Mom tells us Mother Earth has been doing quite a little shaking of her own up in the East Bay since Sunday morning.  Hope she's just letting off steam and not building up to "the big one"; that Hayward fault's super treacherous.  Still, despite my ever faithful friend Chelle trying to put things in perspective  ("Give us a break, Tina!  Brett probably just had a piss hardon!!!!!!" she teased when I kept singing his praises), I think I shall always have a fondness for dark messy red and white plaid boys' rooms. 

Speaking of which, it looks like we're losing Saj by Christmas.  His brother's buying a ranch house in West Covina and the whole family's probably moving there.  Saj's been a good man, but I have to admit I'm sort of pleased with the news; now, I can get Liza to move in with us.   She's sharing a flat with a working lady who turned out to be a real dead beat and isn't that happy.  I told her about our place, never a dull moment and we're in the process of completely revamping it.  She sounded interested and says she'll stop by some afternoon.   I know everyone will like her; she's just the person we need for academic motivation.   But whoever we get, it'll be nice not having to worry about walking around half-dressed and locking the bathroom door again.

Hmm, they're unloading a big haul of straw-covered pumpkins from a truck at the frat house on the corner, piling them up on the front porch and steps.  It's that time again:  Halloween Jamboree.  You wouldn't know it with this heat wave we're having.  Shit.  I still have no idea what to do for a costume.  Maybe Brett's folks have something in the basement.

Oh, I must share my omelet recipe.  I know it's common, but the guys always rave cuz they can't make one.

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

A Simple Omelet

Per Omelet:

2 or 3 large eggs
1 to 3 teaspoons butter, for cooking
salt and freshly ground fine black pepper, to taste
Filling:  1/2 ounce (about 2 tablespoons lightly packed) grated or diced sharp cheese; 1 to 2 teaspoons fresh minced herbs; and/or 1/4 cup cooked meat or sauteed vegetables, such as sliced mushrooms with onion
8-inch frying or omelet pan (not the hinged folding kind)

With wire whisk or fork, beat eggs until perfectly smooth.  Do not add water or any other liquid, only a little salt or pepper, if desired.  Some herbs and spices might scorch unless added later.  Place pan over medium heat and lightly coat bottom and sides with butter.  (If you don't have a nonstick pancake turner, grease it lightly on both sides as well to facilitate clean-up.)  Pour in eggs, tilting pan once or twice to cover evenly.  As soon as bottom starts cooking, spread filling evenly over one half.  (My favorite combination, while not exactly gourmet, is a liberal sprinkling of onion powder, no salt or pepper, followed by some sharp cheddar cheese.)  It's not necessary to scramble or cut through for thin omelets.  Loosening plain side around the edges, carefully flip omelet over with spatula to fold in half when eggs are almost set, just slightly raw on the top in places.  Serve immediately.  Overcooked omelet tends to taste like a cellulose sponge.

Love's so wonderful when it works right.   Yesterday, Brett and I went to the pub for Happy Hour with some couples we know and crashed at Marty's place after staying up too late talking (oh, not me; I was the demure honey posed on my man's shoulder, smiling from face to face and gradually acquiring a killer headache, probably from lock jaw).   No one was in his roommate's room, he having crashed at his girlfriend's apartment.   So it was nice, private.   We just swept a pair of soiled girl's panties off the unmade bed and settled in.   Despite the pain, I was so horny I could think of nothing else but making love.   Brett has been enforcing mutual masturbation lately, and that as a last resort, for our new Christian relationship ("Shall I let you know when I'm done?"  I quipped when he first suggested it), and it's been really wierd.   Last night started out no differently.  After some light kissing, it was back to back, nude, for the next several hours with Brett relaxed against me in a seemingly innocent sleep.  Wide awake on three dull caffeinated aspirins, I just laid there concentrating on his firm warm body, clinging hungrily to mine at each contact point.  Every now and then he'd turn towards me and bob tensely against my buns like a fancy swordsman, playfully nudging my swollen womanhood from behind with his nocturnal jousting rod.   When I sighed and shifted against him seductively, signaling my readiness, he'd giggle under his breath and pull away, quickly nodding off again.   Brat, I thought.   No matter what they say about its being "up to" the woman to obtain pleasure from sex, the man always has the upper hand; if he's not into it, it's just not going to happen.   Finally, around dawn I could take it no more, and climbed on top of him, lightly brushing my full muff all along his muscular backside like a cat making her mark.   Ah, I thought as he lost composure and turned over.   Still all man.  Rolling me onto the bottom again in a passionate embrace, he wasted no time giving me what I desired, how I desired it.  I knew I was going to come, the right way, the vaginal way, as soon as he touched me.   My body thrilled as he positioned himself against me and sank luxuriously in, into me.  Deeply and completely, then slowly in and out and side to side, stretching me like the most expert masseuse, pausing every few strokes to subdue his own response as my sensation rose with each breath like a gathering tidal wave.   Oh, he knew how to work this vagina thing.  I needed only to sway my hips ever so gently to keep the perfect join.  I was almost coming after five minutes when he suddenly withdrew himself, making me pucker down inside like a baby being pulled from her bottle.  What's wrong?  I questioned with my eyes as I opened them to find my handsome lover, his glossy blonde hair hiding his face, fiddling with the clock radio to reset the alarm.  Then he made a pretense of listening to the sports scores. 

