Dear Booger

by Zuke B

Sunday, June 1

Dear Booger,

Well, I just arrived in my little cottage on the Kona coast — my home away from home for seven glorious days. You are the best brother in the WHOLE WIDE WORLD! What other brother would give his sister a week's vacation in Hawaii? Thank you, thank you, thank you for the best present you have ever given me. (Yes, that includes the sea monkeys.)

I just had to write to you before I did anything and let you know I got here safe and it's absolutely gorgeous. It's hot, but there's a cool breeze on this side of the island, so it's not too humid. I bought some food and a few beers on my way over from the airport. Renting a cottage is definitely a cool way to "do Hawaii". The place is cleaner than my apartment (not surprising) and I can see the beach from my window.

The flight from Chicago was pretty uneventful. I took too many Dramamine and fell asleep before we took off, then had this really intense dream about Christine. She was yelling at me — like she usually did — telling me I was commitment-phobic (true), terrible in bed (so not true) and never loved anyone but myself (debatable). The funny thing was, she was wearing tartan pajamas and holding a stuffed Panda. For some reason, I really wanted that Panda, so I made a grab for it. She pulled it back and hit me over the head with it. I woke up shouting, "Give me that Panda!" and realized a flight attendant was leaning over me asking if she could get me anything.

The flight attendant's name was Terry, and I invited her to my vacation pad, but she was flying on to Auckland. I got her phone number, though, so I have proven once again that I am a pure Babe Magnet. If you're nice and continue to give me cool presents, like vacations to Hawaii, I may let you in on a few of my secrets.

I had another close encounter of the gorgeous babe kind once we landed. I was lugging my luggage (lugging luggage — get it?) and I hailed a cab at the exact same time as this other woman. I turned around and saw an incredible vision.

Everything about her screamed "Money!" — well, maybe it screamed, "I spent a lot of money on these clothes, shoes, and accessories, not to mention the designer perfume, facial, waxing and manicure. Bow before me, you who are unworthy!"

Even her hair looked expensive. It was the color of saffron — a deep, golden red. Her eyes were this amazing green with speckles of blue and gold in them (yes, I was that close and yes, I was staring). And she had a cute, turned-up nose with a few freckles scattered here and there.

She looked…fresh. Fresh and crisp like genetically-altered iceberg lettuce. I don't know what rich people have to pay to look fresh after flying halfway across the Pacific and then walking around in 110 percent humidity, but dammit, I'll save my allowance to get me some.

Being the gentlewoman that I am, I motioned for her to take the cab, but when I heard her give the same town I was headed to, an image flashed before me: her and me relaxing on the beach, sipping drinks in coconut shells with little paper umbrellas. So, I asked her if we could share the cab.

She gave me this look that would have instantly melted that huge ice sculpture of a swan you had at your wedding (which was hideous, by the way, and didn't resemble any waterfowl I've ever seen). Then she just said no, got in the cab, and slammed the door in my face.

Before you say it, I have not lost my way with women. That was holier than thou, shit don't stink, something very large and uncomfortable shoved up butt, personality disorder of the highest magnitude. And to top it all off — to prove that there is no such thing as a coincidence in the world of Jaz Pierce — when I got to my little cottage, who do I discover is renting the main house? YES! The Ice Princess with the cute, turned-up nose!

Well, bucko, I am going to make her life such a misery. Or maybe I'll just ignore her. I haven't decided. I'll keep you posted.

Right now, I gotta go hit the beach.

Your loving sister and soon to be sun goddess,



Monday, June 2

Hey Booger!

Well, it's just another day in Paradise - literally! Though I have to admit right up front that there are a few raisins in the rice pudding, if you know what I mean. Don't get me wrong, you are still the best brother in the world and I'm having a great time. But, there are just one or two little issues.

I bet you don't need to get the old ouija board out to know that the Ice Princess with the cute, turned-up nose is the biggest issue of all (OK, the only issue). Her name, by the way, is Olivia Barrett. I know this because she spent the morning making phone calls from beside the pool — which happens to be right outside my cottage. All of the calls started with, "This is Olivia Barrett…" in a way that said, "you sure as shit better know who I am and do as I say or I'll make your life a misery." Stuck up bitch.

Do I sound a tad bitter? I am. And it's not just because of the taxi incident. Oh no, I should have expected someone who refused to share a cab would only rise to higher and higher peaks of bitchy rudeness. Or is that descend to lower and lower valleys of bitchy rudeness? Whatever.

So here's what happened: After puttering around this morning (listening in on Olivia Barrett's phone calls), I packed up some yummies and some brewskies, grabbed my suntan lotion, towel, umbrella, and a cheesy paperback, and headed for the beach. As you know, there is a private beach attached to the house. Though it seems a little extravagant, what the hell, I'm going to enjoy it. My big brother (by a measly 13 minutes) paid for a private beach so I don't have to share with hundreds of other peons, even though in real life I'm "peed on" with the best of 'em.

I got to the beach, found my spot, laid out my towel, slathered on the suntan lotion, planted the umbrella, and sat my ass down — thinking: fucking-A, this is Heaven, life doesn't get any better than this.

Twenty minutes later, a shadow fell across my face.

I glanced up to find Her Iciness, hands on her slim hips. (She was wearing a bikini and — oh my god — her abs were incredible.) She was scowling down at me like I was something dead that had been washed up by the tide and had flies swarming all over me.

"What are you doing here?" she asked icily (maybe I'm overdoing it with the ice metaphors, but dammit, she is cold).

"I'm staying in the cottage," I explained in a very calm and reasonable tone. (Don't laugh, I really did; it must have something to do with being in paradise. I feel very Zen.)

