Well, it's finals time again, 
He's gonna leave me.....

So fuck this fake Chelle boycott; one "far-away look" buddy and we're back together, thick as thieves!  

I'm trying to sew my bridesmaid gown for Elva's wedding during study break.  If it ever "materializes," it's gonna be really pretty, pink sateen with fabric rosebuds along the hem.   I can never be sure, being a lousy seamstress in spite of Mom's giving me a super nice new Singer for my fifteenth birthday.   I was all excited at first, but gave it up when I found out most patterns have to be adjusted for my height and proportions, not to mention constantly leaning over the machine makes my upper back burn.   Now I'm relegated mostly to mod embroidery for denim jackets and such.   I did a really nice STP logo on one thing for a gift.  

I said jocularly to Chelle, lounging on her bed with a Pepsi and bag of Oreos,  "Maybe it won't even matter; Elva's so depressed she'll probably kill herself before the ceremony."

"She would if Lou ever found out about her four abortions.  She's not exactly the Polly Pure he thinks she is, you know."

"Yeah, who is,"   I mused, remembering all of Chelle's abortions and counting my blessings for having had only close calls.  

"Wasn't it you who helped bail Delaney out at four months?"

"I didn't help pay for it,"  I said defensively, knowing she was thinking of the little emergency abortion fund, about two hundred dollars and so far untouched, each of our friends had chipped into after seeing too many gals left in the lurch by irresponsible a-holes--or creeps you couldn't stand telling.  "All I did was hold her hand.  She went through the county."

"That was a bad scene; she was already showing."

Not only her belly, but all over, as if she were dipped in a thin, smooth coat of fat like a candle.   Even her face was plump and flushed like a dark peach.   Actresses never go in for the total look with their half-melon foam prostheses.  Delaney had been ripe, but that didn't cramp her tough so-what style.  What life that was so easily kindled could be snuffed. 

"I know,"  I replied.  "I don't know why she never uses anything."  

I'd asked her, being she was going on her sixth unwanted pregnancy since the first at age fourteen, and was met with a pained expression like, who the fuck are YOU?   As if even she'd gotten wind of what had happened between me and Blaine.   Blaine had been downright embarrassing.

I couldn't believe the day Carole called me from her cell phone with the news he was getting into me.   Everybody knew Blaine's problem--pretty rich boy--but didn't know how to help him on account of his arrogant antisocial nature.   He wasn't gay.  With the heavy burden of an impending family fortune, he didn't try hard to impress.  So he'd found his niche with Carole and her gang.  The guys sarcastically called him "Rabbi" cuz, with his golden brown locks, cherubic lips, and steely blue eyes, he resembled the traditional portrait of Jesus Christ, especially when he grew a full beard.  Actually he was a diehard atheist, into existential philosophers and the occult.  That and his strapping six foot one frame and part time modeling career certainly put me off.   I'd taken to ignoring him at card games to avoid his well-placed putdowns.   But plenty of chicks were hot on him.   Carole must've felt guilty staking a claim on Chet after our promising trial together.  Blaine was the type of guy who could be rude to your mother and get away with it, even with a record at juvie and further probation from failing grades.  I know, cuz I took him home with me once.

Not quite knowing how to start--of course, Troubled Child wouldn't deign to ask me out--I found myself in his neighborhood walking Donna's yearling Rottweiler pup, Smithie, and thought I'd stop by the small designer townhouse he shared with his avante garde friend Bernie on the pretense of missing some notes.   Everything went incredibly smooth; Blaine looked glad to see me.   "Tina," he intoned in his lofty tenor voice.  "Do come in.   You remember my pal, Bernard." 

"Hi,"  I said.  Bernie had been eating dinner at the chrome and marble Bistro bar and, when introduced, dropped his chopsticks and came over.

"Lovely," he said, bowing and taking my hand like a Shakespearean actor.   He was a film major and into the SCA and quite an act.  

"Care to join us for some shrimp chow mein?  It's Thai,"   Blaine offered.

"No, thanks, I've already eaten."

"Cheese platter, then?"  He was standing in the light of the stainless steel Traulsen commercial refrigerator.

"Mmm, no.  I'm fine.   Mind if I close the gate and put Smithie in the plaza?"   I asked, answering my own question and stepping back inside.

We sat around the sunken art deco living room and talked with the red streaked sunset peaking through the open French doors.  Blaine's casual intellectual manner put me at ease and, its being right before my period and knowing more what to expect, I was getting hotter by the hour.  After Bernie good naturedly took the hint and went out at twelve, I slyly asked Blaine if I could take a look at some architecture books they'd mentioned, and we climbed the ladder stair to his room.   It was really bitchin', with steeply pitched redwood eaves, a roof window, and spanking clean faux sheep's skin carpeting.   The only furniture was a queen-sized futon bed, drafting table, component stereo, and cedar armoire with bottom drawers.   His clock radio, answering machine, and other essentials were on handcrafted wooden trays placed on either side of the bed.   There was also a dormer window on the side wall, framed with a frilly orange madras swag, that had an extra deep sill for his potted cacti collection.  Both windows were open to the clear night sky, which by this time was a deep lapis lazuli--no backlit smog out here.   The whole room smelled of new carpeting and sweet cinnamon, which he said was in the wood oil he used.  I kicked back on the futon with my arms back and legs up, feeling the cool air blowing against my light cotton top and loose drawstring pants.   Taking the signal, Blaine sat beside me, leaned over, and without another phoney word, dove in for a kiss.

It wasn't long before we were lying side by side, feeling around under our clothes.   It was what I came there for, he knew.  I was running my fingers along his smooth, baby-haired chest when he unbuttoned my blouse, exposing my pert bare breasts to the moonlight so he could observe and caress them.   I boldly slipped my hand under his belt and was thrilled he was right there, firm and silken.   As I gently stroked his warm upper shaft, his hands reached around to massage my derriere; soon he was rubbing my swollen little goose egg and dipping his finger into my honey pot, slippery like albumen from my intense excitement.  

