These killer headaches (hanging out with the pyracanthas at the club thurs) cause the most bizarre dreams.   Last night I had a nightmare that the parochial school I attended on the peninsula is situated on an ancient military base made up of several clay step pyramids.   The central play yard, where we youngsters once viewed the solar eclipse through a slice of cobalt blue glass, was situated in the vicinity of a pyramidal apex, the upper classrooms over the outer walls.   The structures looked smooth from the air, though, and blended into the surrounding ochre earth like large square welts.  They always build schools over places of archaeological significance, in case they want to redig later, the dream whispered.   How exciting for the nuns, I thought, to hold the keys to some awesome underground secret.   Even in the Beaver Cleaver United States, we have our catacombs……It was dry, hot, sizzling, only these hostile diamond fortresses nestled in their shallow valley, the bare land, and the empty summer sky.  In the future I was an intern at Stanford.  I saw the Stanford teaching hospital superimposed in the south.  From my walnut formica desk at the plexiglass window, I surveyed the industrial gray land like a prince in his tower.  But in the distant past was something terrible.  I was led down a steeply descending corridor into the deepest depths of the pyramid.   Chained to the wall and left alone.   Only a narrow shaft of light defined the square chamber, from a small aperture seemingly a mile above.   It looked to be the end of the day, when the sun washed over the dizzying tomblike walls, illuminating them like burnished copper.   There were no windows, no air, no water, no food, no comfort.   After some time the walls appeared to recede, and I was rooted to a vast glowing terra cotta plateau which was the top of the pyramid.   As I slowly suffocated to death, I was hit with the hard reality of this lonely, treacherous existence, perhaps for the first time in my earthly sojourn:   Never do that again!!!

No, Sir!  And give thanks for this humble glass of water, and this garage sale bedroom lamp.

I must be PMSing or something.   I’m so pissed off I could SCREAM.    Ran into Jordan at the student coffee shop.   Trying to catch each other up on the latest haps above all the noise.    I left our table briefly to zap my coffee in the micro, and Sharrie was there when I returned, in my chair.    With my sweater and purse hanging from the back, and my books underneath, when there was an extra chair she could’ve taken.   I know she’s not exactly gonna rip me off right in my face, but it bugged the hell out of me, her symbolically usurping my place.   

I suppose I should feel sorry for the girl; she’s such a nerd.   Thin and pretty, but has trouble fitting in.   Always saying or doing the wrong thing.   Always stoned.   Her rich Brentwood parents really fucked her up.   She inadvertently insulted Jordie by saying she should wear some eye shadow, like the Jord’s ugly or something.   I left early just to make her get up.    She was onto to me, too, and said irritably, “Oh, you’re making me get up?”    What a space case!

What can I say, but Friday was a blast.   We can’t wait to go on the ride again.   We must be addicted to being SCARED. 

I don’t know where it’s going with Jeremiah, though; I know he wants something in return for all this besides a pork-out party,  especially now that Brett’s out of the way.   He kept hinting what a pro he is at muff diving in the car going home.   I thought, Shine him on with Brucie, but what about Chelle?!?   I don’t want to ruin our trust.   Mom thinks I’m crazy.   She rather likes the Jermeister, from what she’s heard.  She doesn’t think Olson will ever get serious.

Also on the social front, Thea has warmed up to me quite a bit.   She must be lonely since her “gal fren’” transferred out of state.   We took the bus to a far off mall yesterday, one of her old haunts, and went shopping.   I got some cultured pearl earrings, she some designer yardage.   We spent all night talking after she got out of the shower, her sitting cross-legged on the bed in nothing but her scant silk kimono, me hovering awkwardly in the doorway.   

One of our buys was some stage make-up.   In keeping with our current Indian craze, we decided to each dress up as our power animal for All Hallows this year.   The Costanoans were highly skilled in the art of camouflage, Auntie heard, and were notorious for their vivid and often terrifying body (particularly facial) paint; they even drew fake sores on their skin to scare off lascivious Spaniards.   Thea shall be Wolf, Donna the infamous Wily Coyote, Chelle the prairie dog, and me Coon Gurl (pun intended), in light of an intense dream I had in San Carlos about living in a straight-sided bamboo hut and having a raccoon for a pet.  I’m gonna have a black, doglike nose with thick black and white stripes radiating from it; for my body and bushy tail, fake fur, black leggings, and thin black rubber gloves.     

To this day, coons often scamper down from the San Carlos hills to wash their paws in city dwellers’ swimming pools.   Males fighting over nubile females parry along the high wooden fences every Spring, hissing like cats.   They look much cuter as themselves, though..   I practiced on my face a little while ago and it looks shockingly  savage, like a headhunter’s.   Oooh.