"You're not allowed on the beach," she said and looked at me like I had the mental capacity of a sand flea.

"The beach is for guests of the house," I explained, looking back at her as if she had the mental capacity of a sand flea. Turnabout is fair play.

"Yes," she replied. I waited for more, but she just continued to stand there, looming over me like she was a giant and I was…well, a sand flea.

"I'm staying in the cottage behind the house," I explained very slowly — being careful to pronounce my words clearly.

"Are you staying in the house?" she asked in a really irritating and patronizing voice.

"No, in the cottage," I replied in the same tone.

"Is the cottage the house?" she asked, maintaining that fucking tone.

"No, it's behind the house." Yeah, I was giving it right back to her.

"The rental agreement states that the residents of the house have exclusive use of the private beach. Residents of the cottage have to use the public beach. A mile south."

You will never believe what she did then! She reached into her bag and pulled out the fucking rental agreement and then dropped it — dropped it! — onto me. It landed on my stomach and was immediately covered in suntan lotion.

Well, you would have been proud of me. Those anger management classes I took worked like a charm. I counted to ten, and then counted to twenty for good measure. Maybe the ocean breezes helped.

"Look," I said calmly — OK, from between gritted teeth — "There's only you and me, how about we just share the beach?"

She smirked! She actually friggin' smirked at me! Her eyebrow cocked and the end of her lip curled. Even the cute, turned-up nose crinkled in a disapproving manner.

"First of all — not that it's any of your business — I will not be alone starting tomorrow," she said. "Secondly, and more importantly, I've paid a great deal of money to enjoy a private beach. Your presence has taken the private out of that equation. That's unacceptable. Please leave before I call the police."

"Police?!" I squawked/screamed/yelled — I'm not sure exactly how to describe my voice, but it wasn't happy. "You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

She reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. I turned my baby blues on her and stared at her with my patented "look" — the one that scared you so bad when we were four that you peed yourself (don't try to deny it!). She just stood there and stared back.

I will swear on a stack of bibles or porno mags or whatever publication you feel has enough holy status that Olivia Barrett has super powers. Because as God or Hugh Heffner is my witness, she used some kind of mojo on me to get me to move. I scrambled up, grabbing my towel and umbrella and food and cheesy paperback, and I high-tailed it off that beach.

I didn't come to my senses until I was back in the cottage. Then I got mad. I strutted around the place cursing her name and the name of her ancestors: the whole goddamned, syphilis-carrying, whore-mongering, plague-bearing Barrett family.

How could anyone deny such a reasonable request? Two people, a good-sized beach — the only reason she wouldn't let me stay is because she's a conceited, rich, word that starts with c and rhymes with hunt.

I peeled off the rental agreement, which was still stuck to my stomach. I was about ready to tear it into miniscule pieces when the description of the pool rules caught my eye.

"Residents of both the cottage and main house have equal use of the pool and barbecue area," it said.

Well, Booger, paybacks are a bitch, as you well know. I've been spending all afternoon planning my revenge. Thirty years of living with you have taught me well. And I guarantee her next five days are going to be a misery that will rival your week with that mysterious skin rash. (No, I'm not admitting to anything.)

I'll write tomorrow and give you an update on Project Ice Melt.

Your slightly insane and very pissed off sister,



June 3

Yo Booger!

Today was officially the weirdest day of my life. Mark this down in the great story of Jaz Pierce: "June 3, 2002 was the weirdest day of her life." This day now supercedes the time you ate all those hard-boiled eggs after seeing "Cool Hand Luke" and puked up a whole, unchewed egg. This was weirder on a whole other scale — the "call Mulder and Scully, we've got ourselves an X-Files" scale.

It started out reasonably enough — Project Ice Melt was a go. My mission was to drive her crazy. Seemed simple enough. I made some key purchases last night, and I was ready bright and early this morning. I established yesterday that Her Royal Icehood is not an early riser. She'd made her first appearance at about ten, and made love to a cup of coffee for fifteen minutes before her eyes fully opened. So at about seven this morning, I went poolside with my recently purchased boom box. I cranked up the tunes. (I chose polka music for the occasion — everybody loves polka.) I then lay back on the plastic chaise lounge and waited.

First thing that happened was a bedroom window slamming shut. But windows in Hawaii aren't like windows in Chicago. They're weatherproof, of course, but they don't exactly have to keep out blizzards off the lake. Even after the windows were shut, I'm sure the magical beat of the polka was penetrating nicely because I could see the windows rattling in their frames.

She lasted for about 30 minutes before she nonchalantly sauntered downstairs. This was the defining moment of my mission. She could have carried on to the beach, in which case I'd have to ponder Plan B (which didn't really exist except in very sketchy diagrams that I'd made on a napkin and then eaten). But she didn't turn toward the beach. She decided to meet me head on, to prove she was impervious to my challenge.

Looking like she intended all along to hang out poolside, she spread a towel on the other chaise lounge and reclined like a model on the French Riviera. She was certainly pretty enough to be a model, although a little vertically challenged for it. She craftily hid her eyes behind dark sunglasses. That allowed her to watch me without being obvious about it. It also meant I couldn't see those entrancing eyes. But at least she had on that bikini again. It was aqua, by the way, and very, very skimpy. I could tell she was waxed. (Brazilian, baby, oh yeah!) It took a hell of a lot of energy to focus and remember she was the enemy.

I thought things were going pretty well, but once she got settled, she took out a CD player with those really expensive headphones — you know, the kind where you put them on in an airplane and you can't hear that annoying buzz?

Damn! The polka music was blocked. I let it play for an hour or two, waiting for her to take off the headphones. Little trickles of sweat ran down from her ears, but she stayed strong.

