I shouldn't be online, Ellie and I having been on the road since the crack of dawn, but I'm being accused of being antisocial.  As soon as I arrived home to good ol' San Francisco with a fucking killer headache (after filling me in on whatever happened to you-know-who from h.s., Ellie spent most of the trip speeding onlong on I-5 talking to her father on her cell phone until I fell asleep and got a stiff neck, not waking up til we hit the rush-hour traffic), I wanted nothing more than to say my hello's,  relax, and get acclimed to the change in atmosphere.  But my parents had to greet me with the smell of fresh coffee and  surprise guests:  the Ferguson's and their darling daughter and only child, Kevvie.  Dad met Mr. Ferguson on the boat home from Nam.   Tom's an okay dude but technically never left the military and is very conservative and rah-rah.   He and his wife Maude, a big-boned servicewoman he met overseas, still shop at the commissary in the Presidio and use the medical center there.  Naturally they're all for war against the Middle East and full of the American spirit. 

Luckily Kevvie was in the john when I got there so I snuck right past her, flew upstairs, and locked myself in my room.   Sorry folks, but I'm just not in the mood for the whole motivational self-esteem check thing or whatever it is they're into.  Ever since Maude heard we girls were the same age, a fierce competition started as to who had the best daughter academically, socially, athletically, and occupationally.  All she and her husband do is brag, brag, brag.  It seems I can't hold a candle to Kevvie except maybe in physical appearance, and Maude's working hard on that one, trying to say my voluptuous 110-lb frame is fat, while Kevvie, lanky and flat-chested, not a bad-looking face but long  and angular like a guy's, is a late bloomer and still has some filling out to do.  Thank God she will never have the problem of being "too short" like me: "You know they like women taller, now."   At this time the girl's got too much on the ball to worry about her femininity anyway; she's too busy getting straight A's in journalism, being sports editor of her campus newspaper, and looking forward to the trainee position she's already got lined up with The Sacramento Bee for after graduation.  She's also V.P. of her sorority, head of the debate team, and could easily go for the Olympics in track.  I can't stand her.  Oh, I'm not jealous; I'm just as accomplished scholastically and could be the e-girl if I applied myself, but I simply can't tolerate the arrogance and one-upmanship, even when it comes to cooking.  The last time we had the Ferguson's over for dinner, Kevvie asked me sarcastically "what mix" I used for the cake.   She can't even boil water and it's a dark secret.  (That and her never having sex with her boyfriend.  Kevvie, I've met a few girls like you.  You always deliver this big virginity spiel, then we walk by your room and your diaphragm's sitting right on the dresser, or there's all this noise coming from the shower in the morning and we know you ain't a ventriloquist.) 

Mom keeps knocking on the door but I'm pleading illness.  Let Kevvie chew it out with the "aa-dults" since I'm such fluff to her.

We all slept in again, awaking at 10:30 to the excited cries of an  anti-war demonstration on the boulevard.  You could hear the police on their megaphones trying to control the crowd.  The girls' voices carried best, making it sound like a cheerleading team.  We never planned to participate; other, more real problems being on our minds and being undecisive as to what side to take, though the guys usually have a heated debate on the subject at dinner.  I for one have to see which way the wind's blowing. 

Sallie broke the news that she won't be returning next quarter.  She really misses her family and her boyfriend in the Midwest and detests California; yeah, everyone's either looney, gay, right-wing, pagan, or otherwise fucked-up (Gee, thanks!), and they really can't afford the out-of-state tuition, which is comparable to Ivy League.  Though it came as no surprise, it hit a bit hard coming at such short notice after Darcie's suicide.   Everyone was ready to high-tail it out of here for Spring break, and now we gotta post a fucking roommate ad and stand by the phone.   We should leave the interviewing to Donna, since it's her room. 

We decided to hold a small memorial ceremony for Darcie last night at the universal church.  About half the people we called showed.  It was nice.  I liked the young priest they had; he was very in tune to our feelings, like a psychologist. 

Tomorrow I'm hitching a ride back home with my old h.s. friend Ellie.  It was she who suggested the chapel, since we don't attend church at this time.  Brett says he can make arrangements to visit his cousins in Marin County (Marin, Marin) and rendevous with me later this week; it wouldn't look right to my parents to hold a love fest in my pink and white gurlie room right next to theirs.

