Getting ready for Easter with my homemade chocolate-covered marshmallow eggs.  Chelle invited me and Brett to join her and Bruce at her lovely split-level family home in Pacific Palisades.  We're really looking forward to it. 

Brett's been such a doll lately--especially after I made him so jealous dancing with Jake.  He did nothing but kiss and murmur in my ear the whole time we were at the film festival last weekend.   Groovy since who wants to watch Gone With The WIND (the last flick at the stroke of midnight) for the one hundred and fiftieth time?!  Not this gurlie gurl.  Not my idea of romantic, if you know wha' I mean.   

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CHOCOLATE-COVERED MARSHMALLOWS 

Unlike most home recipes, these can be successfully molded if you use nonstick pans, thoroughly grease molds with shortening (using a pastry brush if necessary to reach into each nook and cranny), and dust heavily with sifted cornstarch before filling.

vegetable shortening
sifted cornstarch

2 cups granulated sugar
4 envelopes (1/4 oz each) unflavored gelatin, such as Knox
1/8 tsp salt
1 2/3 cups water
2 tsps lemon juice
1 tsp vanilla
Optional: 2-4 drops food coloring
1 large egg white

1 12-oz pkg semisweet or milk chocolate chips
1 tsp shortening
bakers' parchment

Generously grease a 9- by 13-inch nonstick regular cake or cookie mold pan with shortening, then dust well with cornstarch.  In large dry saucepan, thoroughly combine sugar, gelatin, and salt; stir in water.  Cook over low heat, stirring frequently, until sugar and gelatin are dissolved.  Increase heat to medium and bring mixture to a boil; simmer 6 minutes.  Meanwhile, whip egg white with whisk attachment in large mixer bowl until stiff peaks form.  See electric mixer directions for processing hot ingredients without burning or spattering yourself.  At the end of cooking time, with mixer at low-medium speed, gradually beat hot sugar mixture into egg white.  Cool candy mass to lukewarm, then add lemon juice, vanilla, and optional food coloring.  Beat at high speed until thick and creamy, about 5 minutes.  Pour into prepared pan (s) and let stand until completely set, about 30 minutes.  Dust top (s) with cornstarch and cut into squares or desired shapes with greased knife or sharp cooky cutter.  Do not let stand in pan too long after marshmallows have set or they will stick.  Remove from molds by gently pressing surface near edges with two or three fingers held flat, carefully pulling while pressing until candy loosens from sides.  To store plain, dredge each piece again with cornstarch and arrange in single row in tightly covered container lined with parchment.  Candy will lose moisture upon storage.

In medium saucepan, using bain marie over simmering water or heat diffuser over medium-low heat, melt only half the chocolate chips with one teaspoon shortening, stirring constantly.  Remove from heat and immediately add remaining chocolate, stirring until thoroughly dissolved.  Shake or brush marshmallow to remove excess cornstarch.  Working quickly, holding candy in one hand, spread chocolate over entire surface using a small spatula or spoon.  Place on parchment paper to set.  Do not cool in refrigerator or chocolate will streak.

I know you're probably itching to hear about parrrr-DEE!, but I don't know how to talk about it without giving everyone away. Believe me, I've started it several times, with much telltale detail.   Carol won the "door prize," I think it's safe to divulge,  a felt school banner for her bedroom wall and greatly deserved.  Haha.  Suffice it to say it was, well, FUN.  All the guys dug my new outfit, including Jake.   But I came down with a cold the next day and feel like a naughty little freshman still living in the dorms.   My first year here, I had a cold every two months.

I have to credit Carol for my first forays into sexuality.  A savvy, mature-minded, brick shithouse of a gal who transferred from a j.c. and entered the dorms two years later than the average resident, her goal was to lay every guy in Muir Hall before the end of the school year.   My high school steady, a friend of the family and quite the gentleman, had left for the military without giving me a proper prom night.   When I revealed this to Carol in the privacy of her smoke-filled room winter quarter, she commented nonchalently,

"Wow.  He must be huge."

Um, HUH? 

"He didn't want to do you the honors, babay, and cause a big blood bath.   Well-hung guys are shy that way."

"I dunno.  He didn't look big through his clothes."

"Oh, so he wouldn't even get it up for you.  Then he has a penis problem, most definitely."