OK, so audio torture wouldn't work. Didn't matter; that was just one of the weapons in my arsenal. I had four other senses to mess with. I'd barely scratched the surface.

You know, they say the sense of smell is one of the most powerful of all. I happen to be into taste, but then I'm an oral kind of gal. (You hogged all of Mom's breast milk — I've got a complex now). Taste was a little tricky, so smell it would have to be. I casually wandered over to the barbecue grill and set up a fire with a few coals and some secret weapons.

I'd done some early morning gardening. I had no idea what burning Hawaiian foliage would smell like, but it turned out extremely noxious and very smoky. I got a whiff of the burning vegetation. It reminded me of those cheap cigars you handed out to celebrate the birth of Booger Junior. (When he starts talking, I'm going to teach him to say, "Daddy is a cheapskate.")

I had, of course, gauged the wind direction. Mother Nature cooperated beautifully. The hideous-smelling smoke blew toward Olivia Barrett and hovered over her like the smoke in our dining room on poker night.

Her Holiness the Frozen One was pretending to read a book and trying not to look too closely at my barbecue preparations. I watched as her nostrils flared. Then she stifled a cough. Then a hand waved in front of her face. And before you could say "Jaz Pierce rules the friggin' universe!" she was up off the chaise lounge and into the house.

My victory was short-lived, though. Within minutes, she was back out, dragging a huge fan. She wordlessly plugged it to an extension cord, turned it toward me, and set it to hurricane force. The whole cloud of smoke blew back into my face and I nearly coughed up a lung as I scrambled to put the fire out.

She cracked a thin, evil smile and then made herself comfortable once again — her ice mask back into position. Shit! I was right about the super powers. I was now determined to get a rise out of her — any reaction, as long as that damned mask cracked.

So I turned to another of my favorite senses — vision. I stripped off my tank top and shorts and revealed my body in all its nekkid glory. I jumped into the pool and began to slowly, languidly swim around. It was a desperate move, I admit. I certainly didn't know what her preferences were (screwing ice sculptures probably). But hey, either way it would get a rise out of her.

I floated on my back for a while, my breasts poking up like twin volcanic islands. I couldn't see her eyes behind the dark lenses, but I knew they were tracking my naked form as it moved through the water.

I began to fondle myself a little, running my hands in a soft, random motion over my breasts and stomach, moving a little lower with each pass. I glanced at her, but she still looked cool as a cucumber. Christ, she was strong. We're talking Siberian ice pack. I needed a nuclear-powered ice cutter to break through that shit.

Then she shifted slightly on her chair. I thought I could see a little perspiration on her upper lip. Yes! Who's yer daddy?

And then the phone rang. She fumbled for it, and it slipped a moment. A little sweat on the old palms, my dear?

"Hey, sweetheart, did your plane just land?" She spoke in a sweet, perky voice.

She changed. Not only was she smiling, her face became softer. She seemed to lose about ten years — turning into a little kid before my eyes, just like Tom Hanks in "Big". Except you don't see it happen in the movie. She looked downright adorable, and I caught myself grinning at the sight of it. I quickly turned my smile into a smirk.

"I can't wait to see you, baby," she said, ignoring my look.

I suddenly had a vision of Olivia Barrett being well and truly fucked by some incredibly handsome, muscular stud. He was exactly like Russell Crowe without the personality disorder. He was an international banker and sometime jewel thief (for the adrenaline rush). He owned an island in the South Pacific. He flew his own Leer jet, played twelve musical instruments (including the panpipes) and spoke eight languages fluently (including Sanskrit…no, wait, that's not a spoken language…whatever). And he never forgot to send his mother a card on her birthday.

My alternate reality disappeared into oblivion when I heard her next words:

"Cheryl, honey, I don't understand."

The man in my vision wasn't named Cheryl. There was no doubt that Olivia Barrett was talking to a woman. And there was also no doubt that this woman was delivering some very bad news, because the Ice Princess was starting to look downright arctic.

"What exactly are you saying?" She asked Cheryl in a sub-zero tone.

I leaned forward, trying desperately to turn the squeaky sounds from the phone into understandable words. Olivia finally remembered I was there and got up to walk away from the pool. She should have gone into the house, because I could still hear her side of the conversation perfectly.

"You're not coming then?" she asked, starting to pace. She walked past a flowering bush. (Don't ask me what kind of bush — it had white flowers; I'm not a botanist.) Each time she passed, she tore a leaf off with a vicious rip and then dropped it to the ground.

There was a long pause. I realized without hearing a word Cheryl was saying that this wasn't just a call to inform her girlfriend she couldn't make it to Hawaii — it was a call informing her girlfriend it was over. It's happened to me plenty of times; I'm an expert in breakups.

"But…you can't do this to me."

Ha! Money can't buy you love, ya rich bitch. I didn't say that out loud, of course, I just kept listening.

Olivia stopped pacing and went quiet. She hunched her shoulders and started the old begging routine.

"Please, baby, we can work this out." Groveling did not become her, and she seemed to realize this, as she slipped her frozen mask back into position.

"Fine!" she hissed. "Then I expect you to leave my house immediately. And when I get back from Hawaii, you had better be completely moved out. I don't want so much as a fucking black hair in my sink. Do you understand me?"

Tell her to go to hell, Cheryl. Us girls with black hair have to stick together. I have a feeling that Cheryl read my mind because Olivia Barrett slammed the off switch on the phone and then threw it against the fence. She threw like a girl but the phone still shattered into a million pieces.

"Oh well," I said brightly, uttering the first words I'd spoken to her all morning. "I guess it's just you and me this week. Now that Cheryl's not coming, do I get to share the beach with you after all?"

