Oh dear me, but Bora Bora was Love-a, Love-a! I'd forgotten what it was like to simply rest, not having to roll a plan of attack around in the back of my mind, watching from the corner of my eye at every Tom, Dick and Mary that saunters by, anticipating the telltale glint of polished metal that may come flying at my temple either in bullet or knife form. The pool was wonderfully warm, the cocktails were chilly and copious and the massuese was...well...suffice to say that the masseuse was thorough.
But as with Russian caviar on toast, the gentle tingle running up my gams and the guilty pleasure of a vanilla Tastee-Freeze, all good things must come to an end. A gal can't spend her whole life sipping Mai Tais and drinking in the local cabana boys' white, toothy smiles, can she? Not when evil continues to fester in this wonderful world of ours.
On the way home, we had a stopover in Shanghai, which I thought was an odd diversion coming from Bora Bora to Los Angeles. I nearly put in a curt phone call to my travel secretary, but upon landing, I received a fortune cookie that had the telltale odor of Pine Sol. I cracked it open to find a brief, but crystal clear message informing me that I was to take suddenly ill, running posthaste to the nearest powderroom to my gate. Once again, Walter gave me a wide berth as I sqeaked out an explanation, hands to my nether regions, dashing on my $150 Giles Sinclair pumps across the tarmac to the glass double doors.
In the powderroom, there was one stall in which the door was securely locked. Pulling a bobby pin from my hair, I opened it in no time at all, then began spinning the Scott towel dispenser as directed. It was necessary to spin at a specific speed, as the instructions written on the paper were not in code, but in the obscure Tzichitan script that I had (thankfully) mastered when stranded so many years ago on the island of Tzichiti (south of Psusupsusu in the Pacific ring around LaRosie). And when I saw what I was to do, I was not surprised, but I was supremely peeved. Why, oh why dear Goddess does it have to be me? And not even have the common decency to provide gloves that reach up to a dame's elbows?
I kneeled, as one would do should she feel the overwhelming urge to purge, or if she has dropped her Tiffany platinum and diamond earring into the toilette. The route that waste travels when flushed away is not the pathway I'd have predicted. There is a snakey manner to it, a design that one's forearm does not navigate easily. But if determined, a lithe gal can retrieve the plastic bag filled with explosives and if she is at the top of her game, she can draw it from the bowl without puncturing the bag and hence, ruining the contents.
It had been years since I'd dabbled in explosives and much has progressed since the days of the French Resistance. Plastics. Electrical centrifuges. Mercury-based ignition points. Good grief. And the lunt that wrote the directions should either have his eyes checked or gouged from his head with spoons. I'm sorry my bunnies, but I was so livid I could hardly spit. It was a miracle I didn't blow myself from Shanghai to Peking. Suffice to say, it worked. I managed to construct the explosive Tiki Doll as instructed, slip it into the handbag of the wife of Secretary of Defense Xiaoping (sorry, dear Fang, but you knew when you married the snake that it might come to this).
Liftoff was uninteresting, save for the sudden yellow glow and the quiver of turbulance that appeared from below. I understand that Judy Garland is appearing in New York this coming week. I so love her. I'll never forget that wild night we spent in the Bronx, when we took the wrong subway after a night of appletinis and brie-stuffed crouquets. But then, that's another story.
But as with Russian caviar on toast, the gentle tingle running up my gams and the guilty pleasure of a vanilla Tastee-Freeze, all good things must come to an end. A gal can't spend her whole life sipping Mai Tais and drinking in the local cabana boys' white, toothy smiles, can she? Not when evil continues to fester in this wonderful world of ours.
On the way home, we had a stopover in Shanghai, which I thought was an odd diversion coming from Bora Bora to Los Angeles. I nearly put in a curt phone call to my travel secretary, but upon landing, I received a fortune cookie that had the telltale odor of Pine Sol. I cracked it open to find a brief, but crystal clear message informing me that I was to take suddenly ill, running posthaste to the nearest powderroom to my gate. Once again, Walter gave me a wide berth as I sqeaked out an explanation, hands to my nether regions, dashing on my $150 Giles Sinclair pumps across the tarmac to the glass double doors.
In the powderroom, there was one stall in which the door was securely locked. Pulling a bobby pin from my hair, I opened it in no time at all, then began spinning the Scott towel dispenser as directed. It was necessary to spin at a specific speed, as the instructions written on the paper were not in code, but in the obscure Tzichitan script that I had (thankfully) mastered when stranded so many years ago on the island of Tzichiti (south of Psusupsusu in the Pacific ring around LaRosie). And when I saw what I was to do, I was not surprised, but I was supremely peeved. Why, oh why dear Goddess does it have to be me? And not even have the common decency to provide gloves that reach up to a dame's elbows?
I kneeled, as one would do should she feel the overwhelming urge to purge, or if she has dropped her Tiffany platinum and diamond earring into the toilette. The route that waste travels when flushed away is not the pathway I'd have predicted. There is a snakey manner to it, a design that one's forearm does not navigate easily. But if determined, a lithe gal can retrieve the plastic bag filled with explosives and if she is at the top of her game, she can draw it from the bowl without puncturing the bag and hence, ruining the contents.
It had been years since I'd dabbled in explosives and much has progressed since the days of the French Resistance. Plastics. Electrical centrifuges. Mercury-based ignition points. Good grief. And the lunt that wrote the directions should either have his eyes checked or gouged from his head with spoons. I'm sorry my bunnies, but I was so livid I could hardly spit. It was a miracle I didn't blow myself from Shanghai to Peking. Suffice to say, it worked. I managed to construct the explosive Tiki Doll as instructed, slip it into the handbag of the wife of Secretary of Defense Xiaoping (sorry, dear Fang, but you knew when you married the snake that it might come to this).
Liftoff was uninteresting, save for the sudden yellow glow and the quiver of turbulance that appeared from below. I understand that Judy Garland is appearing in New York this coming week. I so love her. I'll never forget that wild night we spent in the Bronx, when we took the wrong subway after a night of appletinis and brie-stuffed crouquets. But then, that's another story.
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