I nearly gasped in shock.  Dad was hoping Dan and I would marry, formally uniting the two families.  It had never occurred to me--

"Dave's like that, too," she went on.

"Dave Edgeston?"   He and a chick like Carol?  Gad, the man seemed so pure.  I'd kind of liked Dave--until now.  But he was just being human.   I tried hard to hide my disappointment.

"Um, hmm.  Him and Mike Morgenstein.   Talk about being REAMED.   But still not as bad as Barry; the penis head on that man must be as big as my fist!  I thought I was gonna DIE!"

Her loquacity eased my shyness, and soon I was asking about every boy on our floor in a round-about attempt to get the low-down, so to speak, on my favorites.   Unlike the rather potty-mouthed Chelle, whom I'd met the previous summer during a freshman orientation hayride, Carol had no reserve at all and put the first girl to shame with her vast experience.  I couldn't believe she'd slept with almost each one.  More than a little guilty over this level of gossip, the names burst from my mouth like a command.

"Bruce!"   Now, he was a cutie.

"Ummm, sort of on the small side but excellent staying power.  Trys hard, which is more than I can say about Matt."

"Matt.  Really?"  Another good boy into the gutter.

"Uh, huh.   In and out in ten seconds and so nervous he had to run to the window for air."

Gaw-ee.   Had he not been such a horny little fool, I would've felt embarrassed for him.   Next:  "Trevor!"

"Not bad.  Great cock.  Gentle and slow.  Handled me like glass."  She looked at me knowingly, blowing out her Virginia Slims, which she held with talonlike pink nails.  "Too slow for me, in fact.  You should go for him."

Even though I ignored the tip for the time being, I saw my interest had registered in my confidante's distant green eyes.  Carol had just given herself a new assignment, disposing of my virginity, which she saw as a mark of failure.  

Actually, my feelings about the matter weren't far off.  Getting laid had been on my agenda all year, but nobody I went out with seemed to want to go that far--not without my making the first move, and I was too nervous and unsure to be that aggressive.   (Most guys don't want to "do the honors," Chelle explained thoughtfully to me later.  It can be painful even for boys; "That's why they call it 'cherry.'")

"So, who's the best in bed?"  I asked Carol.

"Rich Hodgekiss.  If he weren't so hot for Sue I'd have him for my boyfriend."   Carol gave me a hands-off look, letting me know she had some feeling in that hard heart of hers.  So we wrapped it up for the night and I went back to my room to study.  (To Be Continued.)  

This quarter, I'm really excited about Introduction To Film.  When I got home from the hospital, there was nothing much I could do but watch tv all day.   Brett would blame it on my medications, but I started really getting into the commercials, understanding their ulterior meaning and manipulation of the audience for the first time.   I'm trying to steer myself towards advertising, but I haven't told anyone yet, just in case I freak out and give up; the dog-eat-dog nature of the field frankly terrifies me.   My boyfriend would say I watched too many old Bewitched reruns, though.  I'd like to do my term paper on fear of death and ads.   I notice that not only commercials for alcoholic beverages use this a lot, but it also sells new cars.

Achoo!  Chelle says that, from the way it stinks around here, you'd think we were the ones who'd held the party and some joker got into the butyric acid.  But it's just another bum who puked in our garbage can.  Thank god my nose is so plugged I can't smell it.  For those of you who don't know, butyric acid is the "active ingredient" in butter and what makes it smell sour; in concentrated form it reeks like the worst barf.  Every fall some upperclassman majoring in food- or bio-sci snatches a tank of the stuff from lab and sprays it all over campus to introduce newcomers to college life.   You can tell who's a (brave) freshman by their anxious questioning, "What's that obnoxious smell?"  But most of us wait to get the answer indirectly.  Woo hoo.

I really wanna take a nap--I'm tired from the busy week and need to hibernate against the sudden cold wave--but I have to wait for my LEGS to dry.  I just shaved them and applied a thick coat of Keri lotion.  I don't want any grease rubbing off onto the sheets; then I'll have to LAUNDER them, and you know how that is.

