Trading Post

First layer of disposables, I like a Tighty Whitie or NRU Ultima with a couple of boosters. There are two more layers on top. 

oh man NEVER throw away a case of diapers let alone 7. Just because you hate them does not mean others won't. There are times a cheap hospital diaper is the better choice. Generally, I won't go to bed in a slightly wet diaper as they make me itch so a cheap one is the better option, I.E. I have to change an hour before bed and don't want to waste a more expensive one. I do find thicker ones to be more uncomfortable to sleep in but must have one that has wings as I do sleep on my side, so I aim my part downwards, being wet usually wakes me up so I just change it and go back to sleep. The exception to that is if I have had alcohol and use a kid's diaper as a stuffer with holes in them.

I'm lactose intolerant so on mornings where I have cereal for breakfast I use a generic lactaid pill. This morning I forgot and the result was me using my diaper for something I don't like but it's not a big deal. I never have cereal on days I'll be leaving the house like for errands or shopping because the pill doesn't always work. Hugs, Freta

I've two straight good quality wigs, one blonde and one auburn. I brushed both of them, split them into bunches and tied them with pieces of white and pink satin ribbon into bows. Simple but very effective. 

ZEROING IN It was a little after nine when Hollie and Dana strolled into The Pirate's Roost, and one casual glance was all it took for Hollie to confirm that the setup was what she wanted. The band was into its second set, and true to his word the bartender, Dick Moeller, had turned up the lights at that end of the room. Lana and Maureen were already working the crew that had come ashore that morning, renewing acquaintances and lining up the customers with whom they would be spending the night. The faces were new, Hollie thought, but the game never changed. Jerry Costanza was at the opposite end of the bar, idly chatting with the bartender and the bouncer. Still sporting her orange hot pants, Dana slid onto a stool to Jerry's right while Hollie moved left to stand next to the bouncer, who put down his cup of black coffee to shake her hand. “They call me the Hammer,” Jake said by way of introduction. “I'm Hollie,” she simply replied. While Dick's hands were in motion mixing drinks, Hollie reached into her purse and pulled out her camera. Looking through the telephoto lens, she adjusted the focus, checked the meter, and took her first shot. She had captured Ken McElroy and one of his buddies knee deep in conversation with Maureen. Quickly, she moved on, getting good shots of six of their friends. With an almost imperceptible nod, Hollie let Dana know that it was time to move on to stage two of their plan. Drink in hand, Dana stood up and slowly sauntered across the room, giving Hollie a solid screen behind which she removed the telephoto lens and slid it back into her bag. Then, with a drink of her own in one hand and the camera in the other, Hollie moved out. She was going to shoot the band from different angles, hopefully getting more close up snaps of her targets in the process. When the band came down from the stage to start their break, she would take advantage of the distraction to lean against the platform and shoot everyone from a different angle. With good lighting, she was confident that she would end up with fourteen detailed portraits for Spats to examine. “Anybody here from west Texas,” she asked when she finally sat down. “I'm an oil field girl myself.” It was an innocent enough question, delivered in an authentic west Texas drawl, but knowing a guy's birthplace would give the Outfit something to work with even without a last name. High school yearbooks were easily accessed, and if the town was small enough, pawing through the DMV records often struck gold. The Syndicate would loan money to anybody, but no one was allowed to welsh on the deal. However long it took, if you ran, they would always track you down. “Does Mineral Wells count? I was born and raised on a ranch a few miles to the northwest. And I'm Morgan.” “Ex-military,” she asked as she nodded at the tattoos on his outstretched arm. She shook hands gracefully. “Anyplace that far west of Fort Worth counts … and I'm Hollie.” “Once a jarhead always a jarhead,” Morgan preened. “We're all honorably retired from something or other. No Air Force, though. We don't have much in common with the flyboys.” “Hear you. My first real job was at a cafe in Pecos. Most of the regulars were riggers, and you could tell from the tattoos that a lot of them had been in the military. But no flyboys … understandable given that the nearest air base was over two hundred miles away. If a girl from my neck of the woods wanted to snare a stick jockey, she looked for work in Abilene. Pretty regular turnover