So here I am "home."  (L.A. seems more like my real home, now that I can pick my own people to hang with and do what I want without my folks breathing down my neck.)   Yeah, things are really heating up for the quarter.  After being on the road all night with my boyfriend Friday and lazing around all afternoon at my place, we went to an informal party one of his non-frat buddies was giving at his apartment Saturday night.  What a bunch of cocaholics.  It was an older building a block off the beach, and they had hardly any furniture or pictures.  All I can remember are the bare hardwood floors, wide open windows, and concrete balcony.  I was so bored watching everyone sit on futons, guzzle flat home brew (they keep the keg in the downstairs john), snort up and play canasta, I excused myself at midnight and went into one of the drafty air-conditioned bedrooms to catch some rest.   All of Javier's friends waiting to move into the dorms or their new apartments must've been crashing there, for all their junk was piled on the floors and unmade double bed.   I just moved a few jackets and backpacks aside and curled up under the plain white sheet, sniffing the heavy tobacco and incense scented pillow, playing footsie with assorted invisible objects, and listening to the guys talking and shouting and swearing through the glare around the door frame.  Then I fell asleep and had this really bizarre dream of being married to Javier's roommate Sean and living on a really dull, elm-lined street in a dull white apartment with old, white low-rider cars parked outside.  Probably cuz it was his room and the guy had come in to get something at one a.m. and sit on the edge of the bed a while to enjoy a private smoke in the dark.   He chivalrously volunteered to get me an extra pillow and something to drink and I thought, Gee, we could have sex and no one would know but we won't.   His sort are real losers, mostly greasers biding their time until life deals them a new hand.  After he went back inside, I had another wacko dream about a gang of ugly old witches.  Each wore a Halloween-type disguise that made them look like a princess or the Good Fairy so nobody could see they were rotten and waste 'em with this radical spell called "Turn The Inside Out."   Weird cuz everybody knew it was an evil witch underneath, yet only attacked if they got the wrong disguise or the costume fell off, a sign of waning power.  

Must've been some killer dope Sean and I shared.   I was still so strung out when Brett and I left past three, he had to carry me to the car.   My head felt like a bowling ball, man.  Fuckin' hot, still, too.  So we drove down to the beach, parked by the barricade, and watched the sun come up.   People were walking by while Brett was down on the floor eating me out and I didn't even care, like I was just sitting there waiting for him to find the keys or something.  Then I was so horny and spaced out I masturbated in the bathroom when I got home, even though he got me off twice in the car.  Tah-dah.

Sunday afternoon we held an impromptu picnic at a nearby park.  It was great to get together with all our school friends, everyone so glad to see each other after the long summer apart.   Everybody seemed so mature and together and supportive, even Bruce and Chelle, and I was proud to be in with them.   There was a big volleyball game afterwards, and I didn't get nervous serving the ball like I always did in junior high.  It was enough to give me the courage to stop and chat with Cowboy Jake as we were leaving.   I could've sprouted wings and flown when he stooped down and gave me a long hug and a gentlemanly kiss before he went on his way.   Mmmm.   Maybe there's some hope with him.

Later Brett had to go back to the frat and help get ready for Pledge Week.  Chelle took off with Brucie, so I had "the aquarium" all to myself.   I opened all the back windows, tuned the stereo into the campus station, and stretched out on top of the covers naked.   It was a free-for-all and the jock, some arrogant drawling nerd who sounded vaguely familiar, was playing the best selection of songs.   Hypnotized by the flickering receiver lights, the keyed up street noise, the caressing aquamarine walls, the exotic perfume of summer flowers, and the big moon peeking under the veranda, I drifted into a light heady sleep, the radio following me like chimes tinkling intermittently on the wind.   Around four I woke up to the strangest feeling.  They were playing old Beatles tunes, and I'll Be Back seemed to drive in from the nearby freeway, past the bars and cheap motels, and right into my neon womb.  That night at Javier's seemed suddenly superimposed, and I had a deep sense of time on a continuum, me and my friends knowing each other forever and meeting again and again on some future quest.   Somewhere in that old sixties beat was a memory that belonged to me, too.   That old tree-lined neighborhood, the apartment.  Sean, Jake, Bosso......Strange.