We have a new bug in the house.  It's a small ticklike beetle that keeps landing all over the bedroom window sills and pillowcases.   They don't seem to do much but sit there or crawl around slowly, so we just keep flicking them off.  I had a really funny dream about them this morning, one of those half-awake reveries in which you seem to be talking or thinking deep thoughts.   Worried about their growing to a horrendously large size and biting, I asked, seemingly to the clear blue yonder, "I wonder what they turn out to be?"   and a coarse, dwarfish male voice answered, Nuttin'!.   It was one of the beetles, fearing for his life!  In other words, please leave us alone; we're not doing any harm.  We're just another variety of beetle, only small.   We have a right to share this habitat, too.

They and the numerous daddy long legs spiders.  We decided to let them subsist as pets since apparently they never bite, keep to themselves, and have a fascinating social structure.  There's quite a network of webs in the corner of each window frame over my bed and the kitchen table.   (Mom always warned not to pick your nose; boogers are great spider food.)  Sometimes I just look up and watch them gracefully fencing or going about their spider business.   Every now and then one lowers himself down on a thread for a closer look at the sleepy person in the bed.  "Hi,"  I say softly, and he quickly beams himself back up. 

Unfortunately the case moth larvae are not so welcome.   They made their debut last summer when one crawled up onto my computer monitor.  I glanced to the side to find what I'd assumed was a piece of fuzz was a tiny white, translucent black-headed worm wearing a self-spun barrel-shaped woolen tube stocking. The stocking tends to match whatever fiber they've been grazing upon, and it's almost charming to spot one in red from a winter sweater or even tweed from a multi-colored garment.  Not so amusing is the litter of holes, lint, and black pepperlike debris (caterpillar shit), telltale signs of their presence.   These actually came for our rotting old wool carpeting, choice caterpillar fare.   Clothing is only a between-meal snack or dessert for spoiled larvae who are allowed full access to everything.  Shy creatures those; say one word or draw near, and they immediately dart inside the case for safety.   Their profound fright stems from their being highly delicate and easy to squish (thank god).  They do eventually get used to you, though, and peek out of either end.   One of our favorite methods of extermination is to attach a wide piece of tape, sticky-side outwards, to the end of a yardstick and search the room like a janitor looking for trash; merely touch them with the tape and they're terminally bound.   Then you can place them in a small container, hold it up to one ear, and listen to the snap of their tiny jaws voraciously tearing at each other's stolen coats until they kill each other out of insatiable hunger.  But the sewer gas odor that arises from their bruised flesh, yet another built-in protective mechanism, is sickening; not even the roaches will touch them (another subject entirely but I don't have time to write a book), so we have to dust the carpets with flea powder, the only insecticide that won't harm kitty.  Wonderful fauna we have, eh?  

After dinner we're gonna rent some videos, light a big fire, and toast marshmallows.  Sayler said Jackson rigged some new (used) baffle-type device that sits right under the chimney pot; the chain must've come loose from the damper lever, which happened to be true.   It was so black with grime nobody could see it.  Once we pulled it, the air came through, letting the fire breathe.

Tomorrow night is the big beginning of the quarter bash at _______ fraternity.  Of course we're all invited.  I'm a little tense cuz Cowboy Jake is prez there.  I first met him frosh year at folk dancing class.   Big and wholesome, with a dazzling smile and the courtesy of a dark age knight, all the chicks were hot on him, me no exception.  They call him "Cowboy" on account of his trademark ten-gallon white Stetson, fancy tooled midcalf boots, and excellent equestrianship.  Even though Brett owns my heart, I still wonder sometimes what Jake would be like, whether he's attracted to me.  Luckily my parents sent me back with two hundred bucks for some new clothes, so I'm hitting the mall with Donna first thing in the morning (like, ten).

Back from a "spaghetti eat" at the frat.  Though they ply your plate with grease and starch to satisfy your appetite on their cheap budget, you can't beat three bucks for a complete meal including salad, beverage, and dessert--especially when your boyfriend's paying.  Not many guys eating in tonight, a number having gone to some off-campus meeting, so it was nice, quiet, except that they watch television in the dining room like a bunch of old-timers.  The Darcie Diet is about to have its day; I can't stand the wastage when the food's coming out of my own pocketbook and, as I'm sure my readers have been anxious to predict, my waistline has gotten noticably tighter after only two weeks.   I must've gained two or three pounds.  I guess you can't even finish something later or the extra cals from all the rich food add up.   I think, too, that Darse might've had a faster metabolism from smoking, or maybe it was the few inches she had on me in height and her long legs.   I read that muscle tissue burns the most cals, and since the legs are the most muscular part of the body, the longer, the better, which might partially explain why men can really put it away.   (A high school friend of hers says she "just threw everything up," but I never saw her binge.) 

