JEREMY deserves more than a passing mention, I guess.    I know he's stable and sensible and much more committed (Mom:   "......than that Hansen fellow--  Me:  It's 'Olson,' Mother, please."), but I just can't seem to get into him, even with my boyfriend's being so preoccupied with his future lately.  

I hate to say it, but Jere reminds me a lot, in essense, of Cindy's brother Chuck in my virginal days.   (Donna:   "Like a rape artist?"   Me:  "No, I wouldn't quite put it that way.)   They used to live in this rambling Victorian mansion in Chula Vista that was built by the town mayor and is a historical landmark.  At the time I saw it, en route to a camping trip on the coast, her energized type-e mother cum free lance writer was in the process of remodeling it.  It's since become their summer house.  Cindy has eight brothers and sisters, all in various stages of overweight.   Thus there were two large reefers in the high-ceilinged, thirty-foot long kitchen facing the conservatory, plus a chest freezer in the butler's pantry, soon to be the new laundry room.   Her office manager father, a quiet authoritarian type who only intruded when necessary, set up shop in the study, formerly the front parlor.   We never saw him.  

Chuck, his third oldest son, was the equivalent of a college senior but out of school and working hard as a mechanic.  Very blue-collar.   He was instantly taken with me and had no bones, so to speak, about showing it.   Like the Jermeister, he's husky, with fashionable long sideburns and not bad looking, but about five eleven.   The first time we met, he had his cute auburn-haired stud of a friend Josh Smith lift up my foot like a horse, nonchalantly remove my boot, and toss it up on the high, steeply-pitched roof.  

"Just trying to get a rise out of you," the guys teased, obviously having been briefed by Cindy about my personality "flaws".   

"She's so calm," said Chuck, tching like my old-fashioned cousin Dielle.  

They had to go through the attic to retrieve it.  It used to be the servants' quarters and hadn't been touched since the turn of the last century.   It gave me the fuckin' creeps with its vast empty chambers and numerous black cast iron garment hooks protruding from the low sloped ceiling, its tight meandering staircase tumbling all the way down to the backyard like a secret tunnel.   I could picture dead bodies hanging from those hooks, Texas Chainsaw Massacre style; at least, you might lose an eye on one.  

Sophomore year when Cindy and Sue and I made a stab at living together in an off-campus student apartment complex, Chuck visited a few times and tried to date me, driving up from his bachelor pad in Chino, where he lived with his best friend.   But he was too aggressive and put me off, jaw flapping nonstop about all the girlfriends he'd gotten knocked up as we zigzagged in the dark up to the lake in his muscular rebuilt vette, his calloused hand fidgeting on my wary thigh the whole time.   It was so cold and black we couldn't even see the water, like walking into a wall of darkness, so we just got out of the car, stretched our legs, and turned back around.  He almost bought a brand-new cadillac for cheap, he revealed on the way home, cuz the owner committed suicide in it and wasn't found for almost ten days.  However, no one could get rid of the cloying reek without tearing out all the upholstery, an expense Chuck just couldn't afford, not with child support for two high school girlfriends.   The story chilled me through.

Back at the apartment he kept picking me up and swinging me around like a doll, and I quickly saw the disadvantages of being petite and newly slender.   I was being totally manhandled. 

"Just wait until you girls bed down for the night!   I'm gonna break through that locked door of yours, Tina, and have my way with ya!"   Chuck teased all day.   "That's right, rape.   I'll getcha, you little daunting damsel!!!!!!!!!!"

He never touched me sexually though after one awkward kiss.

Chuck took us trampolining at _______ Park but it wasn't exactly my thing, his glaring at my boobs bouncing up and down or waiting for my top to rise up, so Sue and I took off for the ferris wheel.   To our chagrin, we were the only ones on it that time of night and Chuck talked the ride conductor into giving us several extra turns.  We thought we'd never stop.   Each time we got to the bottom and waited for the wheel to slow, it would gain momentum again and head back up, while Cindy's l'infante terrible and cheap date extraordinaire of a brother laughed and waved.  He would've left us stalled at the top for an hour if it weren't against park regulations, he joked.

But the final blow was his asking to borrow my credit card.  For a boat.  Knowing he'd stick me with the payments, I had to give him a heart-to-heart, the familiar fearsome one-two, Cindy's brother or no, and he never came to campus again, not while I was there.