Whew, what a week.  Didn't see Brett at all Friday, his last exam and the end of the quarter bash.  Okay cuz Chelle and I could take the time to lie around in our bathrobes and be depressed.  We missed Darcie's funeral as we weren't informed of her demise until afterwards.  Bummer.  Her family's so fucking hush-hush; probably can't stand being accused of failure.   I can see their side but it sure causes a big guilt trip over here, not being able to show our respects.  

By Saturday, her day, the reality of Darcie's being no more set in.  We could hardly sleep last night, thinking her disturbed spirit was hovering around us, trying to make contact.  Suicides are the worst to rattle their chains, they say, besides murder victims.  I believe it; as soon as we turned the lights off, the darkness was alive with her like a big gobbling amoeba.  Luckily that was the extent of the manifestations for me, besides a few half-awake, scattered dreams of her I can't remember.  Chelle kept imagining her shadow in the hallway and had to shut the door.  Lended some feeling of safety but the heat couldn't come in and the light rain we had made the room smell like a grave.  She woke up right before dawn with a shriek, thinking a hand had brushed her face, but it was only a roach running across her cheek.  ("Only a roach" is relative, of course, but that was a first; they're never usually that bold.  Must have been a possessed cucaracha, we concluded this morning; haunted houses always get wierd bugs and shit.)  We might hold a little memorial tonight if we can get everybody together.

Brett and I slept in yesterday, so he decided to stay the rest of the afternoon.  Around lunch Darcie Mitchell's sister called asking for Chelle; she was taking a final, so I took down the number and left it on the desk in our room. 

Darcie had the distinction of being one of the few people I'd rather be if I could be somebody else.   She seemed to be the perfect girl: slender, leggy, and pretty, not too short or too tall, with the gamine face of a French model, sensual and Bohemian.  Darcie was a creature of grace and into the ballet.  She could put together a complete look from a thrift shop, while I'd come back unwittingly with one of my own aunt's hand-me-downs, discovering the source when I found her homemade label, still in place.  I've never known anyone but Darcie who could wear a paisley scarf and not be suspected of greasy hair.  She managed a grande entre each time with a simple toss of her head and a "Where's my ciggies?"  All eyes seemed to be upon her as she collected her necessary thingies to make herself feel at home.  And then an attentive, "What's up?!?"  Unlike me and most of my friends, Darcie never binged or had to diet; no, she was one of those rare gals who could really eat whatever she wanted and stop before she gained an ounce.  Food was truly and properly unimportant.  In fact, she successfully flaunted her habit of conspicuous waste, always ordering the works, then forgetting all about that deluxe deli sub after only a few bites, casting it aside to dry out in its cut paper wrapper while everyone drooled over it, thinking, Mind your manners; that's not your sandwich, you fat cow!  Naturally, all the guys adored her, and the girls envied Chelle's being her friend, wishing some of that charm could rub off upon THEM.

Around two I was fussing with my hair in the john, which I had to myself for once.  An old Stevie Nicks tune, "Sleeping Angel," came unbidden into my head and I began to sing it, taking advantage of the bathroom acoustics.  The song reminded me of another girl, a former roommate I hadn't gotten along well with.  She liked to sit in the stairwell and warble out Stevie Nick's "Landslide," but I never appreciated it and was critical of her talent, considering the person.   Now I imagined myself telling her how I saw what she meant about Nicks; maybe we could sing together and be friends.  Funny how I cared about her after all this time.  When I came out, Bruce was practicing the instrumental part to "Sleeping Angel" on his guitar in the front room.

"Don't you love that song?"  I said appeasingly, Bruce tending to be such a prick.  "Stevie Nicks was one of the first artists to turn me on to country music."

"Actually, it's gospel," he corrected.  Like too many men, he'd fallen to the masculine shortcoming of know-it-allism.  "Can't you hear the harmonics?  It's also in the lyrics."

In answer I ventured a few lines, my annoyance erasing my usual nervousness singing with any audience.  It also helped knowing Bruce had addiction problems galore and was a real fuck-up; no one I'd worry about impressing, and Brett didn't sing, so what the heck.  True to form, Bruce upped the ante and started playing along, seeing if I could keep time.  My, but he was an excellent guitarist. I was soon carried away by the emotion of the music, barely aware that I was standing right in front of the window with cars and people passing by.  Gee, we sounded so good together.  How could that be, me and Bruce.  It made me shiver.  We were building towards the finish when I remembered Brett stretched out on the old Lazy Boy recliner, sipping a beer.  What did he think of all this, my belting it out in near-perfect sync with his buddy, someone I usually despised, as if the guy were my husband, for chrissakes?  I searched his face, but he had that spacey fixed grin he gets sometimes and I couldn't read behind it.  He was probably watching my boobs; yep, his eyes just shifted to my derriere, silly boy.