Dinner and a hot foot soak was what I really needed to warm me up on this freeze-your-buns-off day.   Here last week we thought we were heading into an early summer with a couple afternoon temperatures of 80 degrees F., but the weather suddenly turned schizo as soon as classes started.   Donna gave me and Chelle a nice surprise by taking down the shower doors, filling the tub with hot water and aromatic bath salts (everyone's taking advantage of the clean john while it lasts), and drawing up three chairs.   Taking off her shoes, she explained how her grandmother had always sat with her feet in the tub after a long, hard day.   So we each took a seat beside her, talked, and relaxed, letting the fragrant steam clear our sinuses.   Speaking of which......  

We're trying to get a fire going in the living room--one last fire before the season finally turns--to warm the house up before bed, but the flames keep petering out even though we adjusted the damper several times.   Damn chimney must still be dirty even though Jackson came by to clean it last fall.  It was plugged so badly when Chelle first signed the lease nearly two years ago that putrid smoke like a combination of sulphur, burning rubber and hair filled the room.

"Creosote,"  Jackson squinted up the shaft and pronounced, introducing us to this gunky by-product of pine combustion.   You're not supposed to burn pine and related woods.  Creosote clings to the inside of the chimney and can actually catch fire itself, igniting shake roofs.   The degree we had it was producing toxic smoke and potentially fatal carbon monoxide.  Well, what could be done about it?  He shrugged, chewing his gum with professional ease.   Meaning:  Ex-PEN-sive.   Meaning:  Higher REN-tal.

Chelle glared at him as if he were a roach in men's clothing.  "I can't live without a fireplace!  It's what sold me on this ratty old house!"

They were supposed to have the entire flue lining replaced to get it up to code, but Sayler thought he could get by calling in a chimney sweep.  (Chimney sweep?!?  I hadn't known such a being even existed outside of Mary Poppins.   At least, I'd never seen one in all my nineteen-plus years.   They must really work in the dead of night as in the movie.) Cheaper yet, he could have Jackson RENT the proper tools and long-handled brushes and scrub down the thing himself.   Hell, the guy's skinny enough, we joked. 

So he'd said the fireplace problems were under control.   Shit.  It's my turn to go by and bug Sayler. 

Looks like we have a new roomie:  Saj.   Yep, it's true.   Even though we'd agreed upon no guys except for outside boyfriends, Donna'd panicked at the poor response to our ad (or so she said) and simply had to let him in.   Without asking us first.  There's not much Chelle and I could do about it.  Saj happened to have no place to go, having been kicked out of the dorms for smoking pot.  Brett and I were just driving up as he was moving in all his things.   Chelle stood by helplessly, chewing her fingernails.  I threw her a questioning look and she whispered, eyes downcast, "Talk to ya about it later."   We decided silently not to put up a fight.  We always liked the dude, we hate to ruin the unusual peace we've have in this house, and it comes down to a matter of "love me, love my boyfriend" (erm).   As long as he doesn't come on to me or eat all my food or wreck all my stuff and a hundred other gripes I'm too tired to think of this minute, I'm okay about it--for now.

So far, so good.  Though he did grin and loosen his collar at me this morning, I'll overlook it as harmless Indian machismo.   I know Chelle and I can get a little raw, and the man can't help having ears.   Here's what started it.  We were having one of our girl talks while I was soaking in the tub Sunday and I happened to mention this new t.a. I got, Ned Sorensen, how I'd have a super crush on him if I were still in high school. 

Chelle said, checking for blemishes in the big mirror, "Shit, you always go for those Nordic types."

"No,"  I mused, mentally taking inventory of each date I ever had. 

"Yes, you do.   Even your fav celebrities are blonde.   You never go for your own kind."

"I could really dig Julian Casablancas,"   I ventured, anxious she'd notice the semblance to my father.  "He's Italian."

"He is like hell.  He does sound like your Dad, though."

"All east coast Italians sound like my father, like Matt Dillion.   Rough and tough."