Unlike most guys I'd petted with, Blaine had the patience of a saint, oddly living up to his nickname in this arena.  He followed my every move, not doing a thing unless I did.  I attempted to give head for the first time, and was not very good despite his whispered instructions, as he went down on me sixty-nine style, also half-heartedly and without results.  While this subtly reminded me of you-show-me-yours-I'll-show-you-mine and playing doctor as a child, I was pleased he let me thoroughly explore him without pressuring me to have intercourse or get him off.  The male organ makes a wonderful finger with its warm, spongy tip, and I liked nothing more than to stimulate my slick virginal lips with it while Blaine seemed content to watch me, eyes half closed in bliss.   It must've been two in the morning when, feeling an unbearable urge to climax, I rolled on top of him and started vigorously thrusting against his hardness, while he lay back almost perfectly still except to kiss and touch my breasts.   I was posed skillfully upright with my head tilted back against the twinkling night sky in the roof window when I came, Blaine tenderly holding my hands while I gracefully balanced above him like a little ballerina.  

It was pure art.   He even said so, fluttering his eyelashes and exaggeratedly sighing,  "Well! That was one fine sex show, Ms. Romano!"   Except for a slight gush I felt at the verge that probably was me, I don't think he climaxed, but he didn't seem to care, which was fine with me; it was my turn to be selfish for a change.  But he didn't offer to drive me home, and I walked back to the dorms with Smithie in the dark, praying for his guard dog instinct.

He must've liked me, for he called the next day to invite me over again.  Soon spending the occasional evening in his starry little garret room became habit.   I never knew when my phone might ring and Blaine's teasing voice would command, "Tina!  Come over and play!"  Though we did more and more, and I eventually polished up my technique under his patient tutelage, learning how to please him, he continued to respect my maidenhood, and never penetrated me no matter how hot we became.   It was a peaceful and free schooling in sex, and it was only sex, since beyond that we weren't that compatible.  The only interruption we had was Bernie's tapping on the door to graciously offer "Master" and his lady a snack.   Oh, he did intimate he'd like to join us for a threesome once or twice, but this was prudently ignored.  I never even spent the night; I'd quietly return to my dorm room before dawn as if nothing had ever gone on, and slip between the crisp chlorinated sheets relaxed and refreshed, as only the best physical workout can give.  Maybe I was a bad girl, judging by my roommate Beth's disturbed tossing and turning, but what the fuck; it felt so damn good.

A few weeks later I was showering in the girl's bathroom after returning from Blaine and Bernie's place unusually late.   It had never cooled off that night, all the concrete and asphalt slowly releasing the scorching late spring heat like a solar cell, so I had the water adjusted to cool-warm.   The revolving sun was just glowing through the pebbled glass window again when Carole announced her presence in the curtained stall next to me. 

"Tina, that you?"

Not sure whether to answer, I turned the water up, bowed my head, and watched the pink creme rinse stream through my long dark hair in milky ribbons.   Milk of almond and water of rose, it cascaded over my breasts, rapidly merging with the whirlpool of musky foam from Carole's shampoo below.  

"Yoo hoo!" 

Damn, she must've recognized my clothes, folded on the long communal bath bench we all shaved our legs on.   After we toweled off, she beckoned me to her room.  My roommate's being a strict Catholic and getting very concerned over the state of my soul of late, I chose the lesser of two evils and followed her. 

"You still with Blaine?"  she asked, opening a packet of cinnamon toaster pastries and biting off a piece cold.  

"Um, sort of."   I thought I smelled my pop tart scorching and made a show of rescuing it from the toaster oven with a fork and paper plate tarpaulin.

"Say what, babe?"  She blew hard on her cigarette, smiling.  "You finally made it with him?"

"No, just......fooling around."

"Fooling around?  You're shitting me, Tina.  For nearly a month?  Com'on, give a friend the scoop.  Don't forget who got you two together."

"We kind of just rub together.  You know, on the outside.   Between my legs and stuff."  

She gaped at me incredulously.  "Shit!  You let him shoot near your hole?  Tina!  Don't you realize that can get you knocked up?!"

I shrugged.  "Well, it's not like he did withdrawal or anything."

She stubbed out her cigarette and gulped the rest of her half pint carton of chocolate milk.  "He doesn't have to!   Sperm are to vaginal fluid like iron shavings to a magnet; as soon as they hit your love juice, it's straight up your twat to your uterus, man."  She lit a new cigarette.  "Oooh!   Your tubes must be teaming with Blaine germies.  The gnarly little creepy crawlers!"

I didn't think so.  Being rather intuitive all my life, I was sure that if any sperm were making a beeline for my ovaries, I'd know; as soon as I tried to go to sleep, the capillaries in my eyes would light up like tiny Christmas bulbs and start squiggling around til I went out of my gourd with worry--or something like that.  

"Look what he did to my good pants,"  I heard myself saying against my better judgment, pointing out the cloudy toothpastelike stains.

Just then my school marmish roommate poked her head in the door to let me know I had a phone call.  Carole held my pants up as if for all to see and tched,  "You shameless little hussy!  That'll never come out." 

"Eeeew!"  Beth cried.   Fall quarter the dorm laundromat had given her a fresh bottom sheet with a big glob of dried mucoid residue in the middle, probably rubber cement, some freshman prank intended to look like semen.  That was the last time we had them do our linen, needless to say.   (Laundry Guy:  TRIUMPH!)

I tried to laugh it off, but Carole was dead serious.  She insisted we take our lunch break at her friend Misha's.   Her mother was a lab tech and had a microscope.   They handed me a long cotton swab so I could go into their old-fashioned green-tiled john and take a sample.   It was a really bizarre way to spend the afternoon.  I felt as if I were Sting Ray, our friend Jared's lovely grey quarter-Arab mare, the time they snuck her up to the fence to be bred by top stud Cimmaron, right through the bars.  But they'd scared me into it.