Suddenly, Chelle came out of the kitchen and screamed at us to pipe down; weren't we supposed to be studying? 

Amazed at her strong tone, I was about to say, "Hey--"  Can't we take a break without you getting so PARENTAL? when I noticed the tears on her face.  Bruce was just another fling and it was not like Chelle to be jealous, at least not by throwing a tantrum in this immature way. Oh, dear, I thought, she's flubbed a test again. 

"What's going on?"  Bruce asked sternly, setting down the guitar.

"Darcie died!" she blurted, sobbing.  "I can't believe it!"

The tragic news sobered us up for the rest of the day.  All Darcie's sister had said, maddenly, was that she'd died of "natural causes".  Natural causes.  Like illness or old age.   At only twenty-one?  But Darcie was never sick; she was the most alive person I'd ever known.   We just saw her, what, six months ago and she looked fine.  Then I remembered this play by Arthur Miller.  The guy's little brother got a really bad headache one day.  He kept complaining he didn't fell well, but everyone ignored him, just as they usually did.  Turned out he had contracted spinal meningitis, the poor kid.  He was dead within a few days.  Shocking.  Now a rare form of that's hitting some campuses.  Was it something like that that had taken Darcie's life?  Nooo, was the patient, evasive answer.  Well, what was it then?  Every time I thought of Darcie, from the moment I knew, I saw the row of beige and brown tract homes with terra cotta roofs where she'd been living temporarily with her parents in East L.A.  I kept seeing all the double car garages jutting towards the rounded culdesac.  Some had the doors open, with boys tinkering around inside. 

Later Brett intimated that "natural causes" in this case probably meant suicide, and we weren't supposed to ask about it.  Strangely, I wasn't surprised; so there WAS something wrong behind the girl's carefree, sophisticated facade.  Everyone thought it.  Huh.  We wondered how she did it, gas or drugs?  Did she slit her wrists?  Or maybe it was even anorexia.  Yes, anorexia, that was probably it.  Sad.

Take me, if you need me,
But never hold me down.
You're asking me to trust you.
Well there's little of that around.
I'm trying to believe you,
And I'm learning all the time.
Two-part personality
The flower and the vine......

The hiatus between Brett and I is over, even before his last final this Friday, and in the strangest way.  I guess one never knows how much one loves someone until their strength comes to the fore.  Last night was such a night.  We're not sure whether it was the back utility room door, open to let out the early Spring heat (I'd say, "open to catch the early Spring AIR," but it was so smoggy downtown yesterday you could hardly BREATHE), the smell of home baking, or simply four single girls living in a bad neighborhood, but a stranger was lured towards our humble abode.  Saj had left at midnight, trying to get some sleep in before a morning chem exam, so there was no protective male presence around when we awoke about 3:00 a.m. to the sound of......well, actually, it was our chocolate Burmese cat Tootje who woke me up.  She was asleep on my chest when I felt her stir, stand spike upright, and "point" like a hunting dog at the long row of back windows.  She didn't jut her nose forward or string her tail out behind her, but she stared really hard at them and growled, unconsciously holding one quivering paw up.  Watchcat, I giggled  to myself.  Probably a dog outside.  I lolled my sleepy head that direction just in time to see a shadow loom in front of one of the shades.  Then, I heard a low, eerie whistle, as if the entity were musing diabolically.  Musing over, over......Oh, god!

"Chelle,"  I whispered hoarsely.  "Chelle!!!!"

"What," she breathed, her voice flat with somnolence.

I dropped to the floor and literally crawled over to her bed, as if whoever it was might see me.  "Wake up!  Somebody's out there!"

"Probably one of the guys," she said, knowing they were under oath never to come in that way.  "Bruce?!?"  she leaned forward and screeched, to which the intruder ran down the back steps and scurried away.  

This was enough to propel both of us into the other room in ten seconds flat.   Sallie, finally being told that one of her worst fears had become a reality, was surprisingly calm--after Donna blocked the door with her sturdy student desk chair.  She methodically began calling a series of numbers, including her parents (who couldn't do a thing way over in Minnesota but voiced their concern, reminding their conservative daughter, at nigh five in the morning, of their initial objections to her living in the house, blah, blah, blah), then handed me the phone to get Brett. 