in the bars and restaurants there.” “Flyboys don't like to get their hands dirty-- not in combat, and not back in the world. Got no use for them.” McElroy found the idea of delivering death from six miles high the very definition of cowardice. Real men wanted to get in close, and watch the light fade from their eyes. A bayonet was his weapon of choice. “So, how's it going out there? Everything going to be ready when the Park opens next March?” Hollie had schooled Dana on the questions she wanted her to drop into the conversation. “There's an incentive clause in our contract,” one of the men pointed out. "There's a ten percent bonus if we bring it in three weeks early. That's what we're shooting for.” “Which means more money for us,” Maureen laughed. “Or will you be moving on?” “Don't know the answer to that one.” Maureen had serviced Roger more than once on his previous trips ashore. He always opted for quick romps in the afternoon rather than overnight stays, sensibly pointing out that this got him twice as much bang for his bucks. “This place is real nice,” Roger went on, “but we all have to make a living, so we chase the construction work.” Interesting, Hollie thought. They'll need a new cover in place before March, so what are the odds that they'll be moving on, and Marlin Hunter with them? Remind Jerry to find out who owns it, and how many berths it's occupied north of La Jolla. A craft that size should be easy to track down … Finishing up her drink, Hollie headed back to the bar. There was one other point she wanted to raise with Jerry-- the one thing that during the course of a long day hadn't gone the way she expected. After switching rides at a dirt lot on the outskirts of Oxnard, Hollie had expected Ken McElroy to drive to a bank and draw out the cash that he would need to cover his expenses over the next three weeks. Instead, he had gone straight to the inn, which checked him in despite the fact that it was only a little after one. He had paid her for a quickie and then sent her packing. At two, since none of his buddies had shown up, Hollie and her friends opted to take advantage of their downtime to drive into town, make deposits in their accounts, and treat themselves to a good meal. She was convinced that McElroy would also hit a bank sometime on Saturday morning, so she wanted Jerry to lie in wait and follow him wherever he went. How, she wondered, did these guys get paid? Did they use a large national bank that received their paychecks by wire? Would a courier drop by and start passing out envelopes? Hollie knew that the Outfit had a tight grip on several banks in the Chicago area, any one of which could front an inquiry for information concerning a loan application. It should be possible, she mused, for Vegas to trace McElroy's funds to their source and uncover the name of the organization that Spats Belmondo was after. All they needed to know was which banks in Ventura McElroy and the others were using. . . . . “Right on time,” Ian grinned as Tippi walked into his office. “Have to be,” she said in return. “You have an exam to give at ten, and I have an exam to take.” “What's the class?” “Beginning Italian. I wanted to take it in high school, but it wasn't offered. The first time I heard Al Di La on the radio, I was hooked.” “Emilio Pericoli,” Ian mused. “You're right. He reminded us all that Italian is the language of love.” “Is it one of your many languages?” Ian nodded. “Thanks to the Berlitz records, with a Milanese accent … self-taught, in the twelfth grade, along with Romanian.” “Incredibile. Ma è ora di cambiarti il pannolino.” “Tippi!” Ian was shocked. “That's the first time anyone has told me that it's time for a diaper change in Italian. Well done!” “Thanks, Dad.” Now it was Tippi's turn to grin. “I worked up that line and memorized it. Did I get it right?” “You did,” he confirmed. “The accent was spot on.” Ian opened a drawer in a filing cabinet and pulled out his changing pad while Tippi gathered supplies from his diaper bag. Theirs was a well practiced routine. “Miss Marshall dragged me into PISS when I was walking to campus,” Tippi pointed out as she sat about changing Ian's messy diaper. “She asked me to remind you to go over the rules for the end of term party with your students. No alcohol … that's the big one, of course. Food and drink will be served starting around seven, buffet style. The band will kick it into gear sometime after eight. Things usually start to quiet down around one in the morning, when the band calls it a night.” “How formal?” “Suit and tie, or a dressy sweater. You know, the sort of thing that Stan Carmichael favors.” “Got it. Does Suzie expect the guys to bring anything?” “Nope.” “You should show up, Tip. If things go well, you'll meet Dario and Fabio, two of Spats' grandnephews back in the home country. Hopefully, they'll fly in sometime this week and spend