Bruce drove down to Ventura last Friday.  Brett couldn't get the weekend off, Labor Day being a big fire holiday, so I went along.  Also thumbing a ride was his friend Chad, whom he met in China Town.   Like Kevvie, Chad goes to S.F. state and would like to transfer to Cal, now that he has some solid academia under his belt.  Man, what a cutie.  Just like all the young guys on Tokyo TV who look like Beatlemanians--or is it Samurai warriors?  (Or is it Beatlemaniacs?  Whatever.)

They let me off at the house so I could visit the gang, put up my window shades, and drop off a few things for school.  Nobody had any plans in particular.  Wow, the place looks so nouveau Mexicali now with all the hot colors, contrasting trim, and primitive motifs.  The hues are even more intense than predicted in the relatively small rooms; color cards must be made for homes like the White House.   The old turq blue Frigidaire fits right in with the new cameo pink and off-white kitchen.  I also contributed an ornate wrought metal garden sconce with three crackle glass candle cups I picked up at an import store, "in case we ever have a bad blackout," but really cuz it's bitchingly romantic.   We nailed it over the wall heater in the living room and threw in some tea candles; they're the only ones that won't get too hot and crack the glass all the way through.  (How do I know this?  It happens to be my THIRD such candle holder!   Ah, Hollywood.  Beauty might fade, but it's worth the risk.)  All we need are some heavy tinted Mexican glasses and a few place settings of Fiestaware and the look will be complete.   Then we might be starving artists instead of starving STUDENTS.  

The trouble with any rental you fix up is you get to feel like it's your own.   I couldn't believe how clean all my roomies are now, so respectful.  Fuck, paint can scratch, you know.   Everybody's gotta sneak a peak at each room fifty times from fifty different positions, too.  Don't ask why we talk with our heads tilted at bizarre angles like a cat with an ear infection or stare suddenly into space as if we've had a heavenly vision.  It's admire, admire.  Gosh, how shall we ever leave here when we grow up?!

Saturday night Chelle and I got restless and decided to take a ride to "get away from it all" Thelma & Louise style.  (Among my all-time favorite flicks, it's touted as one of the rare female Deliverance stories.)  Just us chicks, one last time before class starts at the end of this month.   So we "borrowed" her Dad's big Ford station wagon, drove into the Sierra's, hiked around, sat on the tailgate, ate Kentucky Fried Chicken and toasted marshmallows, and talked.  Everything was groovy until things started to follow the movie script more than we'd bargained for.   We were parked for the night in a remote turnout in the canyon when a troop of motorcycle dudes roared up around two a.m. and started circling us, really gunning it.  Shit, just what we needed, rape on wheels.  Chelle and I had to struggle out of our sleeping bags, find the damn keys in the dark, climb over the front seat, and haul ass outta there.  We almost hit one guy trying to get back on the road.  Woo!   

We ended up at this dumpy motel near the lake.  Wouldn't you know they'd have Alpinitis, with complimentary Swiss chocolates,  maids in flapping Medieval nuns' hats and dingy pink pinafores,  the whole bit.   But we could've been at Motel 6 with the standard Gideon bible, vibrating beds, stall showers, beige lino floors, and black and white TV's.   I was too hot and couldn't sleep cuz Chelle, worried about a break-in, had to sleep in the bed under the window.   Finally, at the crack of dawn, I convinced her to trade places and managed a few hours of shuteye while she turned to the wall and fumed.  

We had breakfast at this truck stop overlooking the blue mountainous haze.   There was no place to sit but the snack bar, where the cook, embarrassed about all the flies and sporting a big white plastic fly swatter, tried to impress us with his aim.   By this time my friend was in a much better mood, but it was hard to talk with the guy taking bat right over our plates, barely missing our food.  I'm not kidding; the orange juice was jiggling in the glasses as if there were an earthquake, and there were pustular squashed flies all over the counter.  Ick!  I'll never have steak and eggs AGAIN.  But we had a good laugh. 