Mrs. Choy was surprisingly understanding.  "You not marry?"  she asked, swiveling her chair away from me to brush the swab on a slide and place it under the lens.  I don't think any of us expected her to find anything; we were really there out of curiosity.   But after frowning and focusing the lens this way and that under her wrinkled brow, she suddenly turned to Carole and cried, "Ohhh!  She's got sperms!  She's got SPERMS!" 

I thought I was going to faint.  Then I got my wits about me and demanded to view the slide myself.  In the bright light of the microscope I saw what looked like a few miniscule scattered translucent bean sprouts.   None were moving, and some appeared broken.  "They look dead,"  I rationalized fretfully.   Almost like Blaine himself, passive and waiting, my mind added insanely.  

"Not correct environment vagina to swim,"  Mrs. Choy explained.   "But could be still active cervical mucus."

"You'll have to take the Morning After Pill," Carole said solemnly.  "No big deal.  I've had it plenty of times and it won't hurt you.  It's worth it to avoid an abortion.   I'll go with you to the Women's Clinic if you want."

"But we never had sex!  They'll think I have a big guilt complex   and went bonkers."

"You mean Blaine never entered you ever?"  Obviously my friend didn't believe one word of my story.

"No!......Mmm, maybe a half an inch a couple times.  Like, when we're making out and it slips through my panties.  Does that mean I'm no longer a virgin?"

"You got me, babe.  Huh.  Probably."

"Better go," said Misha, wincing.   Of course, she meant the clinic, but hated the word "panties" ever since the neighborhood sex offender had offered her a dollar to "pull down her pannies" one day when she was seven.

So we trucked on down to the clinic as soon as afternoon classes were over.  Carole told them I needed the MAP and a student volunteer handed me a long release form to fill out.  Meanwhile, they did a p-test, which was negative.   I had to wait in an examining room with anatomical drawings of the human female all over the walls.  Women at puberty, women in various stages of pregnancy, women in trouble.  Here, sex was serious business, even scary--particularly for us gals, who have to bear the results, the posters seemed to warn.  

After nearly an hour a grumpy old doctor who must've been taking the place of my father cuz he couldn't be there came in.   He wanted to know "exactly how many times did I have sex-u-al in-ter-course."   When I said, "I dunno, maybe five?"  he pulled a frown long enough to sink a ship and looked over my forms sadly.   Young women these days, I could hear him thinking.  It's a gosh darn shame.   Why, if you were MY daughter......

But the trim middle-aged nurse at his side taking notes was sympathetic.   "We approved you application," she said gently, handing me two prescription bottles wrapped in a glossy adverse effect sheet and secured with a rubber band.   "Take both of these together according to the instructions.   The second pill is for nausea and vomiting, a common side effect of DES.  If you don't start your period within ten days, you need to come back in for another pregnancy test."

I thought my period was due around that time anyway but didn't know what to say; these folks must've known what they were doing.  Things got even dumber when I told Blaine what had happened.  I'd gotten so sick from the MAP and felt so humiliated I couldn't stand to have anything to do with him all week for putting me through all that.  He got my drift right away and asked what was wrong.

"Did you have to run and tell Carole everything?"  He cried bitterly.  "It's none of that bitch's business what we do behind closed doors!"

That was about the last we heard of him; he apparently took the incident really hard.  When I tried to reach him afterwards, Bernie coldly said he wasn't in, but he'd be glad to "come to my aid" until he was available.  Blaine never forgave me, either, angry young man that he is.   The few times I ran into him on campus, my attempts at small talk were met with sarcastic allusions to the past and what could've been.  

Chelle said protectively, "You should've CALLED me when Carole tried to put the fear in you over being pregnant.   It was stupid to jump the gun right before your period.   The MAP is controversial and probably doesn't work, anyway.  I would've told you to wait."

I don't know why I didn't think of her.  Fate, I guess.  Or maybe just BORED and in need of excitement.  But c'est la vie; Blaine was no big loss.

ohmyGOD, i just ran into c.j. EAMES at the library!   That tall, dark, husky slice of sex!   I crushed on the guy frosh year like, terminally,dude.  I was so shy fall quarter lugging my private school baby fat, I couldn't even say hi.  Couldn't even sign his damn cast when he broke his foot skiing; I was so afraid I might FAINT right over him and break the rest of his leg.  My skittishness must've set a precedent, cuz even though I lost all the weight by New Year's, now Ceege was all uncomfortable around me, cuz he thought like I didn't LIKE him before or something.   I think he probably lost every last vestige of respect seeing me passed around Carole's friends.   Too bad first impressions are indeliable; even trying to pass the time today was awkward.   He acted super-rushed or as if his girlfriend was gonna pounce on him any second.   I don't think he's serious over anyone, though; too busy getting together his new punk rock band.  He did say they just got a recording contract.   Fuck.  Having a diehard crush sure is the pitts, man.

Wouldn't you know it, I go through all that trouble to perfect my tiramisu and the guys start screaming, "Apple Crumble!" which I don't have a good recipe for yet.  Yeah, I know, what about my Dad; wouldn't a top restaurateur know the secret?   Sure, but do you think he'd tell me?   Nope, cuz I'd tell all of YOU and pro chefs and patissiers would go out of business.  Oh, he'll give me a few helpful hints and constructive criticism, but not the full recipe.   Men.  Never satisfied.  Gotta keep us girls on our toes.  Gotta keep us guessin'. 