The dear boy, he was behind the front door within twenty minutes with his stocky bunkermate, Bruce, shotgun in hand.  I fell into his arms like a child in my froo froo flannel nightie I wear only alone or on laundry days, and he felt so big, so strong.   Checking out the grounds, the guys discovered a trail of cigarette butts and trash near the back veranda.   So we decided to hold an all-night vigil to see if the dude came back around, Chelle and Bruce manning the back bedroom and me and Brett stationed in the study, where we soon wasted no time comforting each other.  Thus my second cry in the night was not one of terror, but one of passion; ah, sex can be so good when you feel loved and protected (and your man brings over an air mattress to cushion you from "the rack" under the hideaway).   And as if it were a sign of our Spring fervor, the only thing we saw amiss the entire night was a white domestic rabbit, someone's escaped pet, hopping by!

Donna and I are back in the kitchen making "pattycakes" while her swarthy boyfriend Saj slavers in a side chair.  The old chrome and faux marble dinette, compliments of the house, is powdered with flour.  On the cracked tiled peninsula is a dishpan filled with hot water and sponge so we can clean up pioneer style; the garbage disposer broke again, the kitchen sink's backed up with four inches of stagnant water that hasn't moved since Saturday night, and we can't reach Sayler's faithful friend and handyman, Jackson.  It's a little early for the holiday, but we need something different to munch on while cramming besides plasticine cheezits, Oreos, and raspberry whips. 

As you probably guessed, Donna's our other roommate, who shares the second bedroom with Sallie.   The third, front bedroom with its wide archway overlooking the livingroom, is technically a study and telephone room, but we also use it for our guest and "humping room"s.   Barely big enough to fit a sofa bed, computer desk, and two narrow bookcases, it affords little privacy or comfort and is constantly fought over.  Which reminds me, I should make a few extra loaves for Brett and his buddies to sweeten the way for Spring break.  (I showed Saj part of my blog earlier and he advised me to "change my pesscode").

---------------------------------------------------------------

Irish Teacake

Like Irish Soda Bread, but tenderer and sweeter.

2 large eggs
3/8 cup granulated sugar
1 cup regular sour cream
2/3 cup milk
4 teaspoons caraway seeds
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups loosely packed raisins*
4 cups lightly-spooned self-rising flour
2 tablespoons granulated sugar, for dredging

Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and grease and flour two 8 1/2- by 4 1/2- or 9- by 5-inch loaf pans.  Beat eggs with sugar until smooth; stir in sour cream, milk, caraway seeds, vanilla, and raisins.  Incorporate flour a cup at a time, stirring until just combined; do not overmix or cake will be tough.  Divide between prepared pans, smooth tops, and sprinkle evenly with sugar.  Bake until top is golden brown and center springs back when pressed with finger, about 35-45 minutes, depending on pan size.  Let cakes stand 10 minutes in pan before inverting onto cooling racks. 

*For a little green color as for St. Patrick's Day, substitute chopped, candied citron for 1/2 cup of the raisins.

Turned in my Design 10 project, a slide show depicting how commercial products emulate nature.  I didn't even check the pix over, having no projector, but they looked fine held up to the sun.  Only one more final to go, American History, which should be a cinch; I remember most of the stuff from h.s.   It's a mixed blessing I took on the toughest courses frosh year, a time of adjustment for most students; while I jeopardized my GPA with too many C's, I got most of my general requirements out of the way.  Now I can coast along on my favorite subjects and make the Dean's Honor List every quarter.  Eat your cheatin' heart out, Brett!!!!!!  (Don't ask me to explain......)

Still trying to make the best of HIM not being around.  Even took out my dusty electric guitar and started fiddling around on it up in the attic last night, practicing Hendrix's "Watchtower" and shit.  Brett and his fratties would laugh at me, but gotta begin SOMEWHERE.   It sure would be groovy to start an all-chick band.  Call it Barefoot And Pregnant (BAP!), or something like that.  Chelle could cover the skins and me lead, maybe Elva rhythm.  Elva and I would look great on stage together, Anglo-Hispanic combos being so hot, now.  Too bad I don't have the proper hard raspy bitch voice for rock, nor a musical bone in my body, though I can hold a tune and sing good folk.  Gotta take up SMOKING, I've been told.