So much for our dream vacation to defy the Port Authority, hop a train, and make like vagabonds for Mardi Gras before graduation.  Better stick with Brett's excuse that we're much too short to get up into a freight car, anyway, no matter how us gals work out and improve our upper body strength.   Remember that Natty Gann had a big handsome guy helping her up.  I imagine us all getting our periods and stinking like the hogs we'll have to bed down next to, too.

BERKELEY RIBS

I do have a few good meat recipes. Unfortunately, these are rather unhealthy and addicting as hell. 

lean pork spare ribs, about 1 pound per person
4 parts (at least 1 teaspoon) each salt and garlic powder
2 parts (at least 1/2 teaspoon) Hungarian (hot) paprika
1 part (at least 1/4 teaspoon) each finely ground black pepper and  white pepper
piece of heavy duty foil, about 13 by 18 inches

Trim meat of any large clumps of fat at the ends and, if making more than several pounds, cut into sections of about 4 ribs each. Combine salt and seasonings to make a barbeque rub.  Sprinkle generously over entire surface of meat, reserving some of the rub for later.  (I make it in quantity and keep it on hand in an empty spice bottle; it's also great for roast chicken.)  Line bottom portion of large slotted broiling pan with foil for easy clean-up; arrange ribs, back side up, on top.  Do not add water.  Bake at 325 degrees Fahrenheit about 1 hour and 30 minutes, or until crisp, brown, and no longer pink at the bone. Turn and sprinkle with more rub after 45 minutes; surface should resemble coarse sandpaper.

Monday afternoon, his day off, Dad has me accompany him to check out one of his old partners in North Beach, some shy East Coast Italianate, Nicky, who fell for the nightclub bit.  We stroll into the dark, airy, fan-cooled bar that stretches like an old dirty grocery aisle towards the open back doors.  No one's around but a few half-drowned regulars on the dark red vinyl and chrome stools.  I'm lookin' good in my  green summer dress, big white hat, and sandals.   Eddie points out his beautiful sexy daughter.  Nicky, wearing a white rolled up tee, gives me the proper once over, grins, and goes back to polishing the marbeline counter and worrying his chewing gum.   They talk, the guy politely annoyed but curious, shrugging and waving his dying cigarette between pinched fingers.  Eddie hits him up for the obligatory comp meal, cuz he knows us.  I'm embarrassed.  It's the typical where-are-we-now drive by, and I must've been through it fifty times. 

On the way back to the restaurant, my father regales me with Nicky tales, the most awesome of which was the man's dogs; he always had a dog or two or three he kept around until its dying day, to be replaced by another dog like a new pair of shoes or a light bulb.  All were small, yappy snappy short-haired terrier mix dogs, and none were--God forbid--spayed or given shots; "That ain't natural."  If one were "no good," Nick would "take him for a ride," to abandon him on a country road until he "found his way."  When a bitch came into heat, he simply tied a nylon hosiery chastity belt under her tail and let the others "go to town" trying to "get 'er."   One bitch, Cyclone, was kept virginal until she escaped through the open gate at the advanced age of nine.   During her wild run through the neighborhood, several avid gentleman callers in hot pursuit, her mesh panty fell off, and a young Welsh corgi "got 'er."  Nick "pulled 'em apart with the hose but it was too late."  It was he who patiently sat with her all night with a pot of boiled water until she proudly popped out two perfect pups.  But just as I was feeling sentimental about the guy, Dad broke into how he almost buried one mutt alive.  It was an old brown and white male, Scoundrel, whom Nick thought had entered eternal sleep.  However, after he'd placed him in the garbage can to be picked up with the trash, the sanitation engineers lifted the lid to find him still kicking, though in the throes of death.  Morbid, dude.

When we arrive, we find the staff preparing a large private banquet.  Bruce rings.  Bored to tears and ready to vomit on the canned soup dishwashed steamed food particle odor, I tell him to meet us back in the kitchen office.  A slice of life to fill the time which I'm sure he'll hate.  He doesn't.  In fact, he and Dad get along famously.  Muahahaha!  What a trip, Dad showing him the ropes, reminding me that, in this territory, Eddie is King.  Well, it figures.  They're the same type.  Hope Bruce doesn't decide to work there, if prayer ever made a difference.