With Thea being half Cherokee, Donna Mexican, Chelle Paison, and me mostly Sicilian, we might hang out at one of the reservations this Fall and do some charitable work.   Thea says the natives are surprisingly very receptive to Angelinos on an Indian kick, what with being so guilty about getting everything free from the government so they can maintain their dying lifestyle.   They don’t mind if we invade their harvest fest circle and spin our supernatural tales around the campfire like old medicine men.   Chelle was putting together one of those new Betty Crocker complete dessert mixes last night, and Thea commented how they test those at the reservation.   Kewel!

Right now I’m trying to remember the ingredients for “Chickonderoga,” a yummy casserole I made once for my honey’s birthday.   It’s based on Country Captain, and named not after the famous battle of Ticonderoga (which I never knew about), but a favorite drafting pencil of  mine.   I could kill myself for not writing it down.   Damn!   It’s my night to cook dinner.

AND it’s back to Kansas–er, campus, again.  Yeah, I’m down at ye auld bungalow, munching out with my roommies.   We’re having a little back-to-school party tonight with just us and the boys, sans the Brettster.   Sorry I haven’t blogged for a while; the fire season was loads worse than we predicted and a lot has been happening.   Brett’s dandy, though; about the most dangerous thing his squad had to do was help rescue an endangered species of snake!!!   They’d invaded somebody’s property at the edge of the woods, where they’d fled for safety, “poor things.”   One of the guys said you could even see them racing the flames, zigzaging through the smoke like loose hoses under pressure.   Several fire fighters got bitten.   The San Francisco zoo wanted ‘em for their rare color.   Sure teaches you the value of living vicariously.   Oh, well.   

So I’m without my honey from now on, ’til I graduate.   He’s actually situated in dentistry school, and found a room in a really posh house with a son of a friend of theirs, a red brick Federal on a austere tree-lined street, and I’m sort of jealous.    It was a small sorority before, and the girls kept it up really nice.   There’s a huge beamed living room overlooking the backyard, wide plank floors, and the two bathrooms, also spacious, sport navy blue and ivory checkered tiles and white pedestal sinks.  The boy’s all decked out in new horn-rimmed glasses and a short haircut and looks like a regular owl, man.   So I’m not going through withdrawal pains, yet.   (Maybe it’s these Dream Bars; they’re the original recipe, Chelle said, made with Lorna Dunes.   Yummalicious!)     

Everybud’s in a real Native American mood, in honor of the Indian casino issues this election.   We’re taking Native American Studies, grooving up on Indian history, the whole bit.   I even agreed to help Mr. Foster finish a job in the Belmont hills August so I could spend a week at Auntie’s and check out unspoken territory.   Her neighborhood’s built right over the ancient Lamchin tribe’s settlement on Pulgas Creek, of which little is known.  What once was all oak forest, rolling green meadows, and misty harbor as far as the eye can see is now an upper middle-class community of quaint story book and designer homes, wild rose gardens, play houses, and fish ponds.   Her Japanese neighbor, who lives in a redwood-paneled nouveau pagoda-style home with wide cedar steps winding up to a front deck, says the large cement slab in the far left corner of his yard probably predates the house and is muy suspish, considering there’s plenty of room for RV parking in the front.   Could go back before the Gold Rush days, to the second Spanish occupation, and hiding a private cemetary underneath.   Woo-OOOH-oooh!   With the branches of Auntie’s giant white oak straining towards the second floor dormer window, I tell you it was like Poltergeist. 

Finished my cat castle.   Chloe loved it!    She found her way right to the top, where she promptly sat over the entry hole and blocked Maya.  From this strategic position, she could bat the enemy away from the walls.   The dog soon swallowed her pride and staked a claim over the second floor.   It was a kick watching their furtive eyes peeping through the slit windows.   Try to get ‘em out, though; the place is too high and well-built, nearly like stone compared to your standard wicker hive. 

There’s more, but Jeremy’s here to take us to Revenge of the Mummy, so see yas!   And afterwards, par-DEEEEE!!!!!!!    As you can see, we’re in a real Halloweenie mood.   In case I don’t return by the 31st, have a happy one!!!!!