MEN.  Our other roommate Sallie, a tall "California" blonde majoring in Industrial Arts (I'm still undeclared but under the gun to commit to something SOON), dropped by one of her prof's offices this week to ask a question about the term paper and happened into a wierd three's-a-crowd scene.   Behind his closed door was that pretty prissy cloudy-haired girl who always spoke up so righteously in class, posed confidently on the edge of his desk in a tight woolen skirt and cashmere sweater.  The last person we'd suspect of A-For-A-Lay, but I guess "it takes all kinds," as Dad always says.  Dr. Angus had to ruin all chances of personal redemption by glowering and asking, "Would that be all?"  a phrase Pantene Girl snottily repeated, again removing all doubts as to what was going on.  Poor Sal.  I had Angus once and he always paused at the chalkboard like Indiana Jones to glare at me for tucking one of my hands between my legs because they were cold.  I didn't mean anything by it and didn't care; not my type of guy, and I don't even think of playing the game, being smart enough to get decent grades most of the time even without studying (a quality Brett just MIGHT be a little jealous of).   He only reminded me of my homeroom teacher freshman year of high school, Mrs. Bertrile, an elderly lady who straight off gave us girls a rather Victorian lecture not to sit "Eiffel Tower style" in class.  But a man with a cute young wife who probably quit school to raise their three small children.  Really, the whole thing makes me feel like calling Jeremy and taking him up on that movie.

Finals almost over.  Thinking of inviting Brett up to my folk's for spring break--that is, if we're still together.  He pissed me off AGAIN last night.  Chelle caught him at TGIF's eating steak and fries with that "older woman," Marcie, 24, a graduate student in biology.  Okay, so he was out with the guys and she asked to join their table.  Chelle gave me the full report last night over Bisquick quiche Lorraine, our humble scraped together dinner.  Ruined my entire weekend but what are friends for?  Made me appreciate her more for a change.   I can't figure M. out.  She's one of those I'll-be-there gals who doesn't even seem to exist when we're hot and heavy, but enters stage left when we're on the slide, gentle and oh so understanding, patient and tentative and perfect.   But if all she wants is another boy toy, I wish she'd bug out!  My heart's breakin', here. 

To work out my rage I decided to clean the tub enclosure and came upon a petrified tampon stuck like one of Mr. Sayler's stogies in the upper track of the shower doors.   That's what I get for being immaculate; no one ever wipes up there!  But I'm proud of the gleaming tiles and toothy white grout; maybe the dearth of mildew etcetera will discourage Mizzes Roach from skinny dipping here.

After ignoring me all week so we don't fuck up our finals, Brett stopped by unexpectedly this afternoon.  I was camped out in the livingroom alone with all my school stuff when he breezed through the front door at 4:00 pm like a hungry stray tom cat, looking as cute and cool as ever in his black suede fringed jacket and single tiny gold pirate earring.

"Mmmm,"  he kissed me passionately. "I've missed you so much!  I was at Dave's [one of his fraternity brother's] today and couldn't stop thinking of you!"

Never mind that his abrupt change from doting prince last week to aloof prospect Sunday had me in a tizzy, that he blamed me too much for his mediocre academic progress, overlooking all the extra time with the guys, I could do nothing but return the kiss as we fell back onto the sofa, he on top of me, sending my books thumping to the floor.  Before long his hands made their way under my skirt, moving deftly up and down, up and down my thighs until suddenly he yanked off my panties, spread my legs, and dove beneath.

"Mmmm," he breathed, "I've been wanting to do this all day."

Delicious wet tingles shot through my lower body.  Man, but could he work away down there.   But, worried someone might walk in on us--my roomies would be coming home for dinner any time now--I just couldn't slip past plateau.  And my mind couldn't clear itself of those other thoughts, whether Brett really cared about me, whether this demanding erotic performance was, in fact, rude.  I was getting numb.  He knew it, too, but kept going.  Finally, I murmured how I couldn't bear the emptiness.  Pulling his head away, I placed him at heaven's gate, giving him what he wanted, cautioning him (as always) to take care.  The firm warmth shoved gratefully within.  It was over in a couple minutes.  Kleenex....

Of course, he couldn't stay the rest of the evening, which I could've predicted, judging by his behavior each quarter since we started dating almost a year ago.  There was absolutely no way we could get any serious studying done together with nature calling at the least romantic nuance.  And school came first; without that degree, Brett's future was lost, at least in his realm.  I understood, being it was about the same for me when I got serious about myself.  Scholarships could not always be had, but love could wait.   Better play the whore and keep quiet about the insensitive quickie, at least for the time being.  Actually, Brett was currently the best of the three men in this house.  My roommates boyfriends were louts, so I couldn't complain.