Chelle:   "What's with all the Sobe elixir?   I didn't know you dug that stuff!"

Me:    "Nothing.   I just wanted to try it.   All the guys drink it in class."

Chelle:    "Shit, Tina.    That's expensive!"

Me:   "I know."    If only root beer  were green.  

Chelle:  "Well, save some for me, okay?"   

Me:    "Don't worry; there's four left."

Chelle:    "Where?   I don't see any more of that flavor."

Me:    "This is the last one.   Sorry."

Chelle:  "Lemme have a sip of yours, then!"    

Me:    "No!    You have a cold!"

Chelle:    "Sip-py!!    If you can't share your jus, what kind of a friend are you?"

Me:    "Oh, all riiight!"

Chelle:   (Quaffs bottle, draining it.)    "Ahhh!   That really hit the spot.   Thanks!"   And out the door.

* * *

And just when I was thinking--forget what I was thinking!--a CRISIS touched our humble abode!    It was Tuesday Eve, nigh sundown, and the mosquitoes hot and thirsty when a slender blue-veined hand tapped the frame of the front screen door.    There stood a pathetic waif of a girl.    She had short greasy red curly hair and was totally disheveled, dressed in a ragged cotton shift almost like a nightgown; a stained pillowcase tied to her slender waist held her few possessions.   

Was ASHLEIGH around, by any chance?   

"Ashleigh?!?"   Thea exclaimed incredulously.    Turning to Donna, she inquired, "You wouldn't've happened to run into ASHLEIGH these days, hey Donna girl?"

"Nope," said her faithful roommate, braced in the doorway to the hall, where she dangled her feet like an acrobat.    "Haven't heard a word from 'er." 

"She doesn't live here!"   Chelle, lounging with a book on the sofa, yelled.   "Whadda ya want?"  

Maybe they sounded like a bunch of bitches, but we do live on Sorority Row and we're sick of dealing with Cokie's shit.  

"I guess she'll just have to talk to Tina," said Thea, about to walk away and leave the stranger to the others.

Hearing my name, I padded into the living room like a cat smelling dinner cooking.    "You rang?"

"Ooo-EEE!   See what the wind blow in, baby!"   Thea crooned, passing me to go into the bathroom.

What a bum!

It happened that "Cyndria" was one of Wolverine's novitiates.    Having hitch-hiked all the way across the country with her boyfriend to celebrate Beltane in style, they needed a place to stay and were referred to Crow Haven, a neo-Pagan commune way out in the sticks near Sun Valley.    There lived half a dozen experienced witches and warlocks in a 3-bedroom ranch house with barred, shuttered windows, defended by an electrified cyclone fence and an attack dog big enough to bite your head off.   The nearest neighbors lived half a mile down the road and were of the same ilke; the rest of the town hated them and were always calling the police.    None of the coven members could so much as walk out to their car at night without fear of harassment.    Everybody was afraid the whole place was bugged, so they signaled between houses by flicking the lights or sending noxious smoke.   Her guy having chickened out and flown the coop as soon as they spent one night in the bunk room, a dreary converted 2-car garage, Cyndria was left alone to be seduced by the radical group's charms.    New members were hard to find--particularly one so young, pretty, and naive, and they were obviously anxious to keep her.  

"They had her walk around nude so they could reach down at any time and rub her clit or jolt her with the vibrator!    They were always getting her off; it's supposed to make her get attached to them."   I repeated smarmily to my roommies our first moment alone after receiving the vagrant's incredible story in confidence.

"Eeewe!"   Thea gasped.    "Like a little sex slave.   And she just, let them do that??"

"Um, hmm.    You would too if you were plied with that much dope."

Chelle looked perturbed.    "I don't think we should let her hang out, here, Tina." she said, dropping her voice down a notch.    "What if she has lice or steals things, or tries to attack us while we're asleep?    She sounds really wierd."   

"I hear ya," said Donna.    "The way she's so wasted and you had to keep reminding her to take a shower, she seems mentally ill."

I never even mentioned how Cyndria had sat on the vanity chair after taking her clothes off and bled all over the seat because she had started her period and hadn't bothered to insert a tampax.    When I reentered the bathroom, she appeared to be in a daze.    "Why didn't you get up!"  I cried.

"I have cramps," she stated lamely.

Then she couldn't brush her teeth because she was "an Indian Princess" and they weren't allowed to do that.

"She's super fucked up!"  Chelle reiterated.   "Get her outta here!!!"