"Shit, Tina.  I'm gonna get you pregnant!"

"Don't worry," I breathed, guiding him back inside me.  "My period's due."

"I hope you're right," he winced, resuming our heady slow dance.

"Don't stop."  I heard myself beg like a lady in a porn film.  Had I not been on the brink of ectasy, I could've laughed at the line.   But I was soon spiraling up into space in a tremendous climax, my entire pelvis convulsing against my partner like Mother Earth yawning to greet the new day.   I know Brett felt my womanly power, for I saw him rise on his arms and look down at the source with a startled expression.  "Oh, God, Brett, I love you!" I cried, bursting into tears of joy.       

To my amazement, instead of speeding into the finish, my partner calmly removed himself from me and, getting up from the bed, pulled on his jeans and carefully tucked himself inside, still hard.   "We better get a move on.  We're going to be late for class."

What control!   So he was still into playing Christian.   In my self-satisfied reverie, I was too happy to care.   And my headache was gone!

Initiation isn't over until October 18th, but thanks to Steve, an off-campus alum, getting caught cheating in law school, the high jinx have sobered up quite a bit.  According to Chelle, he was basically not even attending, one of his accomplished attorney cousins writing all his papers and exams.  What finally caught them was a bizarre stalking incident.   Stephanie, his ex-girlfriend, had been complaining to the cops a long time about his constantly following her, calling and just breathing or hanging up.  No one took her seriously cuz, A-1 rep aside, "he couldn't be in two places at one time."   Well, could.    As fate would have it, he had to go get a flat tire right during a drive-by honkathon in front of her building, and was stuck out there in broad daylight for all to see.   Stephanie grabbed her roommate's video camera and started shooting away.  It was really melodramatic.   She said they got excellent footage of Steve's turning red, giving them dirty looks over his shoulder, and mouthing "Bitch!"  Yeah, so he was expelled, and the cousin got his license suspended.  Way to go.  I guess that explains in part why half the professionals in this country aren't any good or sincere in their cause.   Brett says the Greek Society will probably do an underground investigation of each fraternity.   Bad news with his house already having been reviewed for a poor scholastic average last year.   But wow, a future Ted Bundy nipped in the bud.   That'll sure teach him not to keep screeching around each corner in a perverted trance.

Acting's turning out to be a real blast.   The T.A.'s such a crack-up.  For his intro lecture, he went into what really goes on when an actor has stage fright.  He said it's really common for people to pee their pants; in fact, many talk show guests are advised to wear dark clothing so wet marks don't show, and they have to constantly clean or change the chairs.   Professional actors as well as talk and comedy show hosts have all sorts of cues to signal that somebody needs a bathroom break; a celebrity might start playing with his ear, for instance.   A good time to let the host know you've peed is during a hug when you can whisper in her ear.  On the same order, having to go number two really badly is frequently taken advantage of by directors to get the right pained expression.   One actor with whom teach was in a play with was gradually shitting his pants, but yelled at not to let go, to just keep wiping himself, cuz they didn't have the scene right yet.  So the guy reeked like a dirty diaper and had dried poo stuck all over his ass by the time rehearsal was over.   I suppose the stench also helps the other players achieve the proper reaction.   No wonder they call it "dress rehearsal."  What a job! 

