Bubble, Bubble, Toilet Trouble

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.

Snowfall

Walter and I were stranded at the airport for nearly six hours, snowed in and forced to make small talk while waiting for clearance to leave for our vacation to Bora Bora. My luggage had already been stowed, elsewise I'd have simply taken my rabbit muff and snuggled against the pillow that is my husband and had a bit of a catnap. But no. I had to make do with an extra pair of hose that I'd slipped into my coat pocket, which I stuffed with copious amounts of Kleenex to soften the resting of my head on Walter's shoulder. We talked of the sun and surf that would be awaiting us soon, and I dreamed of a certain summer's day of my youth, an afternoon of chasing the waves at the Atlantic shores of Martha's Vinyard with my childhood friend Stephen. How I miss dear Stephen. I wonder sometimes if he thinks of me, imagines even in his wildest dreams that lovely, pert Vivian LaFontane has moved from tossing pebbles to hurling knives. I picture him in his tiny cabin in Fairbanks, Alaska, typing furitively at his typewriter, churning out those gripping, sultry poems for which he has made such a name for himself.

The snow was so pleasant, soft and wispy and even though I had to endure Walter telling me for the seventh time about the time he and his brother built a snowman the size of farm tractor, I didn't mind. I was warm in the crook of his arm, the stash of Wisconsin cheeses that I discovered in my handbag were delightfully delicious and I knew that Bora Bora wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

I Need a Vacation in the Worst Way!

I'm just so tired these days. I don't know if it's the weather or the constant demands upon my skills and time. I'm certainly not a young flower anymore, that much is true. There are days that I operate in the mindset of youth, where I walk down the street envisioning myself as one would have seen me ten, fifteen years ago. Free of worry lines, skin taught and curves holding up like girders on the Chrysler tower. And then I walk past the picture window of any number of shops, glancing over to take in the sumptuous display of jewelry or shoes that the store owner has taken upon himself to advertise. And then I am reminded that I am not the young sparrow I once was, but a mature woman, one who—no matter the speed with which I can traverse the back alleys—cannot outrun the evils of time.

Walter and I will be leaving for Bora Bora at the end of the month and I only wish I could show the slightest sliver of excitement. But I can't. I must be as pleasurable to be around as a death row stool pigeon licking up the remnants of his last meal. I don't know. Maybe it's time for something different. There is a search party leaving for Tibet in six weeks, in search of a vanished agent by name of Red Robin. It's not a life that needs to be saved, it's a tiny square of microfilm, securely embedded in a part of the body that will, if not salvaged posthaste, will soon appear in the light of day should decomposition be occurring right now.