I felt bad filling in for Ashleigh and acting like Cyndria'd finally wandered into safe and sane territory, only to leave her in the lurch the same as my flippant sister would, but quickly got everybody's point; the girl belonged in the psych ward, or at least the homeless shelter.    So we drove her to the county hospital in the middle of the night and stayed with her until she was admitted on a 3-day psychiatric hold.    (Cyndria:   "Do I get to be put on meds?")   The attending psychiatrist declared her gravely disabled and unable to care for herself.   It was uber sobering.

"What on earth did those creeps want with her?" the doe-eyed, willowy Thea pondered over morning coffee.    "They must've been grooming her for the corn doll or something."

Ritual realness, even human sacrifice?    In our confoundment and yen for midsummer madness, we couldn't help but agree.

Taking time out to catch y'all up on the news as I sit on the balmy screen porch with Thea's laptop, listening to the freeway zip between the thick stand of eucalyptus trees beyond.    Basically everybod's working on their final projects.   I finally got the courage one day out of the blue to walk proudly into ____ Hall and formally declare my major:   Mass Communications.    I think it covers just about all my interests, from journalism to advertising.   Cokie's just about gone.   (She always leaves gradually, like the last vestiges of Winter.)   Brett's still out of school and having as much fun as humanly possible with the old gang before the summer.   Tonight we're heading down to Javier's again for a small dinner party with the guys and their girlfriends, maybe shoot some pool downtown afterwards.   Melissa's pregnant and will probably marry Taylor soon.   They've ('cept Mellie, of course) been riding high on the Absinthe craze, making their own bootleg version of "The Green Fairy" and selling it around for $5.00 a 6-ounce bottle.   They keep pressuring me to try it (Javier:  "It's just the thing to get you divinely inspired, Tina!   Why not join the ranks of your fellow authors and dive in?"), but I don't want to get addicted to anything that murderous to your liver.

It's been just like new love all week with the boy and I helping out at Mr. Olson's latest remodeling job, a nouveau Mission-style home for sale in Beverly.   Nobody's being able to foot the four mil asking price, the owners cleared out last month for Europe so the construction crew could install the must-haves:   a new granite kitchen, marble bath, and bell-shaped fireplace for the family room.    The wife is a prominent plastic surgeon and left a real skull down in the basement.   Every time we stop by after hours to make use of the accommodations, we discover Mr. Olson's moved it to a different location, like the oven or dumbwaiter; you never know where it's going to loom its creepy head next.  He's got it on a serving tray for effect.   It's uber spooky, and naturally designed to scare some decent morals into us--especially approaching the steep circular drive with only a couple dim lights shining through the gray glass stairwell windows and all the furniture draped in ghostly white--but only serves to fuel our ardor as we cling to each other for safety, more out of fear of intruders than the vengeful dead.

We even follow each other into the john, which has resulted in quite a few ultra erotic experiences.   I stepped out of the luxurious steam shower last night to find my love perched nude on the commode, his honey tan skin gleaming like soft leather against the white plush seat cover.   A huge hard-on twitched high against his tight belly.   As my eyes fixed upon it, he grasped it firmly at the base and ran his hand up to the tip, squeezing out a bead of clear fluid.    My womanness started pulsing as I longed to take him inside me and feel our hot juices marry into a magic liqueur of our own. 

"Sit on it," Brett commanded softly, taking me by the shoulders.

I gladly obeyed and straddled him, his lips grazing my breasts.    The commode being the perfect height for a steady foothold as well as the ideal penetration, I was able slide slowly up and down, up and down his slick warm pole until we both gasped in a simultaneous climax.   Thursday he had me on the kitchen island.  It's been totally radical.

Ooh wah.  Life goes on.   Me and the gang had a quiet Cinco de Mayo at the house.   (Chelle and I have decoratingitis again and converted the study to a formal dining room, getting ourselves accused of taking over for Martha.)   Then it was off to Mick's place at Venice Beach for assorted apre diner activities and refreshments.   The dude really gave us a grand guffaw relating how Hollywood producers are so fussy about performers' ears, whether they're large or small, oddly shaped or stick out; thus the hair is adjusted accordingly.   Naturally this gave everyone an ear obsession, which resulted in all the peeps on TV looking like monkeys.   You just can't watch people's ears, man.   It was a total gas!

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MEXICAN LASAGNA

We don't know HOW this ended up on D.J.'s cousin's catering menu from my internal zip drive, but the key to success is frying the tortillas; you can always modify the other ingredients to your taste.