Chelle always taped MADTV and we'd both gotten off over a Strokes' gig rerun Saturday.  Julian, looking fantastic with smoldering dark eyes and tosseled brown hair, had made a super hot move, debonairly pulling at his collar as he gestured to some groupies in the audience to gather about him.   Funny how something so simple could drive gals wild.  I wished Brett would do that sometimes, linger over himself a little, loosen his collar, instead of being so perfunctory.  Shit, even Dad did things like it when he'd had a few.

"You should go meet Julian back stage, Tina.   Nothing wrong with what you've got."

"Why, have you done any [many] rock stars?"

She fell silent, concentrating on cleaning her contacts, so I didn't push the matter, sensing I was on forbidden territory.   I was right, for after that tense little lull she came back like a catty little madame.

"What keeps you so faithful with Brett?  He must be hung.  What is he, eight?"  

"Chelle!"  I reprimanded, laughing.  You brat.   Though she was being so thoroughly Chelle, the dope Saj had brought with him had surely added some spice.

"Com'on!"  she teased.   "I told you all about Bruce."

"I dunno, seven maybe; I tried to measure it but he giggled and ran away."   On second thought, "Mmm, he says six and seven-eigths......maybe one and three fourth inches around?"

"That's hung, babes.   You're wise not to tell."

"I know.  Every guy my sister ever set me up with saying he had a big cock was only average or not even that.   "Where's he hiding it?'  I said.  It must not be really true that penis size has nothing to do with height.  College men are much taller than average, and I've never met anybody under six and a half."

"Same here.  But you know where they say guy's brains are.   Your sister should smart up and meet some real men."

As they say, all good things must come to an end.   Yesterday was hectic, hectic, hectic.  Pressure was on to Please Leave The Cabin.   Thad lined up some vacationers for tonight through the weekend and was going to have a conniption fit if we weren't outta there by five so he could check out the premises before they signed in.   But we had to hit the road for the land of academia anyway for registration, so the timing was right on.   It sure was fun while it lasted.  We started cleaning up the place after a hefty brunch at one of the little cafes on the wharf.   Brett finally noticed my new eating program and raised his eyebrows when I ordered a cheese danish and side of country sausage in addition to a three-egg stuffed omelet with cheese sauce, hash browns, and toast, fattening foods I usually never touch.   It was the nondiet Pepz that first gave me away.  ("Good girl!  I've been trying to get you off of that cancer ever since we met!")  But he has yet to say anything about the food, having an athlete's high metabolism and being well-pleased with the leftovers.   

My stormy mood the other day quickly subsided with a call to Chelle, who's been kicking around Ventura with Bruce.   I'd sent her some excerpts from my blog along with D.J.'s sado-masochistic story, and she feels the lady's clearly trying to put me down and break my spirit, probably so I won't write anymore and say anything about her.  I don't know who would notice any leak of personal information, as I write under a pseudonym and change everyone else's name and often other details as well, but when you're as guilty as Deege of the same, you're fucking PARANOID.     It was a wonderful, supportive talk that made me feel truly blessed.   Chelle thinks D.J.'s older sister, who works for the network and keeps tabs on everyone they know, should be canned for abusing her privileges and harassing a member.   It's super-odd how her blog showed up on the Recently Updated list the same time I wrote my entry, as if she wanted me to see her handiwork and get hurt.  I shouldn't get too worked up about it, though;  no matter how hard the bitch tries to strut with my own style, she can't come up with my warmth and unique insight and sense of humor.   She's too twisted and rotten, and the bitterness always shows through. The conversation would've been perfect had I not made Chelle a trifle miffed refusing to let her have my URL so she could read my whole page.  I had to lie and say it was a website, just something for school with a few samples of my creative writing, not a blog, to steer her off track. 