I said to later to Chelle, "The bugger was so potent, I was afraid to sit in the same jacuzzi with him!"

She smiled.  "You haven't met enough older guys, yet.   Wait until you date one with bucks."

"That dismal, eh?"

"Well, lemme say it this way:  Life isn't exactly like a Harlequin romance novel."

I wanted to say Chuck expected me to give myself to him for nothing, but remained silent.   He never asked me out to dinner or anything like that.  He was probably the type that wouldn't pay unless you put out.   Each girl was a closet prostitute.

ANYWAY, back to the land of books and papers and PC's.   Winter is usually my more serious quarter, what with the cold weather keeping me in to study--well, at least in theory.    I'm taking Geography 101.   The prof's a famous archaeologist who's been all over the world and a most captivating lecturer.    (He has to be to keep me awake for early morning class.)   Today he passed around a well-worn baggy containing a sour yellowish lump of dried mare's milk.    Talk about deja vu!  I couldn't believe it was the same stuff I spaced out on once after reading an article in one of Auntie's vintage National Geographics about how some equine-dependent nomadic tribes kill a foal and make a leather canteen of its hide in order to siphon milk from its mother.    A genuine horse lover, it broke my heart.    So here it was, kumiss, just as yuchy as I'd imagined.    Thank you, Dr. S.!!

Other news:   Twelfth Night came and, uh, went.   (This Lord of Misrule thing's never what you expect.)  Thea is all settled in--all her junk, that is.   (Like it, too.   Besides some real gurlie girl finds, the lass has a suuuper comp, man!!!  Oooh, this is gonna be fun.)  Saj is having a house warming once the holidays are out of everybody's system.    Chelle met a really cute greaser at the gas station getting Mummy's car smogged;  we call him  Mick cuz he looks just like Him.  Jeremy's been really putting the pressure on after getting wind of Brett's graduation, talking about marriage and everything.   And  I  loosened a big back filling munching out on, of all things, fucking toasted miniature marshmallows.    Yeah, ever since being denied a sterno-operated s'mores maker on account of their being a fire hazard (Brett heard they're aimed towards people with a deep-seated guilt complex who long for scouting days.  "Let them set the table cloth on fire; they deserve it!"), I've been hit with the urge.    So I broiled a bunch, and they were good.    Then I went back for another round the next day, but for some mysterious twist of fate decided to bake them.    Wrong!   They overheated and metamorphosed into some hard indestructible plasticine.   I thought:  Wow.   There's much more to "junk food" then they let on.   No wonder marshmallows are such a big joke.   But Ghost Busters knew.   Donna thinks the store-bought ones must sneak in some kind of synthetic sugar and stuff.   I mean, the shit wouldn't even melt.   I made the mistake of chewing it.  It got harder and harder and then, OUCH!   Damaged filling.    A real bummer cuz, like all Angeleans, I dread the dentist like the plague.    The real reason why they all wear caps?  They wait until their teeth are all rotten and just have 'em wittled down!   Tah dah!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Here's something safer and much more nutritious, our old Winter standyby:

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CREAMY OLD-FASHIONED MACARONI AND CHEESE

This is just like Stouffers--even better with the extra cheese topping.

2 cups milk (nonfat okay)
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1/2 teaspoon each salt and Hungarian paprika
1/8 teaspoon each garlic powder and ground white pepper
8 ounces uncooked medium or large elbow macaroni
10 ounces (about 2 1/2 cups lightly packed) coarsely shredded sharp cheddar cheese
garlic and onion powders
2 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese

Butter a 7- by 11-inch baking dish and set aside.  In medium saucepan, whisk cornstarch with a few tablespoons of the milk until smooth; stir in remaining milk, plus the salt, paprika, 1/8 teaspoon garlic powder, and pepper.  Cook, stirring frequently, over medium heat until mixture comes to a boil; reduce heat and simmer a few more minutes, stirring constantly.  Meanwhile, boil macaroni in large saucepan according to package directions in salted water until tender.  Casserole will not be baked, so try to prepare sauce and pasta so they are ready at the same time.  Do not rinse macaroni.  While it is draining, remove sauce from heat and add all but a 1/2 cup of the cheddar cheese; stir until completely melted.