We'd been goading each other for hours and the words just sort of tumbled out of my mouth before I could think.

That's a lie. The words didn't tumble out. They were shot out like BB's from that goddamn Daisy rifle you got for your eleventh birthday. And I fired at her without a second thought — just like you did at me the afternoon of your eleventh birthday.

I looked at her with a smirk on my face — because I just had to make it that little bit nastier — and I prepared myself for her best shot. I expected to be called names. I expected to be either screamed at or spoken to in her Ice Maiden voice.

I didn't expect her to cry — not in my wildest dreams (which, as you know, can be pretty damned wild).

It was really weird. (But not the weirdest thing — that's yet to come, believe it or not.) Her Ice Princess mask just melted. Sort of like the guy at the end of "Raiders of the Lost Ark", but not as gross. And then tears filled her eyes, making them sparkle and look even more beautiful. The tears perched on her lashes and then slowly started dropping off. When the first one hit her cheek, she used her knuckle to catch it. Her hands trembled, and she took a huge, shaky breath and looked at me. I watched her try to compose herself, but then her chin started quivering.

"You bitch," she managed to strangle out before she ran into the house. Her words had no strength, but I still felt like I'd been slapped. I even rubbed my face where I felt a red heat.

I felt ashamed and sorry and contrite. Contrite! Me! Can you believe it?! Weirdness moving up a notch. But while I felt terrible about what I'd done, I had no idea what to do about it. Running up to a window and shouting, "Sorry. I'm just PMS-ing. Didn't really mean it!" seemed like a possible option — for about a second and a half.

I got out of the pool and pulled on my shorts and tank top and stood looking toward the house. I stood there for about ten minutes, trying to compose a better apology. I was nowhere near coming up with one when I heard the front door slam shut. I ran around to that side of the house just in time to see a cab driving away. She must have offered mucho bucks to get a Hawaiian cab driver to show up that quickly.

You probably think I took advantage of that private beach once she left. Dude, you are so shallow! I felt too bad. I just sat by the pool — trying to figure out why I even cared.

I sat there all afternoon and into the evening, trying not to think about her. When the sun finally went down, I went inside and tried not to think about her some more. I contemplated going somewhere — getting out like she had — but I wanted to be home when she got back. Why? I didn't even know — to offer some sort of lame-ass excuse, I guess.

I looked out the window toward the house as it got darker and darker and later and later (those two go together, ironically enough). I waited for a light to go on in the main house. It never did.

And then, at about midnight, I heard the sound of the gate and watched as a very inebriated Olivia Barrett weaved her way toward the pool. I crouched down and peered at her through the blinds, which I opened a fraction of an inch.

She teetered along the edge and finally plunked herself inelegantly onto a chaise lounge. She seemed mesmerized by the pool; the water was still and reflected the moonlight. I watched her gaze at it and could just make out the tears as they rolled slowly down her face. She looked like a tragic heroine — like Ophelia or Desdemona or Mortitia — no, wait, that was "The Addams Family" not Shakespeare…Anyway, Olivia Barrett sat there, looking excruciatingly beautiful.

Until she leaned over and puked all over the pavement.

I sprang up, grabbed a towel, and went to play the knight in shining armor. Before the first sob rumbled through her body, I was wiping her mouth and stroking her forehead, telling her it was going to be OK. She didn't seem too aware of what was going on, but she grabbed onto me, and I could tell she wasn't letting go in a hurry. It was just like the time Furball was chased by the neighbor's dog and jumped on your head, sinking his claws into your ears. Good thing you were wearing that baseball cap. I had no similar protection and ended up with tears and snot and puke pretty much all over my shirt.

I waited for her to calm down and tried not to breathe too hard. The smell of upchucked rum and fruit juice was turning my stomach, and I was on the road to Yakima myself. She just had to go for the umbrella drinks!

Finally the tears slowed, and I judged it to be a good time to insert an apology.

"I'm really sorry about earlier." It was a good start, don't you think? Basic and to the point; simple, yet sincere. "I'm a complete and utter bitch and a raving lunatic."

She pulled back from her death grip and looked up at me. She examined my face like it was a road map and she was having trouble finding a particular street. I wondered if she'd try to turn it upside down. It was a little disconcerting, so I continued with my apology.

"It's my mouth, you see," I explained. "It lacks discipline. I try my best, but I think I spoil it. I give it too much candy and artificially-sweetened cereal, and it gets a little hyper. I'm thinking of sending it to military school."

She was still looking at me in that weird way (no — this isn't the weirdness yet, be patient). As I paused for a breath, she reached up slowly and ran her fingertip softly across my cheek, from the corner of my eye to the corner of my mouth. Then she trailed it over my lips and across my jaw to my ear.

It was warm and tingly, like a small electric current, and it gave me goose bumps all over.

Then she said in an awed voice, "You are absolutely beautiful."

Well, of course, that goes without saying. Unfortunately, that statement didn't have quite the impact coming from someone who had been drinking for most of the day.

"And you are absolutely trashed," I replied.

"I'm not drunk any more," she said, in a remarkably sober voice. She glanced down to her little oopsy and flashed a mortified grin. "Thanks for taking care of me and letting me cry all over you."

"It's all right." I shrugged in a "knight in shining armor" way.

"I'm sorry I was a bitch before. I've just had a really stressful past few months and…"

She trailed away, even though I was dying to hear about her stressful past few months.

"Don't worry about it. You weren't that much of a bitch. I was the one trying to drive you crazy this morning."