12 medium corn tortillas
corn oil for frying
1 cup (about 4 oz) lightly packed, coarsely shredded Monterrey jack cheese
1 cup (about 4 oz) lightly packed, coarsely shredded Cheddar cheese
2 cups diced, cooked chicken or beef
1 small can (2-3 oz) sliced ripe olives, drained
1 large can (29-30 oz) Rosarita's enchilada sauce
1 small (8 oz) container sour cream

In large, heavy frying pan over medium heat, fry tortillas one at a time in about 1/4-inch oil until stiff but not browned; set aside to cool and drain on paper towels.  Mix together the two cheeses, reserving about a half a cup for the top.  Combine remaining cheese with meat, 2/3 of the olives, and about 3/4 cup of sauce, just enough to moisten ingredients.

Spread about a 1/2 cup sauce in bottom of extra-deep greased 9- by 13-inch pan.   Arrange 3 of the tortillas lengthwise, overlapping edges, to cover bottom as well as possible.  Spoon a third of the meat and cheese mixture evenly over them; sprinkle with another half cup sauce.  Cover with 3 more tortillas, pressing gently to adhere to filling, then repeat procedure to form 2 more layers.  Top with remaining 3 tortillas, the rest of the sauce, and reserved grated cheese; sprinkle with remaining olives.  Cover pan tightly with a sheet of greased foil and bake at 350 degrees F. for about 45 minutes, or until hot and bubbly.  Cool in pan at least 5 minutes before cutting into large squares, each garnished with a generous spoonful of sour cream.

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.

The Good News:   Mom UPS'd us her old portable record changer so we can get into vinyls with style.    It even has 16 speed--not that we have any records that ancient, but it's fantastic for special effects.    That was sweet of her.   She says Dad has a bad cough.    Nothing about the Greggers.    And it's another foggy beautiful day. 

As I escaped into the tall dry grasses, 
You followed me from behind unseen.

-K.

This morning I dreamed a huge great Dane was trying to fuck me through my panties.    Must've been from me and the guys thinking about seeing Scooby Doo last night.   Gor-eee!   It's dark in those thick muscular haunches.

Finals are finally over.   I'll probably make all A-'s and B+'s, except for Econ.   

So here we are on Spring Break.   I'm not going home this time on account of Maya and Coke's being here.    Brett's commencement ceremony isn't until June with the rest of the novitiates, so might as well stay at the house and kick around.   Saturday I was down with a killer headache.    Sunday, the weather's heating up again,  Ash wanted to head over to Santa Monica for some salt water taffy and hang out at the wharf, so we all went along.   After cruising the many shops, we sat on the windy dock and watched the sailing competition.   Fun.

We talked.   Ash really took off with my business idea and has already gotten an estimate from a guy who can supply prefab horse heads in fifty-count lots.   All we gotta do is stain the leather and do the add-ons.   Groovy, 'cept I'd have to quit school to keep up with the demand.   Really, Cokey; I'm not Super girl!!!

St. Paddy's day was interesting, to say the least.    After doing some Spring cleaning, my roommies and I thought we'd throw an impromptu kegger at the house: green beer, shish kabob, the whole bit.   (We really wanted to use the nearby park, but some sorority gals beat us to it.)    Groovy, except Mick, god bless his merry soul, had to go and invite the entire fucking school rugby team, and a most rowdy sort were they.   They not only ate all the food and turned the house back upside down in record time, but dumped half a pint of whisky and a pair of cleated shoes into the aquarium tank, killing half of Chelle's fish.    They were about to let to Maya loose on the boulevard  when I stopped them, revealing how her half sister had been stolen right out of the car during a 7-Eleven stop.     "Hey, that's a valuable pedigreed dog!"   So they settled for entrapping her in a circle of drunken serenaders trying to give her a contact high.    Luckily Bruce and a few of the bigger brothers were able to bounce 'em out before Chelle called the cops.   Woot!   The place looks like a herd of buffalo stampeded through it.    Just the right atmosphere for studying for finals.   I think half our CD's are missing, too.   Pina colada, anybody?    (All we had for breakfast this morning!)

I just had the zaniest home business idea:    handcrafted hobbyhorses!    Not necessarily for kids (Mom:   "Oh, those.   They're now considered too dangerous; small children can easily trip over them."), but as objects d'ART to hang on the wall or prop in one's umbrella stand.    They're quite hard to find these days, particularly a nice suede one.    I made mine years ago in summer camp out of tan-colored felt, synthetic black wig hair,  and leather strapping; it was really ratty by the time Brett and Maya got to it.    June thinks it's a fantastic project; the materials are cheap, you can create loads of variations, and they can easily go for seventy-five bucks uptown.    If I'm good, they could be a collectors' item one day.   Maybe the girls will even go in on it with me.    Brett could tool the sticks; I could ask at least two hundred for one with a fancy carved stick like a candy cane.   I already hit the art store this afternoon and picked up a few wooden dowels and some cheap materials to practice on.    I was so brimming with ideas I could barely concentrate until I did.