Working quickly to avoid heat loss, transfer pasta to baking dish; pour sauce over it and mix in thoroughly.  Sprinkle lightly with garlic and onion powders.  Arrange reserved cheddar cheese evenly over the top, followed by Parmesan.  Broil about 6 inches away from heat until top is lightly browned.  Serve immediately.  Makes 6-8 portions.

The holidays were literally a mess, but fun.    It started with Chelle's parents deciding to jet to Cancun at the last minute, taking most her brothers and sisters with them.     Chelle didn't want to go, already having hot plans here, so we had the whole house to ourselves--'cept for Felicia popping in and out when you least expected her.    The maid had the season off.   All we did was party, sleep, watch DVD's on their new giant flat-screen TV, munch out, and party, from Xmas Eve through New Years Day.    We ate on Chinette paper plates, subsisting on Slimfast, diet Pepsi, and the loads of frozen entrees in the pantry, in addition to the huge assortment of mail-order gourmet goodies under the tree.    There were several gifts from Fruit-of-The-Month Club, Omaha Steaks, Popcornopolis, Just Desserts, Swiss Colony, Champagne to Go, Bloomies, you name it.   Still, the kitchen and game room looked like a cyclone hit it.   I finally got to sample that pretty Shaker lemon curd tart that always makes my mouth water; and I think I ate all the Ketcham's filet mignons, one by one, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.   (Me:  "Are you sure it's okay?  We're eating all your folks' gifts."   Chelle:   "Help yourself; Mom throws half that junk out, anyway.")   They were almost the only food that lived up to their reputation, much of the rest being obviously store-bought, cheap, slightly stale and, other than their festive appearance, ever disappointing. 

(Speaking of flesh-eating, Greg, Daddy, and I had the most inane conversation on vegetarianism Thanksgiving.   I remarked how Asian culture considers it totally barbaric to serve whole cuts of meat that still look like legs and other body parts, while we think nothing of it.    Yet we get down on them for being more open-minded in their food choices, consuming some creatures we keep as pets.

"Look at that turkey!   It's about to fly off the table to a Chinese person."

"At least we can tell what we're eating," Greg huffed, clearing his throat with more wine.

"It's really gross if you really think about it, though.   The way we kill and consume other things.    All of us.   We think it's delicious if they show ads for chicken parts.    'Ummm!   Body parts!  Get your body parts here!'  But if they showed us a human leg roasting on a spit, we'd be mortified!"

"But there are some human body parts you don't find objectionable," my brother parried.

Mom broke in.    "I think we're treading on dangerous ground here."

"Me, too,"  said Daddy.    "You could run me outta business with talk like this.   My own daughter!"

"Just trying to make intelligent conversation for a change, instead of the usual turkey bashing, since we live in a large Asian community."

Of course Coke, who thought she'd put in an appearance now that the rest of us were there, had to rush to his defense.    "Well, it's called poor, baby, something I'm never gonna be, and there's nothing open-minded about it.   And I don't know about you, but  I'm starving." She sighed dramatically.   "Why don't we just stop arguing and be thankful for this wonderful food Mom worked so hard to prepare?"

"Fine!")

Christmas was a smashing buffet party at the Olson's.   After exchanging gifts down in my boyfriend's freezing basement room at 10:00 pm, we snuck  back to Chelle's to take a bubble bath in the master bedroom whirlpool and share some quality time by candle light under the aged-oak rafters.    I can still feel the firm warmth of his silken wand probing my inner depths.    The privacy and luxurious homey surroundings--plus a few puffs of prime sans simian--were just what I needed to really relax and let go.   It was heavenly.   

Too bad my roommie didn't share my joyous spirit.  "Enjoy it while it lasts!"  I was surprised to hear her say, reminding me of Brett's leaving.    For some reason--having regrets about opting out of Mexico, her date's being a big letdown, PMS, my short bout of depression's being contagious, or something--she was in a pensive mood from the 27th onwards and unable to crack a smile, not even when we held an impromptu early New Years party at the house for just ourselves with Bruce and a few other of her old stand-bys.   (There was half a case of champagne to kill, so what the hell.)    Felicia was surprisingly good company, though.    It was she who provided the excellent dope.   She also took us to Elva's to see their new apartment.    Our friend seemed content and fairly adjusted to married life.    I don't know why I was amazed to find her in a sleek professional woolen suit with not a sign of a bulging tummy yet; I must be less liberal than I thought.