Actually the stuff ain't exactly TOPS on my dessert list ever since Audrey and I got sick after eating a whole mess of it for breakfast once while camping up in the Sierras last year.   Cindie's Mom (they're from Encino) had packed a huge picnic basket for us feisty, physically fit girls to take along, complete with her super-rich, extra-crisp Crumble.   (As I recall, she doubles the topping ingredients and uses a shallow casserole dish.)  Everything was dandy until we piled into the camper shell to ride the remaining forty miles to the ranger station.  It was the first time we two ever sat back there, and we didn't realize the poor air circulation, outer turn radius, and lack of a visual ground point increases your propensity for car sickness about fifty times, not to mention the driver can't hear your cries to pull over.   And oh, the bitter smell of rotting leaves and territorial skunk, getting stronger and stronger til your nose fuckin' hurts.   Audrey was the first to succumb.  Thank god Cindie, our faithful but mischievous driver, likes to take lots of pics, and stopped just in time for the poor girl to puke over the turnout guard rail while I stood there and admired the scenery, still proud of my strong stomach muscles.   No Cindie Outward Bound was gonna snigger at Tina Romano, fun as the gal could be.   No, I held out to the very end--which I thought was never gonna come after the last five miles of zigzagging highway.  Never had I prayed so hard for us to find a parking spot.   As soon as the pickup hit the concrete bumper with a sickening lurch, I slid out the back, almost spraining my ankles, and ran through the long rows of RVs in search of the public john.   By the time I burst into the cool tiled room with its signature scent of  bubblegum disinfectant and musky dry pee pee, I was starting to heave.   But shit, all the stalls were full.   So I had to upchuck in a sink while ten travel-weary women waiting in line tried not to look.   I could've made it into one of my most embarrassing moments, but hell, I was too relieved to care.   At least I wasn't like Fran, who couldn't poop all week until she gave up on the outhouses and squatted in the high grasses on the side of a hill while the rest of us stood sentinel, proving John Crapper had a good idea to design the first indoor flush toilet low to make full use of abdominal pressure, tah-dah.  (What a subject, eh?)  

On that trip I learned what they mean by sticking together.  Filled with aerobic exuberance one crisp afternoon, I'd forged ahead of the others hiking up a low mountain.   I had nimbly leaped down from the summit like a mountain goat when suddenly I found myself alone at the bottom in a clearing, uncertain of which way I'd gone.  There was not a soul in site but the lean silent pines, crackling chaparral, and high flying birds.   I was literally lost in the woods.  It was dizzying.  After ten minutes I began to panic; what if everybody went another way, and I was left out there with no water or shelter from the elements?   Worse yet, suppose some weirdo found me and decided to take advantage?   There are so many murders in the woods.  Luckily, nothing of the sort came down, but it was still one of the longest ten minutes in my life.

So Saturday last me and the guys played miniature golf, much tamer sport, but challenging just the same.   After going out to dinner at Denny's, we caught a movie.   It sure was bizarre sitting in the dappled dark between Brett and Bruce, their thick denim knees pressing my leg as they fidgeted in the squeaky adjustable seats; I began to fantasize about having two lovers.  I know it turned Brett on, too, for he came on extra-hot to me that night, as if I were his woman.  No man handling, just unusually passionate.  

It sorta reminded me of the time my folks and I went to Vegas and Dad was teaching me to play Twenty-One at a table full of dark suited business men.  Not expecting to do any gambling at my age, I was still dressed in my skimpy low-cut knit sundress with my long windblown hair and plump cut arms, my full breasts nearly spilling out as I leaned over the table, revealing coppery tan lines.  The young male dealer beamed a wicked grin, and the circle of players smiled gently in acknowledgement.   That I was young and innocent and nubile.   Or maybe I was a bumbling new call girl; put your money down.  Whatever, this was the true meaning of the goddess; how I, the one female, perched on her leather pedestal, had them all under my power.  Despite my father's stern counsel over each hand, my mind was in a whirl of aftershave and sweet tobacco smoke and body heat, and I was getting more and more sexually aroused by the minute.   It must be all those pheromones, I thought; they get really concentrated with men in quantity.   But I had to admit that the flash and jingle of the money, the golden gleam of diamond cufflinks and thick mesh watches, also had a little something to do with it.

OLD FASHIONED TIRAMISU

I get so many requests for this, I decided to reconstruct my godmother's recipe, which is adapted from Carol Field's in her book The Italian Baker and the best Tiramisu I've ever had. Since auntie's is a tight secret, I might be a little off on some things, but it tastes pretty much the same.  Freeze in foil-covered loaf pans and eat by one-inch slivers if it's too fattening for you to enjoy often.  

Cheese Filling

yogurt cheese maker or micro-meshed sieve
1 pint (about 15 oz) ricotta cheese
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 cup (4 oz) lightly spooned confectioners' sugar
1 pint (16 fl oz) ice cold heavy or old-fashioned whipping cream
1 tsp vanilla extract
1 tsp rum extract
1 tsp butter flavoring

Chocolate Sponge Cake

5 large eggs, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
3/8 cup milk
1 1/2 tsps vanilla extract
1/2 tsp butter flavoring
1 cup + 2 tbsps lightly spooned cake flour
6 tbsps lightly spooned dark Dutch processed baking cocoa, such as Hershey's Euro-Style 
1 1/2 tsps baking powder
3/8 tsp salt

Cake Syrup

1/2 cup Frangelico hazelnut liqueur
1/4 cup Kahlua coffee liqueur
3/4 tsp rum extract

Garnish

milk chocolate shavings or curls, about 1/2 cup
4 tsps sifted dark Dutch processed baking cocoa
2 tsps sifted confectioners' sugar
Optional:  1/2 pint ice cold heavy whipping cream
Optional for cream:  1 tsp vanilla extract
Optional for cream:  3 tbsps sifted confectioners' sugar
Optional: candy coffee beans, about 24

_____________________________________

Twelve hours or the night before, combine ricotta with granulated sugar; process or sieve until as smooth as possible.  Place in yogurt cheese maker or sieve placed well over bowl; cover and chill to drain off as much whey as possible. 