(I must be really psychic!   Not only was I looking into nonelectric appliances Wednesday night, but I wrote this a second before the record massive East Coast and Canadian blackout yesterday afternoon.   As soon as I hit the "Submit" button, Xanga went down.  I don't understand why our electric power grid is so centralized and vulnerable; I thought every major city had its own power plant, operating independently of others.  Bruce says some joker probably hacked into the Emergency Blackout System to expose an Achilles' heel.  That would explain why lower Canada was hit when it's not even our country.  For border patrol......But then what kind of aerial attack would they be anticipating, I asked, that they'd have to pull a total shut down?  Men from Mars?!?   "They say radio waves are dangerous, the way they keep going into outer space, able to be picked up by alien planets."  My friend just laughed.  "This is the nuclear age, Tina; there's no time to warn everybody."  Scary.)

Ever since this weblogging, I feel like I have a dull life. One has to DO constantly--"today I did blank and blank and blank"--judging by fellow bloggers, or it's no good. Blehhh, I'm in a bad mood. I don't know what all the hype is about the Swedish home interiors chain IKEA; when they opened in our area, peeps were lined up around the block before dawn.  They weren't white supremist; merely another righteous cultural style to add to the design melting pot.  Most of their furniture is so flimsy it looks like it belongs in a playhouse. I can't believe they dare to sell bunk beds. The support posts look like chopsticks. Every fraternity man I know would be crashing to the floor after one night. But anything to save a buck, I s'pose.  Yeah, we went there Saturday, me and Ellie, with her cousin Marie Jonnesy, the one with the insanely jealous competitive older sister who formed her own theatre company and won't even offer Marie, a gifted creative writer, a job. Kind of like not being invited to your own birthday party.  Then Joleen gripes how "baby sister's" such an "underachiever" and "wasted" her education, just cuz her B.A. in English didn't land her a cushy job right after graduation. What a toad. Everybody knows that, unless you go into law or teaching, English, like most of the liberal arts, is basically an adventure in higher education. And there's so many college grads nowadays, a degree is no sure ticket to a good job except for engineers, bio-scientists, and a few other career-oriented majors. Still, a university background is profile A. Joleen, a high school dropout, spoiled and full of herself on a rah-rah special income enhancement program for disadvantaged women, has nothing to brag about and doesn't know jack schit. As they say, they can never take your education away from you. Ellie and I took turns boosting Marie's ego in the store cafe over the proverbial Swedish meatball lunch. I admit I sort of enjoyed it; it was refreshing to let off steam over something I can identify with. And I did pick up some nifty kitchen things for the house.

Brett better get his cute little ass down here.  His gigless buddy's been hitting on me every weekend.  I turned down a picnic at Lake Merced Sunday, saying I was "getting back into The Church."

"No kidding," Bruce snorted, rubbing it in how Mom'd said I'd slept through late morning mass, making my ride turn back without me.  "Now, that was rudeness."

Chelle,who called this morning to tell me her Mom's on a Nouriche diet (that new Yoplait yogurt smoothie) and driving her bananas, has no inklilng what's been going on. 

Finally scanned a profile pic that's fairly representational--right down to the allergic shiners--except the glare makes my hair look super light; actually it's medium brown, and then only in SUMMER.  I have hazel eyes.

Well, as you probably guessed, Bruce won't give up that easily.   He called again late afternoon Saturday, making me feel like a regular princess for me, a native, not helping him find his way around the strange, hostile metropolis in search of potential gigs.   Resisting my impulse to say, "Try the Pan Handle," I agreed to hang with him, for strictly practical reasons.  So we drove around.   It was really a blast, actually.   He has a new dark metallic blue high-rise pickup with balloon tires that's barely legal; the raised vantage point feels like cruising around in a slow roller coaster.   I showed him a few districts:  the ones we happened to pass through on the way to Berkeley to track down his old school buddy and catch a concert as a foursome.   He was pretty well behaved, except for a few innuendos here and there.   We grabbed a bite to eat at Doggie Dinner, the old corner place the tourists always have to try with the humongous dachshund overhead.   We both ordered smoked kielbasa on a French roll, and Bruce teased that my bun wasn't split all the way through, "Right there, at the lower edge.  Here, let me tear it open for you so you can fit everything in there."   The local fraternity chapter's putting him up.   He'll be in town a few weeks.

