenty of window cleaning fluid in the wiper reservoir; it took three wash cycles before we could clear two half moons.   That was close!    Ashleigh always drives like a maniac, anyway; we never cease to wonder why she’s never been in any bad wrecks.    I drove most of the way back.

Whew!   Tired.    Where was I?   (Adding this two days later.)    Yeah, Easter.   This year, the folks went traditional Italian with stuffed breast of veal, fresh asparagus tips in lemon garlic sauce, and parsleyed potatoes; for dessert, lemon ice garnished with mint, and torta di ricotta, a light cheesecake with candied fruit and toasted pine nuts, baked in a pie crust with a glazed latticed top.   Afterwards, we caught a play downtown.   Greg was still in Aspen.   It was refreshingly peaceful and quiet.     

I couldn’t believe how Maya took to Daddy.   To keep her away from Chloe, we had to  sequester her in the basement, the old man’s territory.   When I went down to check on her Sunday afternoon, I found the two boisterously playing fetch together.   Pop always was a dog person.   (“Cats are so goddamned fussy!”)   As you’ve probably guessed, we decided to leave her there.   It’s really the best for all of us.    More stable for Maya, and great relaxation for Dad.    It’s not like I failed her.   She’s still part of the family; I can see her any time I want.    (Brett:   “What are parents for?”)    So I don’t feel at all guilty; just relieved.  

Really right now I’m too wiped out to care much about anything.   Out jogging by myself around campus Tuesday night, I started to feel a little sick.   First, my uterus felt super heavy as if I had prolapse or something; each step was really jarring.  Then, though I’d gone only three-fourths of mile, I broke into a sweat and got kind of weak.   So I trudged back home, ate a few Ak Mak wholewheat crackers with mozzarella, and went straight to bed without showering or brushing my teeth.   In the middle of the night, I woke up with bad cramps.   So I was starting my period; no wonder I felt so shitty.   It was a bad one, too; when I got up from bed to go to the john, the room spun briefly and  hot blood began to trickle down my legs.   I turned the night light on to grab a handful of kleenex and saw I was bleeding really heavily; in only two minute’s time, a red puddle had collected at my feet.   I must’ve really overexerted myself; I never start flowing like that on the first day.    It frightened me.   I glanced across the room to find Chelle awake and watching me vacantly.   Embarrassed, I grimaced, signaling her to turn over and go back to sleep, but she continued to stare as if I were a figure in a nightmare.   Damn her.

I told Donna about it the next morning and she was dead certain I was having a miscarriage, especially being I was a little late.   But I’m often irregular and frowned at her in denial.   

“You should take a P-test; if you’re preg’d, you need to get a D and C to prevent infection,” she cautioned, sounding like Carole over Blaine.   “I’ve got a kit in the bathroom linen cabinet if you want.”

I thanked her, but ignored the nagging temptation to confirm my fears.   Frankly, I don’t really want to know.   Ever since the unnecessary MAP and its penalty of sickness and social grief, I’ve had enough of being the health-wise woman and have gone to the other extreme.  (Donna:  “Acting like we still live in the jungle and wear rags of banana leaves!”)   Hell, women somehow survived primitive times without any medical care but herbs and good luck spells; I probably will, too.   

But, wow, me preggered!    It’s like God has given me something real to fantasize about when I picture my current crush as a gallant knight away in battle, something to feel a small sense of accomplishment over (now that the baby’s conveniently out of the way).   I’m not only a “real” woman, but share a common bond with my peers.

Time seems to be moving so fast since Cokie’s been here, filling in on extracurricular activities where my friend’s leave off.    I can’t believe classes are starting again, and all we’ve done is fool around the last few days.    Thursday around five PM Brett got a call from some sorority alums who just formed their own punk band, “Pyracantha Rose.”    It was an invitation to come over to their bachelorette pad in Malibu for a party and jam session.    So we all piled into Bill’s van and motored over, Ashleigh in tow.    By the time we got there, the sun was melting into the placid waves like liquid gold on grey agatine against the dusty turquoise sky, so we huddled on the deck and watched the last of the surfers riding in.    The sand there’s so white and creamy, but alas littered with so much broken glass and SHIT it’s a bitch even for sandaled feet.  