I feel like a regular sea-faring lass after having taken the ferry across the windy bay for adventure in the big city every day since last Saturday.   Unlike my parents, who've been avoiding the streets of San Francisco like the plague, Brett's not intimidated at all by the demonstrations; in fact, he liked nothing more than to find us a safe lookout so he could watch and video the processions.  Not much to do around Marin but shopping, and what poor student has money for that?  Class starts next week.  I got every course I wanted.  Gotta buy BOOKS.  (yawn)   

yawn.  Just, basking in the cozy.  Isn't this a bitchin' color?  I call it "cotton candy," though it could be pinker, crisper.  Writing this in bed on Brett's laptop.  He's out at the house playing pool with Thad.  We really lucked out this week; thanks to the war demonstrations, none of the tourists wanted to rent Thad's house boat, so we got it all to ourselves, for free.   The actual rate is $100.00 a day.   Wacko!   I mean, not to put it down or anything, but it is small, a little on the tacky side, and not exactly hotel standards.   But, who's to complain......Hell, it ain't the cabin pushing my buttons.   Not after a near honeymoon weekend.  Hmmm.   How do I start?  (Should I start? Brett would have a fit and call me a shrew.   Men.  Well, what he don't know won't hurt him.)  

I'm fuckin' mad as hell is all!  Over something I can't even prove.   DEEGE?!?  I know you're in here, girl.   I recognize your jealous manic style.   You must be punishment for my rudeness towards Kevvie.   Huh.  Kevvie couldn't run circles around you.   She doesn't have fifty weblogs--at least not plagiarizing all my stuff.   Not her; she's too superior to stoop that low.   I know I shouldn't mention it.  It could be chance, the commonality of human experience, even the superconscious mind, for chrissakes.   Thad made this zany remark Sunday that cell fones are a big mind-control experiment.  There's really no electronic equipment anywhere sending any signals, no local telephone stations, no finely tuned frequencies only a fraction of a wavelength apart bouncing hundreds of miles through space between billions of personal numbers.   All they did was invent a whole bunch of real shit like TV and radio, tell us about this new phone thing, hand us the nifty handset, just a fancy toy, and let the power of suggestion work its magic.  Presto, chango, you just psyched out your best friend.   The dude's on drugs, of course, but you gotta hand it to him for his gift of gab.  

Us:  "What if you call someone from the same room?  You can see a real person's on the line!" 

Thad:  "That's so loud you can't tell where it's coming from.  It's probably just feedback between mikes."

Us:  "Maybe they're short-range walkie-talkies, but as soon as you cross the mileage barrier, it's all in your mind." 

Thad:  "They must have something there in case we try to test it.  Walkie-talkies would help prep our minds, too."

Us:  "Yeah, but if we were that convinced, our minds would be able to make them work in the same room!"

Thad:  "True......Hey, this is my joke!"  (laughter)

Us:  "The batteries and stuff are probably a control in the experiment.  Like if they go out, the phone goes dead cuz we don't believe it will work anymore."

Thad:  "Uh, huh."

But, back to D.J.  You rotten fucking bitch!   Writing an erotic story borrowed from four of my blogs, then completely editing your last post to make it look like you had the idea first.   Make no mistake about it, I caught ya; you hit too close with your names and metaphors.  Yeah, I know the trick.   I call it the "take five" method.   You never keep more than a page full of posts, lest someone notice the inconsistent style from blog to blog.   You never write contiguously; each brilliant entry stands by itself, each day is a new profound subject.  And you always leave a blog date open, filling it with fluff no one wants to read, much less remember, until you spot some choice material you can copy.   Then it's edit, edit, edit.  Run, run, run.   Very clever.  I bet you also hack, too.  I suppose I should be flattered that you liked my ideas, that you find my life much more interesting and noteworthy--or at least FUNNIER--than yours, but can't you at least show the PROPer appreciation, Deege, hint hint?   Of course not!   Sheez.  (Slugs forehead.)  What am I saying?!?  I must be MAD.  Truly mad.   Why would any plagiarizer in his right mind leave evidence of his presence with an e-prop?!?  But hey, you're the best, dammit.   Why should I even try?   Now, are you happy?  Don't you feel  gifted, secure, loved?  Fuck.  Who are you trying to impress, my own boyfriend?  Some rock star who doesn't even know you exist?  I've heard of those new meet-the-fans programs.  Like the "make a wish" foundation or something.   The internet with its veil of safety paved the way for it.  You're really foolin' yourself, gurlie girl, if you think for one second......Uh, oh.  Was that a note of sarcasm I read there?  