Brett got me a white gold topaz tennis bracelet; I gave him my grandfather's gold nugget wrist chain.   My stocking included some pink lace leggings, some flavored gourmet dipping oils, and a nifty battery-operated toothbrush for lord-knows-what.   From my folks, the customary cash and clothes.   I hope Dad liked his smokeless ashtray; it was the best I could find.

(Dig these hues!   I discovered them by accident trying to color-fill a small area with black in Windows Paint.)

Hey, my house dream sort of came true; I'm staying at Chelle's for Xmas, in one of their beamed and vaulted attic rooms with diamond-paned windows.   The glass was special order from Italy.   Tinted a subtle emerald, it enhances the rich verdant grounds, the long estate drive through the park, like being in an enchanted forest or London's West End.

Just the right atmosphere for being sick and depressed.   Yeah, I'm a bit under the weather.  Me.    Nothing to do but make like Katester, hide beneath the silk down comforter, order a silver tray of fragrant jasmine tea and thick sweet Marias biscuits for the nightstand, and cry.  Oh, why?   First of all, I've been plagued by killer headaches ever since the weather changed.   I've another one right now, acquired from driving around downtown all day yesterday in the rain looking for a parking space after Chelle's older sister Felicia spilt a whole bottle of Giorgio cologne on the back seat and we couldn't so much as crack a window open for air.  We were trying to give Neiman-Marcus one last hit before the big rush, and just couldn't get in.   We ended up lunching at a dreary cafe crammed with shopping bags and smokers in their winter coats.   On the way back to the car we had to walk through a row of jeering bums demanding compensation.   Then on the boulevard I caught sight at what I thought was a big stone statue of Buddha on the sidewalk in the midst of the crowd.   The stone head moved, looking accusingly our way as we waited at the light, and I saw it was a fat legless middle-aged man set on a wooden dolly.   Some poor unfortunate soldier probably, Vietnam vet, who'd stepped on a mine.   Brother, can't you spare a dime?   As soon as we were home I ran into the john and vomited.   Replay? 

Two (or secondly, as my writing T.A. would correct), I got only a C+ average this quarter, surely the result of having too easy a course load, taking it for granted, and doing nothing but party and fuck around.   I don't really like acting; I'm not cut out for it.  And thirdly, as if that weren't enough disappointment, Brett got into Dentistry school and is leaving after Winter Quarter.  I know I should be happy for him, but......talk about it laters.

I don't miss San Francisco.  The endless December wedding train of honking cars carrying from the expressway as they fight for passage.    Dad ready to break from nervous tension.   Trying to rendevous with friends without seeming rude and untame.  And Coke For Brains home for the holidays and staying in my room.   I'm sure I'll find it littered with dirty magazines, pink cigarette buts, and sticky half-eaten chocolates when I return.   All my clothes she borrowed territorily marked with her strong perfume.   C'est la vie.  No, I'm perfectly content to remain in the land of excitement, with its fires and earthquakes, sickness and scandal.

Between finals, the holidays, and everybody sick, it's been hard to write.  Just want y'all to know I'm still here.   Brett and I are dandy.   Saj is moving out, but being replaced by Thea (rhymes with "Lee"), a tall knock-out colored chick built like a Barbie Doll.  I mean, I've never seen a gal so fuckin' perfect.   Thea's done modeling for Victoria's Secret lingerie.  Halle Berry, look out!    She seems real nice, though.  (Donna:  "Better than that stuffy Liza turning her nose up at everything.   She really can't stand anyone around her boyfriend, you know; we might take him a-way!")    Thea brought over a video of a show on the supernatural she'd recorded over a porn flick.   Somehow the audio track didn't completely erase, and you could hear couples moaning and yelling "Yeah, fuck me!"  in the background of ghostly scenes.  We almost pissed out pants.