Soooo, that's about the haps for the past week, super social.  Which goes to show you, "Ask and thou shalt receive."   Now, time to get down and serious about my new job, so I won't get, err, fired.   So far, so rotten.   Today was shit fuck.   Any joe can certainly figure out why they had to HIRE someone on their cheap budget to do the bidding.   The Mrs., who probably hacked through it before, don't miss one thing.   "Everything going okay, Teen?" 

"Um, hmm."

"You sure, honey?   You look [like I'm about to tear my HAIR out?!!]......perturbed."

Oh, I'm fine!  Really, Ms. Foster.  It's just that, well, I used to consider myself a bright person but, thanks to you guys, I realize I'm a big dufus.   Can't even COUNT with the aid of a computer.  Other than that--

"Here, have a cola.  That ought to wake you up."

"Thanks!"

I broke down and decided to check out Kevvie's Christian party last night.   Held in her church's reception room, it was about what I expected:  dull as dull can be.   No music.  Glaring fluorescent lights.  Peepz loitering around trying to be good.   Peepz struggling to play folk guitar so we could sing righteous Christian songs.   Name tags, for chrissakes.   When two older single guys started debating the proper way to propose marriage according to Paul ("You have to ask her father first; it's up to him whether he wants to give away his daughter"), I knew I'd had enough and got up from the little circle sitting on the carpet to help out in the kitchen, one of those large community deals that looks like it were designed by Mike Brady.   Kevvie was in there making more fruit juice punch to accompany the wholesome oatmeal cookies; apparently soda pop was too sinful.   Someone brought some of that heavy black, whole wheat, barley and lentil Ezekial Bread (the one that's supposed to make you live as long as Methuselah)  I've always wanted the recipe for, though.

Then I got a call on my cell from Bruce.   Hearing about our recent North Coast vacation and in need of work, he'd decided to get in his car and just keep driving.  He was in Monterey right now, stopped at a tavern.   He was heading for Frisco first thing tomorrow.   I pictured him brooding at a spar varnished spool table by meshed citronella candles.  

"How about meeting somewhere?"  he slurred.   

What, me and Bruce together, ALONE?   Now that would take the cake.  Oh, I know; let's make Chelle real jealous so it's a cinch to get back together.  Not!   No way, Jose.  Not at my expense.   If Chelle didn't manage to kill me first, Brett would finish me off.  

"Sorry, but I just can't, dude,"  I lied.  "I've got plans."  

I don't know what got into me, guilt, too much sugar, or the Devil himself, but I got into an awesome sexual fantasy about Bruce last night after going to bed.   It probably was the influence of the latter, for as soon as I got in my usual position for total masturbation--fully nude, legs up, tampon inserted, pillow tucked behind my fanny, and not so much as a sheet to shield me from the moonlight--Chloe jumped on the bed and walked right over me, brushing my chest with her soft warm fur.   I felt like Liz Taylor in a luxurious mink stole, or an antlered Nordic warrior chick dripping with pelts.   I imagined Bruce showing up here drunk as a skunk, unable to drive.   My parents put him up in the study on the fainting couch just as we did Brett.   Hair still wet from the shower and wearing only my bathrobe and slippers, I stop by his room to check on him, my good friend.   We talk.   Suddenly he grins lasciviously, peers into my eyes, and steals a kiss.  When I start to resist, he pulls me tightly against him, scraping my tender cheek with three days' worth of feral stubble.   He knows I want it; I have all along.   Sensing the least response to his urgent tonguing, he tears my robe open and rubs his slobbery lips all over my heaving chest.   His calloused musicians' hands slip between my smooth thighs.   Finding the hot wetness within, he laughs and spreads my pussy lips apart, squinting down in earnest at the dark bearded vestibule, like a rogue checking the state of my maidenhead.   Then his fingers play a wicked number, simultaneously rubbing me fore and aft until my pelvis arches like a cat getting her spine scratched.   If the pink pearl didn't come out of hiding from this determined onslaught, he'd suck it out as from an oyster.   I'm deep in the spell of lust and can do nothing but lie helpless under his beastly power.  Kissing me feverishly on the mouth again, he positions my body on the couch as if I were a doll created for his pleasure.   I hear his zipper rip as he gets on top of me.   His rather short but thick and turgid cock stabs at my legs, dotting them with spermatic fluid as it fights for a way in.   No longer in control of my senses, I want to give it its will in spite of myself.  I passively tilt my hips just so it hits its mark, thrusting inside me with the slightest exquisite pain until my lubrication comes to the fore.   With no further ado, it commandeers me with quick shallow strokes that match my partner's ragged breathing, faster and faster until we both grunt in an intense gut wrenching climax, like a couple banging away in a Brit movie.   I supply the necessary gush of fluid from a bottle of hand lotion I have ready on the nightstand.   It spurts against my swollen reddened pussy surprising cool, like the real thing.  Oh, happy day.