He also claimed they love behind-the-scenes affairs between romantic leads; the chemistry is sure to show up on the screen.  During this part of the lecture he zeroed in on me and Brett sitting intimately together.   "Any couples in the room?  I just might call on you later in the quarter to demonstrate a love scene before the class."   We blushed as everybody looked our way and giggled.   Dramatic arts is definitely not the field for marital faithfulness, never mind groupies.

I told all this to my roommies and started another one of our infamous private jokes.   Lately, we keep hugging each other on the pretense of saying hello or goodbye, congratulating on a good test score, comforting over a bad day, or whatever excuse so we can suddenly wax serious and whisper, "Donna/Saj/Chelle/Brett: I've peed," then break out laughing.   It's enough to make you.....uh, um......

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL?!?  Lol, NOT.   Missed the game, but had a good excuse.  Friday afternoon, walking home after Marketing class, I somehow stepped wrong and pulled a muscle in my back.   There was a sudden little stitch that seemed to subside just enough so I could make the two blocks to the house.   But as soon as I went to lie down, my entire mid-upper back seized really badly and I could barely move but for the stiffness and the pain.   So I was in bed the whole weekend with a heating pad and aspirin around the clock.   No sitting on a noisy hard bleacher cheering on cue and trying to follow a boring game and where on turf our team player was for me.   No, my fate was to lie quietly and reflect while the others were gone, perhaps see what reading could be done.  Brett rolled the TV in for me before leaving, the sweet thing.  Of course, he offered to stay behind, but you know how that is.   

I wonder what did it.  I work out, do regular aerobic walking, keep my weight down, and am in excellent shape, so it's not poor tone.   Must've been the bike ride Thursday with Jeremy; I'm just not used to holding onto somebody's back at high speed for dear life (at least, not that way).  Yeah, that's what I get for cheating, if one could call it that.   Oh, hell, I was craving excitement, I'd always had a secret thing for Meatloaf in TRHPS, and there J. was with his brother's new used Harley Davidson chopper.   "Wanna take a spin?"  He took me a couple times around the block to see how I liked it.  Then, once I was sure I wasn't gonna fall off at every turn, we headed out towards Mulholland to see the sites.   It was really cool having all the greasers stare at us stopped in traffic, the sun dimming behind the pink and orange haze, the resinous exhaust blowing hot against my legs like a sauna bath.   Jeremy slowed down to motor scooter pace as we were right above Beverly.   While we rolled through the soft foothills, our spirits lifted by the cool breeze, swimming pools glinted from the tree-lined hollows like blue mirror sequins on a suede Fedora, and smoke from a multitude of oak barbeques tantalized our nostrils.

Back at the bottom of the hill, he showed me his house, where his parents were gone for the evening.   We shot pool for a while in their library cum gameroom.  It was fun. 

Almost back to my old self today.   My wonderful roomies are yelling at me now to "get the fuck off line, you silly nerd!" and go with them to the polls for the California governor recall election, so seeyas! 

Still packing in the fun before classes get underway.  Attended a dinner party last night at the house to welcome this Fall's initiates.   Got some major cuties, fairly smart and well-behaved, too.   They're planning on accepting four of the ten, then continuing to secretly haze the rejects so they get the hint and don't even dream of knocking at the door next time.  Nice.  

Yeah, I've been rather down on my guy since we got back.   I used to think Brett was the sweetest, most mature boy I ever met, but, chalk it up to peer pressure or the jadedness of advancing age, he's been getting more and more into these sadistic games now that he's an upper classman.   Actually the heavy critical feeling's mutual; as soon as he heard about church (Ellie signed me up for her bible group's newsletter, which we received recently in the snail), he came out with this tedious heart-to-heart that our relationship's much too physical for our own good, and has been keeping me at arm's length lately as if I'm a little coke whore, a part I decided to play up to the max yesterday for the amusement of all.  Fine for the time being, but just wait until rush is over.   Then we'll see about the righteous Sir Gawain.  