She told us more of her R.F.'s.*   One apartment she lived in had this real fussy gay guy next door, not an early riser, whose bedroom shared a thin wall with their living room.   He was ever complaining about "the noise," knocking on their door at 11:30 at night, leaving outrageous threatening notes:   "I think you're an absolutely GREAT singer and should form your own band but what would the LANDLORD think of that?  Blah, blah, blah."   So, move your bed away from the wall!   No!   Each time they annoyed him, he'd toss and turn, making the bed creak and bang the wall.  Then he'd spring up and open and slam the front door.  The girls couldn't even carry on a decent discussion unless they went into the kitchen.   (Me:  "What about him and his lover, you know when they......?"   Thea:  "Do it up the ass?   That goes on in the shower, so all the shit washes down the drain.")   Since he kept such careful tabs on their activites, she and her roomies decided to fix him one night by waiting until he was asleep and drilling a bunch of holes through the wall next to his head with a power drill.   We're coming through!   (Not quite all the way.)   Meet your new neighbors, Big Bro!   The guy was so startled you could practically hear him hit the ceiling.   Her brother hangs only two bulbs over the front door every Xmas, one green and one red.   (Chelle:  "Like his balls."   Donna:  "Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!  They flash!")  What a card!!!!!!!! 

(I can't get this damn hair-product commercial off my mind.   The jingle keeps repeating in my head.    Woo, woooooo! Woo, WOOOOOO!   And the honky tonk piano goes around and around, just like the beauty game, girls, futile.   They must've dug that one up from the 1970's.   Depressing.)

*Stands for "rat fuck," nasty practical jokes very popular in the dorms.

Katie's all right, just smacked around a little.  I don't know what I'd do if Brett got violent on me.   Probably leave.   One guy I dated had the annoying habit of patting me all the time--probably some passive-agressive tendency coming to the surface--and I couldn't stand it.  From the way he badmouthed all his ex's, I knew he'd up and wam me some day when he couldn't hold back any more.   At least Kate's got the bucks to cry about it in style, which I don't.  That room service of hers can't be beat, no pun intended.  We could order anything we wanted, all on her Dad's business card.

Spending Halloween at Auntie's and seeing Katie holed up that way must've stirred my desire for the beautiful life.   Since last weekend, I've had a recurring dream of being rich and living in the woods in a rambling storybook house against the mountains.   It has a feeling like the paintings of Thomas Kinkaid, Lily's fairy house in Legend, or even the lodge in the old Santa's Village.  Yes, that's the one.   My aunt used to tell me stories about it when I was little, how every time Grandpa, then in his late thirties, would travel through Highway 17 in the Santa Cruz mountains, they'd pass the entrance to Santa's Village, a gingerbread wonderland deep in the wooded glen.   She always searched the side of the road anxiously for the candy cane sign.  It came and went so fast, like the ring on a carousel, calling through the trees, beckoning in the night.   Grandpa never stopped, for, plagued by financial problems, it was rarely open.   Thus it became for her a true-to-life fantasy, something unreal that was real.   To journey up the twisted path and partake of the pleasures therein would be to transcend time.   She had to be content with a coloring book from there Grandma found her, now a collector's item--until she grew up, married, and found a tiny concrete piece of the village in her present home.

Festival of Lights.  Rise forth and Knock.  Like Auntie as a young girl, I venture up to the twinkling house, but never enter it.  Yet I know the country road, the picket-fenced yard, the stepping stone path by heart.    It's always Spring or Fall there, always gentle, never severe.  Some place in time that's mine. 

I've been laying low with a fuckin' killer headache, probably from all the ash still adrift.   Hoping to feel better for dinner out with the gang later.   They're planning to drive up to ________'s Steak House at the edge of the woods and survey the damage.   Donna also asked if I'd come along with her and check on Katie, who got really depressed over her parents or her boyfriend or having an abortion or something and checked into a fancy hotel to vege out.   Her room sounds like a scene from Wild At Heart.   I much as I care, I dunno if I can bare the smell of stale puke in my condition.  Maybe tomorrow.

Rather quiet lately with everybody studying for midterms.  Got our first "screen test" back from acting class, an ad lib of a family dinner.   Now, we have to edit it.  God, my camera shyness actually showed!   I came off really stiff, like one of those cheap electronic animals.  As soon as teach said "Roll'em!" I froze, hardly able to move or talk during the entire twenty minute shoot.   (They use a REAL cinema camera, by the way, not a rinky-dink video one everybody's used to.)   I managed to blurt only one line, a silly filler I'm too embarrassed to repeat which sounded as if I were ordered to speak at gun point.  I thought it would never be over.  You could tell I was terrified to look towards the monitor and seem to be fixated on one side of the table.   At the time my neck felt jerky, like a doll's, but on film it looks even worse, slow moving and mechanical, as if my head could really swivel a full 360 degrees.   I wish we could totally edit me out, but it's impossible.  Cripes!   And I look so fat! 