The next morning or afternoon before serving, make the cake.  (It may also be baked the night before if well-sealed in plastic wrap after cooling.)  Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Generously grease a 9- by 13-inch oblong cake pan. (Recipe also makes two 8-inch round layers.)  For added insurance, coat bottom with nonstick cooking spray.  Dust with flour.  Separate eggs. Beat yolks with sugar in medium mixer bowl until smooth and light in color; stir in milk, vanilla, and butter extracts.  Sift flour, cocoa, baking powder, and salt over yolk mixture and stir until just incorporated. In large, separate mixer bowl, whip egg whites until stiff but not dry.  Fold about a third into flour mixture to lighten batter before folding in remaining whites.  Pour into prepared pan and bake until top springs back when pressed with finger, about 40 minutes.  Cool in pan 20 minutes, then loosen sides carefully and invert onto cooling rack.     

To make the filling, discard whey and mix ricotta in large bowl with confectioners' sugar; set aside.  Combine 1 pint whipping cream with vanilla, rum, and butter extracts in large, chilled mixer bowl. Using whisk attachment, whip until very stiff; fold into ricotta a third at a time with large whisk until fully incorporated.     

Prepare cake syrup by mixing Frangelico and Kahlua with rum extract.  Slice cake horizontally into 2 layers. Place bottom layer on large rectangular serving platter or in decorative lasagna pan.  Sprinkle evenly with half of the Frangelico mixture, then spread with half of the cheese filling.  Mix cocoa with 2 teaspoons confectioners' sugar; sift half evenly over filling.  Cover with top cake layer, sprinkle with remaining syrup, and spread with the rest of the cheese.  Garnish with milk chocolate shavings, then sift remaining sweetened cocoa over them.  To decorate, beat optional half a pint whipping cream with 1 teaspoon vanilla until very stiff, gradually incorporating 3 tablespoons confectioners' sugar as soon as cream forms soft peaks.  Use to frost sides and/or pipe decorative border or rosettes with large star tip; garnish rosettes with optional coffee beans.  Cover and chill several hours before serving.  Serves 12.

Nothing much on except they sure are prejudiced in some areas down here.  Visited Elva at her mother's house in Pacoima and we all went out for lunch at a popular drive-thru restaurant.  They gave Elva the wrong flavor shake, vanilla instead of chocolate.   I know they might've heard her wrong (who the fuck orders vanilla except oldsters with no taste buds left?), but the service was even worse at the classy fifties-style eatery downtown where we treated her for her birthday; they served her burger seared, but completely raw inside.   I wanted to have the waitress take it back, but "That's okay; I like it sort of rare," our friend said meekly.  

But what can you expect when they're openly dissing Mexicans on the air now?   A fairly new prime spot Jack-In-The-Box commercial trys to manipulate a bad slur about Mexican restaurants serving dog meat and me.   The big bubble-headed Jack is shown at a roadside stand ordering from a Mexican girl and her little brother.  He keeps mispronouncing the food chipotle, eventually calling it "cha-poodle."   We're supposed to overlook the gauche, arrogant, laughing manner of this fake man, but we're so used to his simple get-up he's considered by most viewers to be a real (white) person; thus his behavior is ambiguous and he makes his point.   After all, no matter how poor and inconveniently located, he is speaking to a competitor.   The traditional overweight jaded Mexican girl loses her patience and tells him to "Just go."   While her rudeness can be justified, there's no time in the short spot to establish her character, and she might sound like a bad personality to some, ironically since he is just a silly clown.   She should've frowned and called her parents over.

It's disappointing how often in a time of major social upheaval and reconstruction as our country appears to be undergoing now, there is a return to the old mores and stifling notions, and along with them, a resurgence of the same stereotypes we fought so hard to suppress in the nineteen sixties.   I'm shocked that late night comics are now also finding Asians open game as they once did with Americans of Middle Eastern heritage.

Actually, there's another new commercial implying Asian resistance to WASP youth culture that could've been written from this weblog, it's so uncannily like it.  A well-mannered, conservative Chinese girl at the wheel of a new Saturn Ion quad coupe is zooming with a carload of friends through a desert that easily could be the Mojave right outside of Los A.  They're on a vast, empty yellow plain with nothing but the gleaming deep blue car reflecting the glaring midday horizon.   In the background a simple hip hop jingle repeatedly shouts, "Get up!  Get up!"  Suddenly things turn surreal.  After passing a chubby, seemingly drunk white boy passed out on a trashy couch on the side of the highway (I suppose HE, rather like Brett in my opening entry, is the one who should "get up?"), they come upon this busy social oasis of fraternity kids holding a block party in front of small rundown bungaloid houses like ours.  There's a couple of peepz playing foosball on the sidewalk, and a girl dancing with a plain ivory lamp shade over her head as if in honor of Xanga.   Some paunchy shirtless guys screaming on the veranda with Greek letters painted on their chests end the cluttered scene.  The Asian girl and her companions have no desire to join in; confused and exasperated, she stops the car to switch drivers.   As the zany neighborhood disappears behind them, a sign says "Leaving College."   There's nothing but empty desert again.   I take it this is appeals to the wistful man-about-town (or woman!) who feels there's no life after college, an all-too-common syndrome our sponsor promises a new Saturn will cure.  (I dunno; some bitchin' wheels would sure help ME!)   

Dear, pretty little Elva.  She's engaged to be married soon and is dropping out of school.  Her family's getting ready for a big old-fashioned Mexican wedding.   They've ordered an entire side of beef for the banquet, which they're cooking themselves.   Elva's sewing her own gown.   All her relatives will be driving up.   She's supposed to be so happy, yet looks overwhelmed.   If I didn't know any better, I'd swear the girl's depressed.   She won't talk about it, though, and humors me as if I'm an ignorant child.   It's even worse with Louis, her skinny balding stern future spouse, age twenty-six.   I could almost hear him say:  Don't you know some people grow up and have kids?

Later:   Told Liz about this afternoon and she said, "Well, Pacoima."   And I said I know cuz up where I come from there's a semi-rural town built up against the dry Mount Diablo foothills known as Milpitas, pronounced "Mill Penis."   It's relatively cheaper to live there, some nice tract homes, and the nearby orchards and vegetable fields draw lots of migrant workers and crime.   Other than that I don't know why it's called Mill Penis, but it's still awful, and doesn't explain what's going on with TV; I didn't even mention That Seventies Show, which tries to pull off the same cutsie stuff as "cha-poodle."