Oh, the washing machine's on the blink again and I had to dash over to Sayler's early this afternoon with the second of Donna's home-canned Anjou pear kuchens to butter the man up for a speedy repair.   I made my way through the decaying rock garden, each cactus reduced to a shriveled heap, to find our landlord slouched in an easy chair in the front parlour behind the deluxe black glass screen door like a mystery talk show guest.  Outside on the veranda was an assortment of broken, dirt-encrusted ceramic planters and potsherds as if someone had gone into a mad repotting frenzy and cracked each plant open.   However, there were no new or live plants to be seen.  And, except for an empty plate of steak bones on the sidetable and a few crumpled Coors cans, some fallen onto the soiled carpet, what little I could make out of the man and his surroundings was shrouded in a drifting cloud of thick cigar smoke and a pair of designer mirror sunglasses.  I hesitantly pleaded our case and was advised to come in and stand before him for a proper hearing.   The thick pall of stale grease and manurelike smoke made me want to retch.   To my chagrin, the delicious gourmet dessert was merely sniffed at, being that our landlord admitted to having recently gone on a diet.  But I was listened to silently and completely, my story accepted with a series of firm nods.  As Sayler stretched and stood up to escort me back out, promising he'd give Jackson a call first thing tomorrow, I could see what had drawn Chelle.  A tall man in snug, faded blue jeans and unbuttoned olive green work shirt, he was still relatively young, with lean legs, trim waist, and broad shoulders.  His short dark hair, combed back to hide his receding hair line, was only slightly threaded with grey.   I remarked on his weight loss, and he broke into a smile at the compliment.  Still, both of us probably thinking the subject was too womanish, we awkwardly exchanged goodbyes and I skipped away.  

Not exactly the sort of dude to pass the time with,  but we certainly can't let the washer go and visit a laundrymat.  Not in L.A.  The beer commercials lend a clue:  you're either in danger of assault, someone empties the wrong machine and rips off your clothes, or some street person wants to rob the change machine and you're in the way.

Another one of those days that's busy, busy, busy FOR NOTHING.  You get everything done systematically, only to wonder what you were so anxious about at the outset; yet you forget by the next time around and go through the same dread again.

I was alone at the house eating lunch when I saw Jeremy trudging up the walk from the breakfast nook window.  Catching my eye, he just knocked perfunctorily and strode right in, making me blush cuz he came in on me finishing off a whole pint of Haagen-Dazs rum raisin ice cream.

"Caught!"  he chirped, reminding me why I never cared that much for him.   I actually drop a few pounds at the beginning of each quarter from losing sleep and having no time to eat a full meal, so I thought I could handle the extra cals.

"You missed the spinach salad."

"Yeah?"

"Um, hmm, with avocado, bay shrimp, and ranch dressing."

"So how was the beach party at Malibu last weekend?  Pretty hot, I heard,"  he said, grabbing the cookie jar off the peninsula, whisking a stack of papers aside,  and taking a seat across from me.

"Great.  Except Marcie crashed our jacuzzi session and had to steal the show making adorable expressions and talking in that silly little voice she gets like a cartoon character so that everybody likes her, the monster,"  I griped, remembering the guys patting her on the head, saying "Awwww!"   I imitated a few lines of her shtick, and Jeremy guffawed.  Gossip was one thing I could appreciate him for.  Only five feet six, somewhat prissy, with a bludgeoning beer gut, he has a real short man's complex and, come to think of it, is really jealous of women and hates us succeeding at anything or even looking good.   Really, I sometimes wonder if he's a fag.

"That's....The Marsh!   So hey...."  he drawled, pausing for effect, "how would you like to meet us for pizza at Round Table tonight?  Me and my roommates don't feel like cooking, either."

"Okay,"  I acquiesced.  It was a while since we'd seen Trevor, whom Chelle had a major crush on, and my man was off hazing initiates and being such a meanie.   So we went and had a fairly good time and then walked to the coffee shop for iced cappulattos.   Jeremy treated.  There was a really bitchin' sunset with all the smog we've been having.   So not bad.  I even allowed him a brotherly good night kiss, making sure I gave him the latest scoop on Brett afterwards.   The oddest thought popped into my mind that I'd reject Jeremy and find out later his fierce competitive spirit made him into a movie mogul or something.  Then I'd call him to reminisce about old times and he wouldn't even remember me.   Horrors.