Oh, I see.   It all comes clear, now.  You're not really polishing, only making fun, spreading bad press about me.   And fuck you, I fell for it.   Yeah, I'm the egomaniac.  I'm the rip-off artist, here.  Yeah.   God, how many blogs do you have to put up like mine to make a point?   You even wrote about auntie, how she died, like I should feel guilty.  Well, sorry Deege, I'm not.   Not only was I kept in the dark about her, but I don't have a car, remember?  No one could give me a ride, and I was in the hospital myself when she took a turn for the worse.   What a fucking morbid kreep you are to really go into it.  I sure don't see you putting yourself out to help anybody. 

So when are you going to write about Kia?   Or is that too heartbreaking even for you?  You told everyone I was so cold for not taking her to the emergency veterinary clinic on a holiday weekend that I should've been paid for my "performance".   That I just sat there and let her die as if she were a pet fish, when the truth of the matter is that my parents were away, I didn't know she was that serious, and I didn't have any money or a credit card to pay for treatment.  I'd already run up two huge vet bills for minor conditions we were since able to treat at home, and had been told to wait three days from then on to see if she improved by herself.  She just seemed dizzy and kept pacing around and meowing loudly; maybe she had an ear infection.  Though I miss Kia deeply--she was 100% love--I don't feel guilty over that death, either.   She was nearly nineteen, my first cat, and there was nothing anyone could do.   By the next day she was really sick, and to began to stumble and run into things.  She slipped into a coma right afterwards.   She died in my arms as I held and comforted her, my little friend, my loving friend.  Dad said I did right.  The vet would've taken one look and put her to sleep; life-saving measures aren't feasible for cats over fourteen.   The emergency clinic would've cost over five hundred dollars, and I would've come home with an empty cage.  But by letting God make the final decision, I am at peace knowing I didn't take her life too soon.  She had just gotten old, right under my nose, without my noticing.   Still it was hard to watch her, once a beautiful vital animal, contort and kick, and to feel her warm urine flood my lap.   But you love it when things pee, don't you Deege, so why don't you take over from here?  

Wait, let's not be too pessimistic.   You might be simply trying to motivate me.   Of all people, I'm the one you chose to play with.  Run, run, run.  Run!  Again, this would be subconscious, but it sure sucks the big one.   I don't want to compete, D.J.; I just want to enjoy myself here, explore my feelings, work on my own personal style.   Frankly, I'm too tired, tired after putting in a full day's worth of life, to worry about who might be upstaging me every minute.  I only wish you'd keep to your own side of the fence.   Please.   Don't play "Xangathon" or whatever game it is around here with me.  Creep!                 

Mmm, what a break. What-A-BREAK!   Could you believe where I am right now?  With my honey, ALONE, in a king-sized water bed, in a house boat, rocking ever so gently on the marina in Richardson Bay.   The cold gray fog sprays our one porthole window with silvery mist as the ferries sound their glass bottle honks.   The paneled walls sport maritime prints, macrame hangings, driftwood and sea shell sculptures, and there's even a battery-powered lighthouse table lamp, shining through our half-filled wine goblets like a brilliant sunset, like eager full lips, kissed ruby red.   Mmm, snuggle deeper into the rich satin and velvet bedding.   Bury ye heads into the plump pillows of down, hollowing like sails.   Feel warm and protected while the wind whips thee about, unable to loosen thee from thine anchor of love.   Entwine, whisper, enrapture, sleep, dream, endure.

your heart is like the low thunder of hooves (no, my sleigh scuttering over the rocky snow as my reindeer rally to the whip).   then the rudder of your viking ship, beating back the current as we're carried out from the cold.  if i immortalized you, would you love me Forever?  set my hand to this nib, as you might to this ring.  paint you as a young prince in battle, your father's only son.  golden boy.  naked and proud, you shall lead the march.  in your victory i shall be your reward, the little dark one, and equally proud.......we journey to the wooded king's mountain, to the gushing crystal springs.  there flows water for all the tea in china.  (huh?)  tea in china.  look.  on the high causeway the great wall of china winds around.  new and ornate, then greatest of the great unknown......

They're rioting in the streets since we started attacking Iraq and Dad can't get away from work until tomorrow, so me and Mom have been home the last two nights quietly enjoying each other's company, watching TV, thumbing through magazines, hemming pants, and occasionally running to the front window to see where the ruckus is.  The news coverage sort of sickens me; I didn't expect the anchormen to have the same nonchalance and camaraderie as if covering the Thanksgiving Day parade.   People are being bombed.  People are being killed.  A huge close-up of an American bomber was shown tilting forty-five degrees, like a big vampire bat.  But I guess a 1940's war dog revival should be expected when old rock stars start singing swing.      