Today Mom invited me along for a potluck picnic in Golden Gate Park with a couple of her female coworkers, Sallie and Diedre.   Afterwards, we toured the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, where they're presently exhibiting the work of Russian painter Marc Chagall.  We had a really nice time.   Diedre, whom I've heard so much of but had yet to meet, was so neat.   We drove to her apartment in the Mission District to pick her up.   We were somewhat early and had gotten distracted talking when a knock on the car window alerted us to a radiant young woman with long golden hair, penetrating grey eyes, and a flawless peaches and cream complexion.   She smiled warmly at me, introduced herself, and her voice was so clear and gentle and light, she seemed like an angel.   I remembered my mother saying the girl did lots of volunteer work with handicapped children, so that completed the picture.   I couldn't believe it when she said she was thirty-two; being good must stop the aging process, for she appeared no older than twenty.   But I couldn't help feeling a little shocked when, making room for the quaint wicker picnic hamper she'd brought in the back seat, she unveiled the cumbersome brown wooden cane she always carried.  I hadn't seen it under her jacket, which she had draped over her arm.   So Diedre was handicapped herself.  She walked with a bad spastic limp, from a childhood bout of polio.   She'd been born in a foreign country where they often don't have vaccinations.   Beneath her professional linen outfit she was thin and frail.   But what courage!

Humorous chatter of her doting engineer husband quickly returned me to my initial impression.   Of course, someone would want you; you're so beautiful, I thought.   And the limp was soon forgotten as Diedre's larger than life personality overpowered it.   She did everything perfectly.   Even Daddy would've envied the colorful cold gourmet rolled tortilla wrap sandwiches she made, accompanied by a marvelous shrimp salad and fresh lemonade in a decorative thermal carafe.   The food everybody else brought seemed thoughtlessly thrown together or too fattening and unhealthy in comparison.  

The muggy day having erupted in a light summer shower, we decided to lunch in the car.  "Oh, how delightful!  Now we can eat to music!"  Diedre exclaimed in her habit of thinking positively.  She opened her basket and handed us each a red and white gingham napkin to spread on our laps.

It was fascinating hearing her adventures with "physically challenged" children as we ate to the strains of low classical music.   She didn't need to have any children of her own, she claimed, with so many like these needing her love and attention.   I silently reviewed my own volunteer work, much of it with foreign students who spoke English as a second language.   Maybe I should go for a teaching credential.   Maybe my career should be more service-oriented, instead of material and striving.  I actually did find it more personally rewarding.  Diedre was just the inspiration I need to be patient and strong.

Last night was interesting.   Since the novelty of my being home's  worn off and I've nothing more to brag about to my family how college and L.A. life are so much better than here, it's time to get out the little black book again and see what old acquaintances I can dig up, what high school friends I've still something in common with, who hasn't gotten MARRIED and isn't insecure about single friends making off with their husbands, who's also going to school down south and Home For The Summer.   Let's see......