I'm so happy!  I aced my Advanced Comp midterm!   I did particularly well on the essay section.  One of the questions concerned originality, from the first lecture of the quarter.   No earthly creation, whether an invention or piece of writing or work of art, is original, since all human beings get their ideas secondhand, if not from another person, book, or work, then from NATURE, which is God's masterpiece.   Take art, for instance, the professor reasoned.  Art is a talent notoriously dependent on copying--not only one's ability to duplicate others' work, but one's own, as you need many pieces to reap a profit.   Anyone can be a great artist, since art is purely a matter of technique, whether handed down culturally, taught by a great master, or the current trend.   Often the technique is not so much manual dexterity and a good eye, but special equipment, such as the camera obscura employed by Johanne Vermeer and other great masters to achieve perfect drawing and perspective.  All one needs is the motivation, time, and money to perfect the technique, and viola, ART.   Which is why most famous artists have patrons, and tend to be clustered in families or exclusive groups like expatriots.   No innate gift is really required. 

Our question was:  If there is no such thing as originality, and human experience tends to be universal (at least within the culture where the work is appreciated), what quality renders a particular work a classic, to be treasured centuries beyond its first appearance in history?   It was the fierce competitiveness I see here, with bloggers resorting to advertising themselves under anonymous user names (if you haven't noticed the same elite group of writers continually listed as fab, you aren't reading anything), and D.J.'s determined effort to outblog me on my own topics, that gave me the answer.   The key must be emotion.   Anyone can be witty and articulate, but not anyone can touch our hearts.  It is emotion, particularly love, that breathes life into a work.   Love is our highest expression and closest to God, the creator of all things.  The deeper we love, the more like God, and thus the more original we become.   When nobody can decide who's story it is, look for the emotion.   She who actually experienced the event is more likely to show feelings about it.

I got the funniest call from, of all people, Marcie, that bitch who's always after Brett.   (See?  I TOLDJA she sticks her antenna out every time we're on shaky ground--or should I say antennae?!).  The witch wants to know if any of my older female relatives or friends are interested in "The Sarah Study" (she used the Hebrew pronunciation, "Sare-Ray"), a program encouraging women aged forty through sixty (yep, you read correctly, folks: SIXTY, sixty years old) to give birth.   Ever since they discovered several years ago that the uterus remains functional and capable of regenerating under artificial hormonal stimulation even after our ovaries have petered out, they've been experimenting with older women conceiving, though most of the fetuses are from egg donors, Marcie elaborated.  To qualify for this well paying program, you need to undergo an extensive physical and psychiatric exam.   I told her flatly I didn't know anyone who'd be interested--especially after she read me the contract warning of an increased risk of female cancer.  It creeped me out her calling right after we saw Chelle's mother.   It creeps me out Marcie coming around here, PERIOD (pun intended).

Waiting for my clothes to dry.   It's been a wierd week.   Brett and I are having a cold war (more like cool) over Chelle, whom he feels is "a bad influence" on me; I should "move out of the house," "she really gets off" seeing me in trouble (not!), "after that stunt you pulled Wednesday night," etc, etc, etc, ad NAUSEAM.   He wasn't impressed with her parents at all, who obviously didn't care and let her run wild.  Guess he's afraid I might cheat on him as she is on Bruce.   Brett can be so male chauvinist sometimes in his passive way.   Come to think of it, he's just like his father (Donna:  "Pshaw!  It's about TIME you realized it").   He'll get over it--after we haven't made love for a week.   He got so horny once during vacation he even hitched a ride to see me when his truck was out of commission!

Stunt:  During junior high, Sunshine, one of Mom's college friends, told us they were so lackadaisical in the City of Angels that they even went grocery shopping in their p.j.'s and underwear.  When she lived there for a short time until her father transferred up North, she saw a lady in the produce section in her bra and panties, with nothing but a gaping white satin robe covering her and big pink bunny slippers!   I passed this on to Chelle and she giggled mischievously and said, "No time like tonight!"   So we hit the local supermarket at two a.m. Thursday morning in our nighties, just for the hell of it.   Everyone gawked at us as if we were crazy, and the manager came out and tried to stare us down.  Brett, listening with a dour "Now what?" expression while I recounted our escapade, said they don't do that here anymore.  "Not since the seventies.  Gimme a break."   "Well, at least we didn't try it during prime time," I reminded him.   And, "What if it we were RUSHING?"

Actually Saj's presence keeps me from getting totally down on men.   With his talkative, emotionally sensitive, appeasing nature--he's been fantastic about the housework--he's more like one of us.  I know it's his culture, but he'd tease me if I said it, preaching against the slaughter of cockroaches ("But Tina, what if one were your sister at one time?!?") and quoting from the Kama Sutra.

Not too much time to write with a test this week, but Easter was such a blast I hate to forget one detail.  Brett and I rendezvoused at Chelle's house, an early nineteen twenties, tres vernacular English Tudor right off the beach, shortly before noon.  We played ping pong with her and her new guy Ned in her post and beam game room, then talked and fooled around up in her attic bedroom a while before heading out to nearby Malibu to see the sites before the holiday meal was ready.   There's a great stable with trails leading out to the beach.   The first time Chelle invited me over for a weekend visit, we rented some horses.  I got so stiff I could hardly move the next day, but it was good fun spotting some of our favorite celebs, many also on horseback.   It was so choppy Sunday, though, we just drove around, parked and watched the coast guard, who must've been out there all day.  Brett's never that impressed with Malibu any more, which he thinks is too crowded and like a circus.  Ordinarily the beach is so packed you can't find one place to sit.  We didn't catch site of any major talents except for one lady who might be a daytime soap star.

