It's been almost a year since I got the phone call. Ironically, I had just come from a funeral.

"Terri? I have some news for you. Dana died."  The voice was delivering the news via my answering machine.

I quickly picked up the phone. It was one of my good friends from my teenage years. Anne and I talked for about a half hour. Reminiscing. A flood of memories.

Why?

 Dana was my first boyfriend.

We were both fifteen.  Dana gave me my first grown-up kiss. I broke up with  him to date his friend (known as That Bastard) and when he dumped me, Dana and I were back together. Only we were older this time.  We were seventeen.

We dated off and on for five years. The last I saw him I had been out and stopped at the Big Boy drive-in that we all went to. It was a true American Graffiti youth. Cars. Burgers. Romance. And more cars. I seem to remember I had been drinking sloe gin and 7-up.  My car door opened and Dana slid into the passenger seat. As far as I can remember, as usual with us, one word led to another and I yelled at him to get the hell out of my car. He did and I burned rubber getting out of there.

That was the last I saw  him. I think we were nineteen by that time. He stopped by my house about six months after that. My brother was in the yard. Dana rolled down his car window and told my brother to tell me he was getting married on Saturday.         End of story.

I looked up his obituary and signed the online guestbook and mentioned that I had dated Dana at one time and I was very sorry for their loss.  A month later, I got an email from his widow. I told her a few stories from Dana's youth.

And we have stayed in contact.

The point of this is two-fold. His death brought some fun memories to the surface.And in the end, I think I may have gained a new friend.

It's not ren, I know. But it's been on my mind.

OK, so it is the title of a Temptaions album. Which brings me to the subject at hand.

Music.

 It was hot that night. Really hot. In a temperature-barometer-summer kind of hot. A lot of us had gone to the Bluesboro for some company, liquor and music. Only in my case, the music comes first.

After a bit of dancing and while the whipped cream initiations were in full swing, I got a mudslide and wended my way through the crowd. The  patio had a ledge and a big opening where theoretically a screen or vinyl window should be. It was the only ventilation and access to whatever breeze there was.

I took my boots off and found a spot on the ledge. Hopping up, I grabbed my drink and leaned against the upright. The sultry summer night breeze wafted through. I lifted my hair  off my neck to cool down. Mudslide in hand, I leaned against the upright, closed my eyes and absorbed the sounds of Motown.

Instantly I was transported in my mind to a place in my past. The summer, the night, the music and to a guy I thought I loved. Maybe I did.

I sat there and soflty sung, 'Oooh, baby baby....' and went back to that beautiful time in my past.

And at that moment, life did not get any better than that.

Last year, my shared ride complained I had a 'honkin' big suitcase'. And I agree.

I DO have a big suitcase. Why, you may ask? Why indeed!

Because...I am WOMAN. I exercise the right to change my mind even when I am walking out the door. Even if it means changing my chemise with my bodice still on.

When I was a little wench, about 3 years old, my grandmother told me this story. Guess I was a miserable little brat that day. (Don't say another word, like. 'so, Wenchie, what else is new?) She finally said, "(insert real name here) WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH YOU?"

I screamed, "I HATE THIS DRESS!!"

They never changed my clothes so fast and I was a perfect little diva after that. Think the dress was burned in an exorcism ceremony. And no, I do NOT like pea soup.

When I wake up in the morning, I have NO idea what kind of mood I will be in. So..if you want a happy little wench at Ette Tu, you will humour me. Don't look at me cross-eyed when I lug a 'honkin' big suitcase'

Just know that it contains the very outfit that will make Wenchie happy for the day. Because when Wenchie is happy, all is right with her world.

 I'll be a Queen

A foul-mouthed marine

Your Mary Magdalene

To please you

 Or in this case--ME!

The Baron seems to think I need a new blog...

 So..why am I having a serious case of panic when it comes to the Ette Auction at Ette Tu? It feels like waiting for someone to ask you to prom. What if no one bids? Or would it be worse to go for 2.50? I mean, OK, I can understand being sold for a chili dog. Especially if it has extra cheese.

What about the look of disappointment on the face of someone knowing they have to spend the afternoon with me? Sure, I'm a cheap date and I don't require food. I'll accept a Bacardi. The drink, not the person. OH, I'll accept him in a heartbeat....but liquor is what I mean.

My self-worth has taken a nosedive due to few circumstances. I only hope I can rise above the occasion and act like I mean something to someone. Anyone. You know, walk into a room like you own it. Even if you don't feel  like it.  Fake it till you make it. Maybe that is what it means to be an Ette.

Whatever the outcome, I hope I can hold my head up and act like things don't bother me. Because in the end, it's just yourself who matters. That is who is looking back at you in the mirror. If you can face that person and say, "Yeah. I'm worth something." Then everything will be alright.

And it's not the hair colour talking, it's the 40 volume peroxide I use.

It's very easy.

Sit under the blazing sun in Florida at the beach for four and a half  hours.

Devour a large hamburger and a kosher dill pickle.

Drink three Cokes.

Make phone calls to distract yourself from how hot you are. Temperature-wise. Make sure others know you are hot. I mean HOT as in..well, we aren't talking temperature.

Rub ice over body and put an ice cube in your bikini top. If you can.

 OR get a frozen mudslide and you can dispense with the burger, pickle, cokes, phone calls and ice.

After that, all it takes is two two-hour sessions to maintain your tan.

 After all, they don't cal me beach-baby for nothin'!