Oh, la!!!  Registration Week.   I must admit I rather crave the nervous rush jitteriness, everybody up at the crack of dawn to print their course schedules, gulp down a quick dose of caffeine, wash up in the john en masse, and head out to the student center to wait in line for their reg cards, meet with their advisors (never!), resolve any schedule problems, and hit the campus bookstore.   Lucky me! I got Acting 101 with Brett; we like to take at least one class together every quarter to touch bases during the day. 

Who would ya think I'd run into while sitting on the quad checking out my new books and replenishing my tan but Liza.  She made it into law school, proving once again my exceptional character judging ability.  I've always admired her.  A London born and raised girl whose engineer father transferred to Shanghai in her early teens,  her sultry understated Natasha Kinski looks, elegant English accent and manners, keen wit, and rich cultural background makes her the ideal woman to me, especially since she also accomplished the near impossible feat in her class of being so natural.  Everything taken in stride, including starting sex and going on the pill at fifteen.   With Liza, it's always, "Why, of course," not a long drawn out awkward transition phase with your whole family and circle of friends harping from the peanut gallery.  Needless to say, all the guys are crazy about her, a few willing to risk their rent to lavish her with expensive jewelry, leather and silks, even plane tickets and new cars.  But she stays hard to get, having the independence and know-how to make it on her own.  She's not at all frivolous and absentminded as jealous chicks are apt to say.

By the way, one of the sororities is pulling a really catty trick for rush this year.  They drive around, six or more bitches packed into one car, until they spot a pretty girl walking alone.  Then they pull up to the curb, flag her down as if they need directions, and have the pledge say, "God, you're fucking ugly!!!"  Talk about "nobody walks in L.A.!!!!"

(As you might've noticed, I don't have a jealousy problem.  For one thing, I like myself.  Two, at the precious age of twenty, I'm not an ugly cow.  And three, I decided a long time ago to deal with such retched embarrassing self-deprecating feelings constructively.  That means never acting out.  It helps to admit one's insecurity in a well-placed compliment, like, "Wow, you sure can draw!  I wish I were that gifted, man!!!"  Even better, do a thorough analysis of your life, and see if there's something you're not doing because of poor self-esteem.   Often you'll find it is in reach if you just take a chance and be realistic about failure, the human route.  That's my method and a jealousy-provoking one in itself; I sometimes get suspected of being a secret lezzie, just cuz I can be friends with super hotties without wanting to tear them apart!)  

Welcome

Come to my house
Be one of the comfortable people.
Lovely bright home
We're drinking all night
Never sleeping.

Milkman come in!
And you baker,
Little old lady welcome
And you shoe maker

Come to this house!
Into this house!

Come to this house
Be one of us.
Make this your house
Be one of us.

You can help
To collect some more in
Young and old people
Let's get them all in!

Come to this house!
Into this house......

Ask along that man who's wearing a carnation!
Bring every single person
from Victoria Station.
Go into that hospital
and bring the nurses and patients!
Everybody go home and fetch their relations!

Come to this house
Be one of the comfortable people.
Lovely bright home
Drinking all night never sleeping.

("Excuse me, Sir, there's more at the door."
There's more at the door!
There's more at the door!
There's more at the door!
There's more at the door!
There's more at the door!
There's more at the door!
There's more at the door!
There's more......)

We need more room
Build an extension
A colourful palace
Spare no expense now

Come to this house
Be one of us
Come into this house
Be one of us

Come to this house
Into this house!

(Welcome.)

Social, social, social all week.  Burnin' every last bit of summer fire.  Not much time to write; heading out to Sunset soon with the guys to catch a big party on Malibu.  Really excited.   Donna and I had hit the Jack at six for a quick bite and decided to cruise the Boulevard on the way back in her cousin's bitchin' red Camaro convertible.  A truckload of bodacious dudes pulled up real close and asked for our number.  Guess we're still kee-UTE!!!   (Should be with our new shades, designer barrettes, and hard-earned TANS.)  Frat bash also tomorrow.  Laters.