It was a big high school graduation bash held by Melanie, a friend whose father got transferred to Southern California sophomore year, that sold me on L.A. for college.   To find the real, sun and surf, jacuzzi and jerk California out-of-staters hanker for, you have to go down at least as far as Santa Barbara.  Up North, we're too small and overpopulated, not to mention much older demographically, to be very social; peeps are too busy busting their butts trying to find a decent job to afford the over-priced postwar boxes they call upscale homes.  And our beaches are too cold and rough to swim in.  Southern Cali has much more housing, open space, and opportunity.  There may be more cement yardage in the form of freeways, but you never know what adventures lie along the palm-studded way.  I'll never forget how Mel and I cruised Sunset Boulevard the day before her "soiree" and met a whole bunch of fab cute guys stuck in traffic; peepz really do hold up signs with their numbers on them and get out of their cars to round up a hot date, while friends often switch vehicles, laughing as they try to beat the signal.  We parked across the street from a famous hotel and I saw a young actor from a popular sitcom push through the revolving door and swagger around outside.   As he was going back in, a guy who looked and dressed exactly like him exited from the opposite door.  I thought I was "seeing double" watching them go in and out like penny arcade gophers until they eventually ended up on the sidewalk together.   Many celebs are twins, Mel explained later as we dined on sushi and diet Peps out by the pool, the blue water painting dancing lights on the side of her rambling Spanish-style home; they make the best stand-ins.  If you're a twin, you're already miles ahead of most people trying to get into show business.   Twins and midgets; the Powers That Be must reward the little people with money and fame for being short-shrifted in life.  Anyway, had I gone to Berkeley or San Francisco State as my family hoped, I would've had to live at home and commute; no way for a girl to break Mommy's apron strings, I argued, stating that the "fast-paced superficial quality" of Anngeleeze, as Mom described it, would render me more world-wise--just what I needed to make it in liberal arts.

Sunday the Ketchams served garlicky veal birds and lamb shanks in a mossy parsley sauce, steamed fresh broccoli spears from the garden, boiled pink new potatoes, trimmed with stripes like Easter eggs, fresh spinach timbales, the proverbial marshmallow-studded candied sweet potatoes, and Chelle's Dad's own wine and sherry, which he ages in the basement.  They avoid big greasy holiday spreads ever since her mom was diagnosed with breast cancer in her mid-thirties (an easy transition I imagine, since they've always to my knowledge been super calorie-conscious, even subjecting guests to their strict low-fat diet.  I always felt I was starving during over-nights, and resorted to raiding Ms. Ketcham's crisp wafer cookies, which she keeps hidden in a kitchen drawer to savor one at a time during her special moments.)   For dessert was a Tiramisu in cake form, not the homey casserole dessert my Italian relatives dish up, but equally rich and scrumptious.   The general topic was money, particularly the stock market, ubiquitous to this terrain.   I know little about it except that it's basically fancy gambling and a rich man's prerogative; this I offered carefully to Mr. Ketcham, who seemed delighted enough with my private school charm.   But as for the wine, which Ned pronounced "smooth," I stayed politely silent, detecting a slight vinegary edge to the sherry; I'm not really a beer and wine drinker anyway, much less an aficionado of alcoholic beverages, so why upset the apple cart?

Other than this boisterous gourmet interlude, the older people kept pretty much to themselves, leaving us kids to find amusement elsewhere in the 4,000 square foot, completely renovated and modernized house.  We ended up passing a smoke before a crackling fire in the game room, discussing politics with studied maturity as if it we were enjoying the spoils of our own hard work, in our own proud home, while staving off a middle-aged crisis.   It was interesting.

A girl fainted in Viticulture class.   It's one of those courses I'm taking with my boyfriend just for fun.   (You don't have to be twenty-one to just take a sip from a tasting cup and spit it out.)  We were getting a tour of the campus-affiliated wine cellars when we heard a strange sigh and down she went in a soft, crumpled heap.   She was tall and slender.  A few students couldn't stop giggling; guess she made them nervous.   The teacher quickly revived her and called the health center to pick her up.   That's about the most exciting thing that happened all week, besides my literally running into Carol--speak of the devil--jogging around the football field, and the guys going wild making footballs and bears and breasts and everything you could possibly think of out of marshmallow batter.   We must've went through a whole five-pound bag of sugar.  Brett was a real kick dancing around with fluorescent pink titties stuck to his chest, which proves even the best of men really want to be women deep down.   You don't see nearly as many female transsexuals as males.  Oh, and there was a big food fight at the frat.  You know, the usual.

The whole thing just happens to bring back Carol's first trick of the season frosh year.   One of the few students paying for a private dorm room, she always had little intimate parties behind closed doors, with rum and coke she supplied from a big bottle of Bacardi she had stashed in her file drawer.   Having let her borrow some of my aunt's old vinyls--Carol really dug The Pretenders, groovy new wave stuff I remember jumping around to in nursery school--I often got an invite, meaning I was allowed to hang around once her fav people had collected.   One quiet Friday night we were playing a game of hearts to Eminem when I was introduced to her friend Chet, a sophomore from the neighboring dormitory.   A moody, intense journalism major with stoned black eyes and robust build, he seemed to smolder with horniness.   His intellectual, politically correct speech was laced with humor and innuendo, telling each girl what was really on his mind underneath the subtlely sarcastic bull.  He went to pass me a cigarette and our fingers touched, giving me a unexpected rush as the magnetic warmth signaled male and female contact.  I looked into his face and he smiled coolly, letting me know the feeling was mutual.  Then I looked over at Carol and saw her eyes narrow, indicating she'd missed nothing.   A few days later she started to cross-examine me in her blunt feline way to see how much I was interested.   A lot.

"Chet's a good man," she said matter of factly, remembering her vow to end my sorry state of purity.   "And good in bed, too.   I can get you together."