Linda:   She was good fun senior year.  Oh, moved to Reno with Ted.   Tried their number but has since been disconnected.   Now what?  

Scott:   Flat affect.  Probably cuz he finally got himself a girlfriend, and how do you like THAT for keeping him hanging?   The dork.

Sean:  Sick with mono.

Renee, the silly:   Never home.  Her!  

Taysie:  It sure was fun that time I took the bus across the Bay Bridge to Oakland to work together on our Junior Achievement project and we all ended up playing pool and kicking around with the brothers in that skanky downtown club.   Bring-back-those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.   Her family's completely renovated government-subsidized apartment was so Spike Lee.   Rap music shaking the walls, her sister cornrowing in the kitchen for fifty dollars a head.   Yelling, laughter, babies.   But no, "She don't live here no more," her mother stated coldly.   "Not if I can help it."   Sorry, no culture fix for you, doll.  

Eric:  Brett would kill me. 

Kevvie:   Yes, Kevvie.  Aw, com'on;  beats watching TV with Dad!   Errr.  Ehhh.  Hasn't lived down that last brush off; I should've known.   On SECOND thought, "we could get together Friday for a Christian party if you want"......Naw.  "Sorry to bother you."

Then there was Ellie.   Good old Ellie.   She just happened to have won two tickets to a Connecticut time share vacation seminar and was looking for someone to go along.   In addition to an entertaining video, there would be refreshments, door prizes, and a special drawing.   Wow, she actually went to those things.  (Chelle:  "Ellie's just like your mother, Tina.  Give us a break.")   But weren't we a bit too young for that yet?  

"I think this one's right near The Hamptons," she chirped.   "It's the latest craze now for top notch college kids."   Yeah, so I'd heard.  Well, why not?  Brett had always talked about the Hamptons.  And of course there was "no obligation."  Leave it to Ellie.  All I had to do was meet her at four in her office; she was doing a little overtime and appreciated the company in the big empty building.  Then we could go out for dinner and hit the meeting at eight.

I enjoyed the time dawdling in her boss's leather swivel chair by the high Plexiglas window overlooking Market Street more than the show.   As soon as we unlocked the eight-foot tall double doors to the posh, spacious office, there was a flood of ionized cool air and a peculiar hush as the noise of the city was absorbed into the lush carpet and leather furniture.  They've one of those color analysis machines like at the mall.   I played with that for a while, trying to see how many different psychological profiles I could come up with.  I snuck a peak at their company yearbook.   Most of their clients are upwardly mobile gay men, Ellie explained, many in entertainment and the arts.   Talk about CULTURE.   I actually envied her that moment.

I helped her with some filing, then we checked out at the security desk and headed towards a cafe in a small nearby outdoor mall.  There was a nifty conservative bookstore filled with conservative types you only see in scattered pockets of the city.   The seminar was within walking distance, one of the reasons why my friend had accepted the offer.   But by the time we got there, I had a rotten formaldehyde outgas headache (or maybe it was fatigue--it had been a looong day) and could barely pay attention to the lecture.  Just when I was ready to breathe a sigh of relief that the evening was finally over, they drew my name for the grand prize:  two hundred dollars' worth of free groceries!   I was numb; the one time I win something big, it's something I can't appreciate!   Now we had to wait another half hour while the forms were filled out.   Though I politely thanked them, the sponsors, a young middle aged couple in business suits who could've been the President and First Lady, couldn't believe how I wasn't shaking everybody's hands and squealing and jumping up and down for joy over their generous gift.  They kept giving me a dirty look like, "Boy, aren't we spoiled?"  (And not one of you went in for the time share, brats!)  

"Is this near The Hamptons?"  I held up the brochure and asked sheepishly, feeling a twinge of guilt over this bit of extravagant window shopping.

"It doesn't need to be near The Hamptons!"   The man snapped.

I decided to give the prize to Ellie in gratitude for the pleasant night out.   She was happy.   Then I drove Mom's car home and fell into bed and said a little prayer for Taysie, that she'll make it through all right.