It's been literally blowing hot and cold, as if it suddenly remembered it was late October; or maybe the Good Witch decided to right things just in time for her favorite night of the year.   It was so windy yesterday evening, Old Man Winter rattling the windows as if trying to break in, we had to light the three-day memorial candles, one in each bathroom, in case the electricity blew out.   It was just like the latin Day of the Dead.

We should be studying for midterms--they ain't exactly gonna burn away, as much as our unexpected dose of super-reality might lead us to believe--but instead we've been cruising around in the steamy, sleepy warm car, shopping, checking out new housing developements in the North Bay.  Any excuse to cross the Golden Gate.   Brett's father wanted to get a firsthand look, so to speak, at what we call upscale homes up here.  Euro-traditional and Craftsman are definitely back, now split-level with three- or four-car tandem garages and central vacuuming, but the extravagant one-man castles are still on the small side for the almost million dollar asking price.  There's simply no buildable land around here unless you remodel or tear down.  Meanwhile, I guess you can console yourself making fake salt-dough bread and parafin cafe au laits.  (Gad, that sounded so stoned!)

On the way back, after driving through McDonalds for lunch (we also stopped by Thad's, but they weren't home), we hit this really nifty bargain basement craft store, where we found the finishing touches for our costumes.  I'm full of ideas for Christmas, too.

Then there was a lovely little nap in Greg's room before Mom got back from work and grocery shopping.   With the abrupt change in weather, you know we shouldn't miss our rest and relaxation.  Gotta remember to change the mattress pad before we leave; my  sales rep brother's so fussy.  The last time he was here, he had a conniption fit over an apparent worn spot on the arm of his antique leather easy chair, evident by a subtle change in sheen.   "I don't understand how such a thing could've happened," Greg complained, giving me a knowing look.  "Tina?!?"

Tonight we're all invited to a special Autumn Festival dinner overlooking the Bay: assorted gourmet house sausages and black bread, or pork chops Calvados with potatoes Anna,  savory stuffed pumpkin, plus fresh caramel apple cake, dried Montmorency cherry and green apple pie, or Courvosier cheesecake for dessert are just some of the menu selections.  We're appeasing our growling stomachs with Jiffy Pop popcorn we made in the white marble fireplace, oyster crackers, and revamped canned cheddar cheese soup.  Fooling around with the new Halloween Tarot deck Brett bought us.  (I hope to polish up my fortune telling skills by tomorrow.)  Watching horror flicks on cable.   Getting into the holiday mood.  I can hardly wait.  Hope it doesn't rain again.

This has turned out to be the strangest week ever.   Due to the massive wild fires in Southern California and resultant toxic pollution alert, many folks have cleared out, me no exception.  I even have a medical excuse.  Brett, after one day as a volunteer fire fighter, threw in the towel and decided to come with me.  We drove up together on scenic Highway 1, saying a prayer for Brucie and everybody with property in Ventura. 

So I'm home for Halloween, helping Mom make orange and green piped Melting Moment pumpkin cookies for Auntie's little costume party Friday night.  So far, so good; it's been sort of fun.  We just had a light rain to break the heat spell.  This morning my boy woke me up to show me his costume, saying "Greetings, from one rotting corpse to another!"   Gory, but now I can easily put together something Goth to match.

Mmm, Halloween in the city.  Bay-windowed shops festooned with macabre displays.  Frosty invigorating air.   Haunted Victorian houses.   That real Bell, Book, and Candle feel.   But Auntie lives down on the Peninsula in the Devonshire district.  There, the sunny, quiet winding streets are dotted with quaint English Tudor and French Eclectic cottages, many painted beige with brightly colored shutters and doors, big stone chimneys, rounded half cellars.  It's almost like being in the Cotswolds.

OMG!  A storm's whipping up!

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Melting Moment Pumpkin Butter Cookies