Before I could decide, he was in her room again for the second time in a week, joking around, stealing flirtatious glances at me while I feigned studying on the other bed.   Carol had told him about me, I sensed, which was okay; they were moving so fast I had no time to think about everything and get all flushed and jittery.   Suddenly, Carol announced she had to run down to the 7-11 and pick up a few things.   Would be right back.   After several minutes of awkward silence, Chet busied himself mixing a drink on the built-in Formica console, availing himself of the ice from Carol's mini-refrigerator.        

"This is called 'cookie magic.'  Want some?"  he asked, handing me a frosty glass beer mug of what looked like molten white granite.

"Okay."   I sucked at the creamy emulsion, which seemed to fill my mouth with cold chocolate fire.   The coldness masked the fetid sour alcoholic aftertaste I'd never cared for.  "Mmm, this is good.  What's in it?"

"Oh, a little Tia Maria, a little creme de cacao, and a shot of white rum.   Blend with whipping cream, ice, and a few Oreo cookies.   It's a bit sweet for me, but girls usually dig it."

As I finished it he handed me another drink in a real cocktail glass.   "Here, this is more my style."

"What is it?"

"Genuine martini, the stuff of which CEO's are made of.  Try it."

I wordlessly acquiesced, soon draining this glass as well.   I don't know why.   As soon as we were alone I'd gone into auto pilot.  

"TV?"

"Sure."   I was feeling fine, just a little numb and sleepy in a nice sort of way, as if I'd had laughing gas.

He flipped on the set and sat down next to me, arranging the numerous velveteen pillows behind us to make a primitive sort of sofa.   I heard him clear his throat; so he was a real person, with allergies and everything.   That made me feel at ease; he could've been my brother.  Commenting on the show, a popular sitcom, he casually put his arm around me.  All right.  That's pretty routine.  We're getting to know each other better now, I thought.   From the location of my bare shoulder he could easily reach the side of my breast, and after a while I felt his fingers absently fidgeting there as he seemed to concentrate on the show.   As for me, I hardly knew it was on.   When he leaned toward the nightstand to reach his drink, his hand lightly cupped my breast, seemingly by accident.  But it stayed there as he righted himself.   There'd been no objection, so why move it, I could almost heard him think.  Smooth, very smooth.  And then the fingers wandering across to caress my nipple.  Around and around and around they went, expertly teasing it into a tense nubbin of stupefying sensation.   Except for his heavy breathing ("Why do guys sound so much louder?"  Chelle:  "It's the deeper rib cage and greater lung capacity."), this repetitive activity too seemed unconscious, as if Chet were merely twiddling his thumbs.   So you pretend this isn't happening, too.  But the response in my body was overwhelming, far stronger than Dan's polite goodnight kiss had ever produced.  I'd never be able to play the good girl again.  Not with my heart throbbing all the way down in my vagina, which was clearly wired to my nipple--a second clitoris--just as the sex researchers said it was.   Not in this carefree ethanol daze.  It was twitching down there, contracting, grasping at the emptiness.  The feeling brought back summer days as a young teenager out by the pool, trying to tan my back by lying on the hot cement with nothing but a damp beach towel to cushion me; the rotisserie breeze fanning alternately hot and cool, the chalk smell of the concrete, my wet body sizzling on it like an egg, my pulse beating in my tummy where my own eggs were, almost visibly vibrating my entire being into womanhood.   The trembling I felt now though had an undercurrent of nervousness to it.   I seemed to be both extremely excited and frightened simultaneously, a dangerous sort of high.  What was it?   My calendar, marked with symbols denoting my time of month, suddenly flashed in my mind; it was exactly Day 14, the most likely time for conception.   No wonder it'd been so easy to launch me into the ozone.   Oh, God, I thought, I better get out of here!  Where on earth was Carole?!   She's been gone for over an hour.  I'm going to get PREGNANT!   After my first time!   Cuz that's where all this was leading to.  How shitty.  But caught like a deer in Chet's headlights, I couldn't move save for the tantalizing feelings those hypnotic fingers of his invoked.   Only my own hand, methodically pushing them off my belly as they occassionally strained to grope under my slacks, said I still was in some possession of my senses.   Jeeze.  Why did I pick this of all days to wear no panties?  Damn laundry.  I couldn't let him touch down there.   I was so wet I could feel myself oozing snail trails.   I'd be done for.   But I am Mother Nature.  I am the Supreme Commander of your body and brain! a force, some bizarre personification brought forth by the alcohol, seemed to proclaim.   There's nothing to be alarmed about.  Open your legs!  

As if under the same spell, Chet pulled me around and invaded my mouth with a slobbery, flicking tongue.  This wasn't so pleasant any more.  Come to think of it, it was downright gross.  Worried about the next base, I quickly seized control and broke his hold, whispering, "I can't do this; I've never done anything before."

"That's all right,"  Chet gazed deep into my eyes and murmured, surprisingly gentle and understanding.  "You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Baby."

I was full of respect for him; he was not only an excellent lover, but a gentleman after all.   And Carol had told him everything, the brat.

After that he collapsed on the bed snoring, pulling me with him.  I knew I should get up, but couldn't find my sea legs.  So I just tried to get some shuteye, too, right on top of him.  Silly girl.  Luckily for my reputation, sleep evaded me.  I took the opportunity to get a good look at the guy, now that he was totally oblivious to me.   A sizable swell dominated my crotch shot.   Wow, he was still there.   In case you change your mind.  Just straddle it, honey.  Go ahead.  Dry hump me, baby.  Ease the pain.  And,  You bitch, Carol!  I thought.   Chet must've been the one well-hung guy she hadn't thoroughly described.

It was four a.m. when I finally was able to put one foot in front of the other and exit the room.  Chet never noticed in his drunken slumber, and Carol was still nowhere in sight.  My own roommate was too fast asleep to mark my late return, either.   All was clear.   When Carol called me first thing in the morning, an uncommon hour for her and obviously all ears over me and Chet, I told her right off nothing had happened.   She sounded okay with it, almost relieved.   We never do let old boyfriends go.  But little did I know  my carnal-minded friend's matchmaking attempts weren't over.   Not in the least.