I don't know if it was something I said or if everything caught up to her again, but she turned the waterworks back on. I tried to shush her as she grabbed on to me. When that didn't work, I just picked her up. She was little, maybe 120 and about half a foot shorter than me. I carried her into the house and could feel her fresh tears against my shoulder.

I managed to get the lights on without breaking anything and then set her down on the couch. There was no way I was getting her all the way up the stairs. I pulled her shoes and socks off while her tears subsided into little hitching hiccups.

"Are you going to be OK?" I asked, kneeling beside her and wiping her face with a Kleenex from a box by the couch.

She was doing it again - looking at me like she was trying to figure something out. Now it seemed like I was an algebra problem and she was failing math and if she didn't get a passing grade, her dad would take away the keys to her VW Beetle. I stopped talking and let her eyes examine me.

Then, they sucked me in. Her eyes, I mean. It was like falling into a deep, moss-covered chasm. My soul went down, and my body followed. Our lips met like those magnetic kissing bears from Hallmark. I could say something goofy and romantic like we shared an eternal kiss, but that's just too sappy. We swapped spit. And it was fan-fucking-tastic!

And then she pulled back and whispered those magic words: "Will you stay with me tonight?"

OK, this is where the weirdness reached its peak — and we're talking Mt. Everest elevations.

Do you know how many women have asked me, in various ways, that very question? Lots. And do you know how many times I've turned them down? Never. Well, OK, once — but that's because it was Mrs. Cartwright from downstairs and I think she got me confused with her dead husband Walter — who apparently looked just like me.

But this time — for some reason known only to the Almighty Goddess and some tiny, deeply buried corner of my psyche — I turned down Olivia Barrett. I couldn't do it, man. She looked so pathetic and sad and vulnerable. I couldn't take advantage of her. The kiss already felt like a violation. No matter how careful I was, she'd be sorry in the morning. I never wanted to be the cause of hurt and disappointment in those beautiful green eyes.

"Just rest," I said, and began to run my hand in gentle, steady circles over her stomach. Before too long, her eyes closed and then her breathing steadied into sweet little snores.

And then I left. I know I did the right thing, but man do I wish I were in bed with her right now. You probably think I'm crazy. No, I take that back — you think I did the right thing, but you're probably as shocked as I am that I did. Well, there you go. It must be the ocean breezes.

I stopped outside to clean up the barf by the pool. And now I’m off to bed. Goddess knows what I'm going to do or say to her tomorrow. Stay tuned for another update.

Your sis,



June 4

My Dearest Booger,

Well, I'm sure you've been on the edge of your seat since my last letter, wondering what happened between your lovable sister and the beautiful Olivia (or should I say "Liv"?). Hmmm…that might have been a clue.

Well, you're going to have to wait. I'm going to tell it in the order it occurred, and if you're really impatient, you can sneak a peak to the end of this letter.

I dreamt about her all night. You knew I was going to say that, didn't you? Well, you would have dreamt about her too, Booger, if it had been you. (Hey — don't even think about it! Remember your one attempt to steal my girlfriend? I can make you scream like a little girl again.)

I woke up at about seven and thought about going for a walk on the beach, but it felt wrong, so I settled for a swim in the pool. After a couple of hours, Olivia still hadn't made a peep, so I took a shower and got dressed, then brewed some coffee. I walked up to the door of the main house with a full carafe of Kona's best and a couple of mugs.

I knocked softly and heard a very loud groan. I took it as permission to enter and pushed the door open. The hinges squeaked a little, which elicited an even more pathetic groan from the lump on the sofa.

"I thought you might like some coffee," I said as softly as possible.

She let out a new sound. This one was more a moan than a groan, and it so resembled a pre-orgasmic noise that I actually blushed. I hurriedly poured out the coffee and brought her the mug. She sat up, pushed most of her mussed up hair out of her face, and opened her bloodshot eyes enough to see where the mug was. She quickly closed her eyes again once her hand made contact.

She took a big swig and got a few strands of hair into her mouth. Without thinking, I leaned down and softly brushed the hair off her face.

She looked at me — without stopping her ingestion of the coffee, of course — and smiled.

"Thank you," she said between sips.

"No problem," I replied with my usual swagger.

"For everything," she clarified. "Cleaning me up last night, apologizing, getting me into bed, rubbing my stomach."

Oh shit, her memory was very clear. My swagger started to waver.

"Kissing me," she added with a sly little grin that she tried to hide in her coffee mug.

Way too clear.

"You…um…" my vocal chords seized up and I had to clear my throat. "You remember a lot, don't you?"

"I wasn't that drunk," she replied. "I didn't drink all day — I went for a run on a volcano. I usually run when I'm upset. I didn't start drinking until later." She looked down into her empty coffee cup and the tips of her ears turned pink. "Once I threw up, I felt totally sober. But really stupid."

It was about this time that I realized the Ice Princess had melted. She was completely and utterly sweet, soft, and warm — like a girl-sized marshmallow. And I wanted to toast her and moosh her with a Hershey bar between two graham crackers.

My mouth started to water and I swallowed while I poured her another cup of coffee.

"Thank you," she said as she took the coffee. Her fingers brushed mine and I felt that electric current again. "Liv Barrett," she added with a shy smile.

It took me a minute to realize she had introduced herself. Then it took me another minute to remember the appropriate response.

"Jaz Pierce. You're welcome."


"It's short for Jasmine." I scrunched up my nose to show my distaste for my embarrassing name.

"That's a beautiful name," she said. She got a dreamy look in her eyes. "I used to spend the summers with my Grandmother. There was a night-blooming jasmine bush outside my bedroom window. I always thought that's what Heaven would smell like."

That's it. Right at that moment. That's when I fell in love with her.