GETTING along better with Poppo for the time being.    The two of us are building a cat tower I designed myself with a few ideas from my employers.   Actually, I started it last summer, but put it aside until another blogger reminded me of it here.   (Maybe as a means of restoring the peace?)   It’s really neat; not one of those carpeted ladder things, but like a real castle.   The 2 foot diameter base has an arched entry hole, and tapers slightly towards the top to a parapet 5 feet high.   Within, there are four levels, each consisting of a ledge with a real Gothic slit window so kitty can rest securely and peep out.   The ledges ascend step fashion like a spiral staricase–or kitty can climb up the outside using the windows as a paw-hold.   The battlements, however, are reached through a hole in the middle.   I can’t wait to paint it (grey with blue trim, about the only colors cats can see besides red) and put on the finishing touches!!

Oh, lookie!!!!   Brett gave ME a recipe when he came down to take us to Marine World last weekend!!!!    It used to have oat flour in place of eggs, but we don’t do that version.   (Too gnarly.)   For when you’re sort of roughing it:

- – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – - – -  

CANNED APPLE CAKE

1 cup dried apples, diced small
1 cup boiling water
1 cup sifted cake flour
1 cup whole wheat pastry flour (nonleavened)
1/3 cup instant nonfat dry milk powder
1/2 teaspoon each salt and baking soda
1/4 teaspoon each ground cinnamon and mace
1/2 cup chopped walnuts
1/4 cup lightly packed dried currants
1/2 cup applesauce
1/2 cup bland vegetable oil
1/2 teaspoon each vanilla and butter extracts
2 large eggs
1 cup firmly packed brown sugar

Pour boiling water over apples in mixing bowl; set aside.   In another bowl, mix together flour, milk powder, salt, baking soda, and spices; stir in nuts and currants.  Grease and flour an 8-inch round by 2-inch deep cake or springform pan.  

When apples have plumped and cooled down, preheat oven to 325 degrees Fahrenheit and stir in applesauce, vegetable oil, and extracts.  Beat in eggs; add sugar and mix until smooth.  Incorporate dry ingredients, mixing until just smooth.  Do not overbeat or finished result will be dry. 

Pour into prepared pan and bake until cake shrinks from the sides and center bounces back when pressed with finger, about 40 minutes.  If you wish to remove it from pan, cool about 20 minutes first.

Variation:  For Caramel Apple Cake, spread about 1/2 cup (4 ounces) thick caramel ice cream sauce or dulce de leche on top of cooled cake.  Garnish with walnut halves and/or thin dried apple rings.  Topping will set somewhat upon standing, but if you’re in a hurry or desire it firmer, gently bring 2/3 cup caramel to a boil and apply hot.

TAKING A breather at work over a philly steak sand I bought at this dubious shoddy Ma and Pop down the street.   Hopefully the microwave killed all the germs; the bastard was so steaming hot I couldn’t even pick it up for five.  

Couldn’t wait to get away this morning.    Last night, Dad and I had a bad blow out over my “atrocious language.”   

“Hey!   I didn’t send my best daughter away to school to talk like that!”

Referring to my tres student habit of using “fucking” as an adjective for anything the slightest tad offensive, like:    “What did you fuckin’ do to my dog?!!”   “I can’t stand that fuckin’ car!”   ”What’s with all this fuckin’ fog we’re having?!?”   And last but never least, “If Brett doesn’t fuckin’ call me I’m gonna have a fucking shit attack!” 

“FUCK THIS!”

“‘Fuck this, fuck that!’   Whatever happened to ‘freaking?’”   said Daddy.   “You were much better in high school when you tried to show some manners.”

Truthfully; back then the very words under discussion hurt my virgin ears.    “Fuck” was like RAPE, man; not a good word to women at all.   But,  “Duh-uh,”   I retorted Valley Girl style, being the man was no purist himself.   This sent my stressed-out parent into a tirade.  Now, it was my shocking “yen for gossip,” my “whorish manner of dressing” (“Call that a skirt?!?”), my constant annoying phone messaging (“Will you stop that for one minute, please!   How rude!”), and so on and so forth.   I was becoming a terrible person whom he was embarrassed to have brought into the world.  Well, dandy candy; that takes care of helping out at the restaurant for a while!    (Sure, I love cooking, but not for the masses; it’s total DRUDGERY.   Time one Romano set out for new territory.)

Okay, so I chickened out of forestry camp.    After one look at the barracks–er, LODGE–I just couldn’t hack it.   The john has major plumbing probs, and I would’ve been the only chick there besides Barbra, a real dyke and my assigned roommie.    Just the thought of her twirling her coy tongue inside my stale piss twat on the saggy spermed up mattress to get my mind off my guy’s luscious dick makes me wanna up chuck.    It’s been a loooong time since I was a prepube in the exploratory stage, playing Legos on the floor in a squatting position to feel my awakening clit twitch.    (I found some ancient but still-good caramel apple lolly pops in a zip lock bag in Noni’s fridge on the way up.   They’re flat and hard and uber sticky and can’t touch your teeth without clamping onto an filling, so go figure.)