Yesterday evening we made a kettle of minestrone to go with the surplus of twisted sourdough breadsticks Dad brought back the other night.  All my friends assume that, just cuz my father manages a four-star continental restaurant, we've always had tons of fancy food around, but the perks are far fewer than you'd think.  Not only is the owner frugal and trying to offer the best quality for the lowest price, but Dad always says, "it's a bad example for the employees to see management taking food home.  Next thing you know they'll be stealing us blind." 

When he presented the breadsticks like a bundle of kindling, Mom cringed, saying, "Honey, you know how I feel about anything left on the tables with all those AIDS-positive homos sneezing all over everything."

He kissed her.  "Now, would I give my own family leftovers from another man's plate?   These are from the staff dining room.  Don't worry; none of my workers have AIDS.   Are you kidding?"

I miss Brett so much I can't stop touching myself.

Nothing like a Victorian breakfast room with a quaint bay window overlooking a blustery day in the city to begin my new diet.  In honor of Darcie, I'm gonna teach myself some moderation and eat whatever I want like a normal person.  No more "cheating" with thin-sliced bread, diet margarine and mayo, artificial sweeteners, and nonfat this and that; I'm having some real food and enjoying eating for a change.  Mmm, let's start French-style with one of those iced sweet rolls and a big round bowl of latte brewed from freshly ground coffee beans and spiked with real half-and-half and raw sugar.  Just a few bites if the bread and half the coffee, remember.  That's it.  So far, so good; I could have a mid-morning snack at ten.

Dear Mom, she's such a love.  Before leaving for her parttime secretarial job she called me into my parent's room to see what could be done about my sore neck.  I love their room with its heavy-curtained back windows and plush carpeting, mahogany furniture and cool satin sheets, mirrored closet doors.  Opening a lower drawer in her lingerie chest, she showed me an array of things they have on hand for physical therapy.  There was a jar of Ben Gay, a hot water bottle, assorted bandaids, surgical tape, a package of Ace bandages, a neck brace ("Umm, not bad enough for that yet."), various foot relief products, a vial of tiny homeopathic tablets, a little can of tiger balm.  Everything smelled of mothballs.  Way in the back on the left I spied what looked like a big plastic white and blue mushroom with a heavy-duty cord attached.  Ah!  Wha's tha-at?  I see that!  No, you don't, thought Mother, gradually burying the appliance as she held up each possible remedy.  We decided on a heating pad and buffered aspirin.  Then she kissed me goodbye and went on her way.

Hmm......I had exactly five hours to be a naughty girl, five and a half if Ma got stuck in traffic.  Dad would probably be gone all day at the restaurant, being they were past the beginning of the week slump, they had Spring break over here, too, and parents just like mine were wining and dining their long-lost college kids.  But just in case someone burst in, I left the vibrator in its camphorous nest and plugged it in from there.  It's one of those mega-power deals with a five-inch diameter head (Chelle:  "For women who can't find their clit."), three speeds, and a separate switch for deep heat.  Ideal for the perfect zipless orgasm.  (They say orgasm releases endorphins that can stop pain!) As soon as I heard someone home, I'd merely yank the plug, throw it back in, slam the drawer, and go powder my nose.  

Wow, it was like having a jackhammer between your legs; must've taken only 45 seconds cold.   You could tell caring folks manufactured this thing.  The oscillations were so strong, they could probably not only penetrate  a pair of thick jeans and cotton panties, but a metal chastity belt (in case we ever get taken over by Iraq).  Sure beats the hell out of those puttering BATTERY-operated ones.  Talk about savoring one's time alone; I must've hit the master bedroom for a jolt six times before lunch.  I was beginning to see spots. 

I had to tell Brett about it afterwards and he wanted to have phone sex.  But we chickened out midstream, remembering what his father's accountant had said about one out of every ten American phones being bugged by the I.R.S.  Shit, Ellie's uncle worked for the I.R.S.; I sure wouldn't want some bozo like him getting into my private life.