Go ahead, laugh all you want. You don't have a romantic bone in your body. You fell in love with Susan when she drank a pint of beer in sixteen seconds and then belched her name. At least I fell in love with a woman who imagines what Heaven smells like.

Now, you're probably going to think that we jumped into bed. I have to admit, various parts of my anatomy were telling me to rope, throw, and brand her, but — a little left over weirdness from the day before — I decided I'd rather (cough, cough) get to know her better.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" I asked. I scuffed my sneaker on the floor like a twelve-year old kid with a crush on the little girl next door. I couldn't look at her because I thought she would stick her tongue out at me and tell me I had cooties.

"Sure," she amazingly responded. "You want to go walk on our beach?"

I grinned at her. It was a peace offering and a promise all rolled into one.

We spent the next few hours walking on the beach, then strolled into town and had a great lunch. We talked and talked. I hardly once thought about having sex with her. OK, that's a lie. I thought about it nearly the whole time. But I was also having a great time just getting to know her.

Here are the basics (because I know you worry about who I'm dating):

Despite the fact that I pictured her Russell Crowe look-a-like boyfriend as the investment banker, Liv is actually the one who's the investment banker.

She's incredibly rich, but not really showy about it.

Her friends call her Liv (you already figured that one out, I'm sure).

She's an only child.

She's gorgeous, sexy, funny, intelligent, sexy, allergic to strawberries, and…did I mention sexy?

Oh, and I think she likes me.

We got back to the house in the middle of the afternoon and it only took about five minutes before we were necking. Not that I generally go around timing these things, but a quick glance at my watch confirmed exactly 2 minutes, 23 seconds before I hit second base. And by golly if she didn't beat me to third!

We stopped to retire to the boudoir. Making the trip was a minor irritation, but the added room and comfy location was worth it.

No, I'm not going to sit here and describe my moves. Even if I tried to explain, it would definitely lose something in the translation. To put it in scientific terms: tab A fit into slot B, she yinged and I yanged, and she moaned and I growled.

I brought her to the brink of ecstasy, as they say in all the romance novels, and right before the heavens exploded with a burst of fireworks, she looked at me with those emerald eyes and whispered, "Please."

I knew what she meant — "please don't stop". But more than that: "please don't let go"; "please don't leave me". I could see in her eyes that she'd put her life in my hands.

Remember when we were kids and you fell out of the tree house and I grabbed onto you just before you tumbled to the ground? You looked up at me with that same expression. I held you and said the same thing I said to her: "I won't let you fall."

It was glorious, Bro. And that was only the beginning. But I won't embarrass you with the sordid details. I still remember when we were fourteen and you asked me what exactly girls did together. I got a hoot watching your ears turn crimson, your eyes bug out, and those little tendrils of spit develop at the corners of your mouth. I won't even mention the stiffy you got, you pervert. No, as much as I enjoy freaking you out, I think I'll be a lady and draw the curtain on any further details of our bedroom (and bathroom, and living room, and kitchen).

She's sleeping right now, so I'm writing this letter and I'll stick a stamp on it and put it in the box before she wakes up. And then we'll start all over again!

Life is good!

Your disgustingly happy sister,



June 5

Hiya Booger!

I've been spending the day with show tunes running through my head. Mainly Rogers and Hammerstein, with a little Bernstein and Sondheim thrown in. And they all involve LOVE!

Being in love is a glorious feeling. Being in love in Paradise is so astronomically better that words fail me.

Now, you probably expect me to tell you that we didn't leave the bedroom all day. You're wrong! That would be crazy. We didn't spend the day making love in the house. We spent the day making love in various exotic locations: poolside in the chaise lounge, in a little hut on the side of a volcano, in the restroom at the Don Ho Theater, and on our private beach at sunset. OK, there were a few trips to the bedroom in between.

And it wasn't just all sex all the time, Bro. We talked some more. I got to know her and fell ass over tits in love with her — from my head down to my toes.

We told each other everything about ourselves. She even told me about Cheryl and I told her about Christine. Isn't it a cosmic coincidence that both our ex-girlfriends had names that started with CH? Anyway, just talking it out made me feel better, and I think the same was true for her. We had both made the mistake of falling in love with dumb, egotistical bimbos with big boobs. We'd finally come to our senses and wouldn't fall for that trick again. We'd found each other — awkward, insecure, neurotic, and intelligent. With average-sized boobs.

Now, don't think I'd forgotten about the Ice Princess, Booger. A lot of her demeanor could be chalked up to that bitch Cheryl and an incredibly intense job, but I did ask her why she wouldn't share a cab with me.

She said it was because of my shoes. As you know, my purple high-tops are getting a little ragged. She thought I was either crazy or a homeless person, and either way she wasn't getting into a cab with me.

I told her they were my flying shoes and she of course asked me what the hell I was talking about. (She seemed to ask me that a lot for some reason.) I described the picture we found when we were seven — you know, of the plane crash — the rows of shoes that were all they had left to identify people. I explained that from that day forward I always wore my distinctive shoes when I flew — so my loved ones would know I was on the plane.

She didn't say anything — just had this look on her face. I expected a "you are completely insane, what have I gotten myself into?" look. But it wasn't that at all. It was a "you are completely adorable and I want to love you forever and can we go have sex as soon as possible?" look.

Is she perfect or what?

Of course, she's just as crazy-adorable as I am. For example, I found out today that she can't swim. (I thought having sex in the ocean might be a fun time.) I asked her why she came to Hawaii for vacation if she couldn't swim, and she said she liked to look at the ocean — it helped her understand her place on the planet. And also she's rather fond of drinks served in coconut shells with little paper umbrellas.