So I’m hanging out at my folks again and jerking off like crazy ’til my honey gets a break.    I’m HORNEY!!!   It’s cooler this summer, and he promises to drive down more often for a visit.   Meanwhile, it’s back at the Fosters for some honest hard work and practical experience.    This season should be exciting, what with Mrs. Billings, the lady who manages the office next door, running a secret call girl ring.   Maya’s gotten fat and happy and even gets along with the cat–once the Chloster bit a hole in her ear to teach respect.    Cokie’s on a roll and too busy to invade my space.    (Such as waking up like a guard dog to the slightest sound of heavy breathing and creeping up to my bedroom door in the dead of night trying to catch me in the act, the rotten little voyeur.)  And tomorrow, Mom says she’ll take me to that posh new North Beach cafe for the 4-layer black chocolate fudge cake I’ve been craving if I help finish the restaurant china inventory.   [Daddy:   "No more big nappies!!"   Brett:   (Seemingly caught yawning.)    "Excuse, me, Sir."]    Should be fun!

I just realized I don’t like ONE entry on the last 2 pages.    I don’t like the mood I’ve been in.   So I’ve been staying away.   Not that I haven’t been super busy; Brett graduated top in his class, summer’s on, and I might be taking a job up North in the forestry service.   That’s right; the boy’s still doing the volunteer fire crew bit, despite dentistry school starting hot and heavy this Fall, and I’m invited along for a change.   I’m actually looking forward to it, even though it’s away from my family and almost all my friends.   It’s ultra peaceful and quiet, and I hope to do some real in-depth writing  Thoreau style.   Work on my bod, come back like Jane Atlas.   The Fosters are disappointed, though; they were counting on me to return this year and help with the books during the construction season.  Mrs. Foster even sounded kinda pissed when I gave her the news.   Gee, I didn’t know I was such an asset!

JEREMY invited the whole gang to his R.O.T.C. convention in Utah this past weekend.   The only person interested, surprisingly, was Thea, so we flew there together.   (Half her family’s in the military.)    It was the perfect getaway before finals.   The guys and girls were put up in separate modern dormitories.   Thea and I were assigned a suite with a gal named Clara.   At first I thought:   Oh, another spoiled, overacheiver Kevvie type heading for Park Avenue and the Junior League.   Norweigan blonde, has everything, and Mummie calls night and day to make sure.   Then her mother revealed Clara has systemic lupus.   She’s gets attacks of excruciating arthritis,  and is not expected to live past 30.   Her family just wants her to live life as fully as possible before it’s too late.   We were in shock; the girl seemed so carefree and vivacious, not at all delicate.   But there were all her medications, arranged in a line nearly 2 feet long on the formica console.    They reminded me of Noni’s bookcase headboard, which looks like a shelf at the pharmacy.   Hell.   So we tried to feel sorry for her, not envious.   It was hard, though, when she smelled of suntan lotion and never missed a midnight swim.  

The weekend began Friday evening with a special conference.   After a complimentary pancake breakfast Saturday morning, it was event after event, ending with a huge pep rally last night.   Go-Go-Go-Go-GO!!!    It was fun.    Everybody slept like logs afterwards.   I must admit I was impressed.    But not enough to surrender my life to the armed forces, even though I could skip boot camp and go right into an officer’s program, get stationed overseas, see the world on the government ticket–well, something to think about.

As for Cyndria, I tracked down her folks on the internet and had them come pick her up when she got out of the hospital after a two-week hold.    Diagnosis:  borderline psychotic reaction.   Just when I was feeling like I did the adult, responsible, proper thing, Cokie called and said I was a real prick.  

“That’s the last thing the poor girl needs!    Her parents probably caused her to be that way.”   

“How could we trust her!   She could be from anywhere!”

“Oh, Tina.  You know where she came from.   Didn’t you just look it up?!?”

Um, yeah.   According to the idealistic, grandiose Cokie way, we’re supposed to adopt her into our merry clan, clean her up, get her a job, and set her on the path to well-being.   Like we’re licensed psychologists with plenty of money and big orderlies like bouncers we can buzz should we get physically assaulted.    Taylor’s brother was a schizophrenic in remission, and still pulled a knife on their Dad once cuz he imagined he was a gila monster.   Before that, he was standing over him like a zombie while he was asleep.   Why should we put ourselves at risk?   We don’t owe Cyndria anything!