While the guys were talking politics, a really nice girl about my height and build appeared at my side and offered to share a joint.    We danced together like a couple of kittenish lezzies.   Within a half hour, the live bass rippled the floor boards beneath our feet as if we were wading across a tide pool, and a bite of pineapple upside-down cake exploded in my mouth with a rainbow of flavor, while the lead guitar sliced through all the noise with an almost spiritual clarity.    I thought, What fantastic dope!  But heading back home, Bill warned it was probably laced with PCP or something.    I wish I’d never breathed a word, cuz it was Ash’s moment to wax really big sisterlike and deliver a super heavy lecture on the evils of recreational drugs, pissing me off royal, cuz I’d never make a habit of it;  I actually hardly ever cut unless socially, and we ain’t exactly talking cola here (even though sis always keeps a whole case of diet Peps on hand  wherever she goes).    It only sounds like we’re a bunch of dopers the way I mention it; nobody wants to read about each cell phone message, my opinion on current issues, what we ate for each meal, etc, every freakin’ minute.   (Or would they??)   I wish she’d butt the fuck out.    I know she’s secretly jealous of my attending college and would jump for joy if I ever failed.    But, hey, that’s the Ash.  

Anyway, here’s an opinion for ya:    Yesterday I called Mom to thank her for the 1978 phonograph, and she said the Bay Bridge and all the highways for miles around were jammed 13 hours cuz a suicidal guy was trying to jump off the bridge and peeps could hardly pass with the rescue team and coast guard standing by.    Of course, the news gave an hour by hour account.   We agreed it was just good old government guilt:   They ply unstable mental patients with pills so they can O.D. quietly and anonymously in the privacy of their own homes, but can’t stand it when they make a public scene, so they have to put on a big sympathy show.   Stop, stop, stop!    We care!   See all those headlights, man?   Yeah, sure; ordinarily it’s one more burden to society out of the way. 

Bill’s one curious dude.    Last night he got the entire gang into Disneyland on his free pass.    (His cousin works there in administration.)   It was so horrendously packed at the hamburger restaurant, the waiter never returned with our tab.   It was going on two hours.   Bill, disgusted, had us all walk out without paying.   True, we could’ve left the money on the table, but “it would only get ripped off.”    That was the first time we ever did anything like that;  defiantly shoving our way out through the crowd was uncomfortable, yet strangely freeing.    It was so pre-law.    Now I really feel like Thelma And Louise.  

Spent all morning with my honey browsing the mall for ski equipment sales, watching the lovely lad bend and flex on the downhill simulator like Arnold Schwarzenegger posing on a gigantic treadmill, appealing to me with his dizzying nylon carpet blue eyes:   Pretty please, for graduation?  It’s not every day someone’s accepted into dentistry school!    I know, Boy, but if I get you new skis, I’ll never see you again; maybe some other time when we’re more…commited.   For now, you’ll have to do with the nice attache case I’ve got on layaway.

Lunch was Tex Mex at the shoppers’ market, where we ran into some of the brothers, looking very slick and conservative indeed.   They were waiting for the matinee to start.   Full of April Fool’s jokes, of course, but I asked them to cool it, remembering our disasterous party the 17th.   Then me and the Brettster went grocery shopping, just like a regular married couple.   He must’ve felt my possessive vibes.

Maya’s coming along quite nicely.   She didn’t bark and nip at our ankles getting into the car today.  (Marsha:   “You have to let her in first; she’s afraid you’re going to leave her behind.”   Brucie:   “Just, shove her aside with your boot.   That ought to teach her to mind her manners.”   Me:   “You can’t kick her!   She’s too small.  You could easily cause an internal injury.”)   We’re trying her on a new brand of kibble with extra vitamins they recommend in the Hills for stressed-out canines.