Here are some other wonderful Liv facts:

She drinks more coffee and other caffeine-related beverages than anyone I've ever known but never has coffee breath. She talks in her sleep but always nonsense words. Her favorite ice cream topping is butterscotch. She can suck the frosting out of a Hostess Ding Dong without biting into it. Her father's name is Bertram. She squeaks when she comes. (Whoops, forget I said that; she'll kill me if she finds out I told you that.)

I'm telling you, Booger, she's the one. Who says I'm commitment-phobic? I want to spend the rest of my life with this woman. I want to move into a little house by the ocean and adopt a dog named Scruffy and make dinner for her every night and listen to her squeak over and over. I want to see who gets the first gray hair. I want to buy her flowers on our anniversary every year for the next fifty years. And fifty years from now, I want to think back to this week and laugh and then sigh and then make love to her.

I really, really love her, Booger. And I'm so very, very happy.

But I won't bore you any more. I'll go mail this letter. And get back into bed with her as soon as possible.

Your very contented sis,



June 6


I have something very important to say. I want you to listen and learn.

Women suck. And not in the way you're thinking.

They're insane and self-centered and schizophrenic and mean and evil and just downright horrible with a capital HOR! I really don't like them. Really.

You may wonder why I ever became a lesbian. I'll tell you why: because they fool you! They're all soft and squishy and they smile and say sweet things. And they smell nice. And taste nicer — especially their earlobes. Girl earlobes are much nicer than guy earlobes. (I've only nibbled one male earlobe and it tasted like Spam.)

Women give you this nice, warm, comfortable feeling and then WHAM! They turn into fucking Medusa. They have more personalities than Sybil. Stay away from them is my advice. I know, you were foolish enough to marry one. Well, be very, very careful. Watch her. She's just waiting to turn on you.

As you probably have figured out, I'm not in love with Olivia Barrett any more. She's a raving bitch from Hell. I friggin' hate her.

Everything was going great at first. She woke up mid-morning and we rang in the day with another close encounter of the sexual kind. She proved once again that sucking out the middle of a Ding Dong is not the only thing she can do well with her tongue.

During breakfast, I decided to broach the subject of going home. She confirmed that her flight was about the same time as mine tomorrow, but she quickly changed the subject. I wanted to at least make sure I had her phone number and e-mail address, but every time I brought it up today, she either changed the subject or pretended she hadn't heard the question.

But you know me: Ms. Oblivious. The clues were hitting me right between the eyes, but I completely missed them.

We ordered a couple of pizzas for dinner (we couldn't share — she demanded mushrooms on hers) and as we sat feeding our faces, I innocently asked her if we were actually going to see each other after tomorrow.

It was supposed to be a joke.

"I've had the best time of my life these past few days," she said.

I looked at her and spotted a huge BUT hovering in midair between us. It was absolutely elephantine in size.

"But…" I said.

"No 'but'," she replied, staring directly at the big BUT. She paused. "Well…if you think about it, we really don't have a lot in common."

She went for the deep WELL instead of the big BUT. It was just the same.

"What are you talking about?" I asked, hoping that this was all a huge misunderstanding.

"I like to relax with a good book in front of the fire."

"I'll hang out and do sit ups while you read." That's it — she was joking. She had to be.

"We don't like the same foods."

"We both hate Brussels sprouts."

"Everyone hates Brussels sprouts. You broaden that hatred to include all vegetables. That's strange, and downright unhealthy."

"I eat my Flintstone's vitamins every day," I pointed out. "And I drink coffee. Doesn't that count as a dried and boiled vegetable?"

She let out a frustrated huff. "Look, I'm trying to explain to you that…well…it's been really fun."

Her pregnant pauses finally clued me in. And when she said, "it's been really fun", I felt like a giant hand was gripping me around the middle and squeezing really, really hard. The old "it's been really fun line"!

I swallowed the mouthful of pizza that I'd been chewing, and felt it claw its way down my esophagus. I begged it to stay down. Now was not the time to throw up.

Then, I was hit by inspiration.

"You're just saying this," I said, "because you want me to think that you aren't crazy about me in case I'm not crazy about you and just wanted a quick summer fling — but I am crazy about you and I want more than a quick summer fling. So you don't need to pretend that you're not madly in love with me."

She looked at me for a minute and her eyes got really cold. Icy, in fact. The fucking Ice Princess was back! And then she said to me in an arctic voice that sent shivers down my spine: "Get over yourself."

Get over myself!?!

Get over myself?!?

OK — little admission here: I went ballistic. Not like "pull out a butcher knife, come to blows, boil her rabbit" ballistic — but definitely "screaming, name-calling, spittle-spraying" ballistic. And she went ballistic right back at me.

It ended, as all good breakups do (at least in my experience) with both of us screaming, "Fuck you, bitch!" and some pretty impressive door slamming. No tears, though — certainly not on my part. I listened outside her window afterward just to be sure she wasn't crying. Not a peep.

So, it's over between Olivia Barrett and me. Not the longest relationship I've ever had, but certainly not the shortest either. I'm coming home tomorrow. I had some damn good sex in the past few days — but I sure could have done without the brain fuck.

I'll see ya soon, Bro!

Your very burned out sister,



June 7

So Booger,

I guess I should explain the phone call telling you not to bother picking me up at the airport. But if you got all of these letters and read them in order, I suppose you have some idea of what's going on.

Despite all the times I've teased you about your way with women (or lack thereof), I bet you've already figured out what happened between yesterday and today.

That's right. We made up.

I take back everything I said about women yesterday. Well, not the part about the Multiple Personality Syndrome. That's still true. But deep down, women are pretty cool. Especially one particular red-haired, green-eyed beauty whom I love. Yes! L-O-V-E!

So, here's how it went down:

I woke up to the sound of birds singing sweetly and a warm breeze tickling my nose. It smelled of salt and fresh fruit. God, it was going to be hard to leave my island paradise.

But not hard to leave the Wicked Witch of the Pacific. I packed last night, cursing Olivia the entire time. So, I was facing three hours before I had to head to the airport. I decided to go for a soulful walk on "our beach" (cue sarcastic eye roll). I figured Olivia would still be asleep. It was only nine in the morning, after all.

I went down to the beach and all the way into the water, letting the gentle waves dance around my toes. Then, I walked along the waves until I came to the rocks that marked the boundary of the private beach. I really wasn't looking where I was going, and just as I got to a large rock, Olivia popped up from behind it.

Crunchy moment as we stared at each other and mumbled "hi" or a noise sort of resembling "hi".

We looked at each other and quickly looked at our feet, and then she started walking away. I looked up and watched her go. She was wearing black shorts and her ass had sand on it, since she'd been sitting down behind the rock. I'm telling you this little detail because I became obsessed with that sand.

I felt an uncontrollable urge to brush it off. I needed to take care of her and I needed to touch that ass and I loved her and I couldn't let her go and I had to do something and…I loved her. That phrase alone stood out in the midst of my mental spew and was lit up like Edith Piaf sitting in a spotlight singing a torch song.

"I love you!" Yes, I did indeed shout it out. (Cue romantic music, with a few minor chords, because what if she turns around and shouts "fuck you!"?)

She did stop. She looked sort of like a dinosaur stuck in a tar pit.

And then slowly…way too slowly…she turned around. She didn't look at me. She examined her feet again. She wasn't wearing any shoes and her toenails were painted candy-apple red. I had sucked on those toes.

I waited, sure I had made a terrible mistake and not wanting it rubbed in my face. Then I saw her jump — well, sort of convulse really. I thought maybe she had a seizure disorder that she hadn't told me about, but I finally realized she was crying.

I made her cry. I hate when I make women cry. I rushed to her and hugged her, pulling her to me and apologizing over and over. And she was apologizing over and over. And we both realized we were being a couple of stupid-ass girls.

"You must think I'm a raving lunatic," she said after smearing her tears across her face with the back of her hand.

"No, of course I don't," I lied.

"You're a terrible liar," she ludicrously claimed.

"I know," I lied again. I decided that I would agree with everything she said if it meant we would stay together forever. Unless she asked me to eat vegetables. Or if she told me the Cubs weren't the best baseball team in the world. Well, OK, there were a few things I wouldn't agree to.

"I was an idiot last night," she said. That one was easy to agree to, but I had to be careful.

"We were both idiots," I said. I heard "Good answer, good answer" being shouted inside my head. There's often a game of Family Feud going on in there.

"You were right," she continued, oblivious of the goings-on in my brain. "When you said that I was trying to break up because I was afraid you didn't love me as much as I loved you, you were right. I thought you were just saying that because you didn't want me to think that I was a freak for falling so hopelessly in love with you and then we'd have this embarrassing scene at the airport and promise to get in touch the second we landed and I'd call you, but you would be distant and busy…"

Yes, Booger, she did keep talking. When she got going, that girl could talk. I was good and stood there and listened. It was too hard to interrupt the flow anyway.

"…And after awhile, you wouldn't return my phone calls and then you would just…drift away. But you would feel bad that it had ended that way. I didn't want you to feel bad and I didn't want to feel bad. I just didn't see any way out of feeling bad."

"So you decided it would be better if we felt bad as early as possible?" Her logic left me stranded in the woods, desperately looking for my trail of breadcrumbs.

"I'm sorry," she said, with an abashed look on her face. "I tried to break if off gently, but…"

"There's no such thing," I pointed out. "Not in my experience anyway."

We both stood there and thought about our history of bad breakups. I pictured my CD collection spread out along Monroe Avenue, a couple of kids using Frank Sinatra's Greatest Hits as a hockey puck.

"What do we do now?" She asked, tearing me away from my bad memories.

"I don't care," I replied. "As long as I'm with you."

I grabbed her and pulled her to me, squishing her face into my breasts.

"I never want to let you go," I said. I sounded a little desperate, but what the hell. "I don't ever want to have a dream where you're wearing tartan pajamas and we're fighting over a stuffed panda."

"Whampf uh woo fafin apooph?" she asked from between my boobs.

"Never mind," I replied, releasing her so she could breathe.

"I need to go to Paris on business tomorrow," she said, suddenly looking shy. "Will you come with me?"

Gee, it was a tough decision. A stylishly-decorated pension in Paris or my piece of shit apartment in Chicago? True, I hadn't seen a Cubs game in nearly two weeks, but maybe I could pick one up on Armed Forces Radio. This was the love of my life, after all.

"Um…" I teased, pausing dramatically. "OK!"

She smiled, and then looked at me the same way she had the first night we kissed. Then, like she did that night, she ran her fingers delicately over my face.

"I love you, Jasmine Pierce," she pronounced, as if that had been the answer she'd been struggling to figure out.

"I love you too, Olivia Barrett." It had been harder than algebra, but I think I got an A minus. And I didn't even have to cheat off your paper.

Booger! You think I'm crazy and this is all going to end in tears, don't you? I mean, how can a summer fling last — especially one like this, which had more ups and downs than a manic-depressive on a pogo stick?

Look, quit asking stupid questions and have a little faith, Dude. Miracles happen every day.

Feed my fish for me and I'll see ya soon!

Your blissfully happy sister,



P.S., you might have been born first, but I kicked your ass on the way out.


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