some time here before heading out to the coast to go surfing. You could try your Italian out for real!" “Are you going to be there?” “Not for very long if at all. Remember, Sarah and I are getting married the next day.” “I remember. I'm still trying to figure out which side of the aisle I should sit on.” “I'm counting on the sorority to beef up the numbers on my side. If they make it to town, you could sit with Dario and Fabio.” “Umm … that sounds good. If everybody brings her boyfriend along, your side of the aisle will be packed … standing room only!” “Should be an easy sell. The wedding's at two in the hospital chapel, and the reception will kick off the Christmas party to end all Christmas parties. Sarah says that everyone who isn't actually working gets smashed, so it sounds like we're looking at a fraternity kegger on steroids.” “You have a bit of a diaper rash, so I'm going to hit it with Desitin, then drown it in baby powder.” Tippi got a big dollop of the cream on her fingers, and slowly covered Ian's testicles and the crack of his ass. Rubbing it in reminded her just how much she enjoyed caressing his body. “Can we skip the breast milk for now? I pigged out at breakfast, so I'm really full.” “Sure. You can have them after you finish your exam. Which reminds me … make sure your students know that there's no parking on the boulevard, and that the side streets will probably be jammed. There's public parking about a half mile south of PISS; that will be their best option.” “Tip, you're a wonder. I sure hope you can come to Athens with us. Santorini is lovely at this time of year.” “Dad, I'd love to, but I can't afford it.” “Not to worry. I've got you covered; there's a line item in my budget for incidental expenses.” “Fantastic! When you get a firm date, I'll clear it with my probation officer. But what are we going to do about the diapers? There's you, me, Doctor Robinson and the Batgirl. We'll be drowning in suitcases.” “The trick is not to overpack. Each of us will make do with a dozen of our daytime diapers. I'll buy baby diapers to use as stuffers at night, and trash them just before we fly home. Laundromats are not a thing in Greece, but the hotels will take care of us.” “Just about done,” Tippi muttered as she pulled Ian's fresh diaper into place and pinned it tight. “Let's get your baby pants up, then you can finish dressing and we'll be off. I'll come back after my exam, and we can do it all over again.” “You take such good care of me,” Ian smiled. It was true. Tippi was a terrific caretaker. . . . . Sitting behind the wheel of his car, Jerry Costanza was relaxing, waiting for Ken McElroy to make his move. The seat was pushed back, he had popped a tape of Frank Sinatra into the cassette deck, and he was working on a thermos of hot coffee while munching on a maple doughnut. The banks didn't open until nine, but he had got to the inn early because he reckoned that Hollie and the mark would first head out for breakfast. He might then head straight from the diner to the bank, so Jerry had to cover all the bases. As he watched from his perch on the opposite side of the road, pickups began exiting the inn's lot in a steady stream. One by one, they all made left turns and headed off in the direction of downtown Ventura. There were several restaurants along the way, and given the early hour, Jerry was willing to wager that each and every one of his quarry had bacon and eggs on his mind. Patiently, Jerry stayed put, waiting for Hollie to pop out with McElroy at her side. He wanted to give the bruiser plenty of room, which meant that he needed to get a good, hard look at the guy's ride. He wanted to follow at a distance, and keep three or four cars between the two vehicles at all times. “Got you,” he swore under his breath when Hollie stepped out into the parking lot. She was wearing a bright red sweater, which made her easy to spot. Taking his time, Jerry slipped into the traffic flow well behind McElroy, who had also made the turn towards Ventura. As expected, their first stop was a choke and puke farther along the busy highway. Circling the block, Jerry found a parking space that gave him a clear view of the lot. Anyone entering or exiting the restaurant would pass through his field of vision. Some forty minutes later, McElroy walked out the door and straight to his truck. He was alone. “Cute,” Jerry mumbled to himself. “Doesn't want anyone to know about his financial arrangements, not even his so-called friends.” Jerry kept his eye on the entrance. This was one of the contingencies that he and Hollie had mapped out in advance. She would remain inside if she could get a ride back to the inn with one of McElroy's buddies; if not, she would dash out and rush to the curb, where he would pick her up on the fly. Keeping an eye on McElroy's truck as it continued on towards downtown Ventura, Jerry counted to ten. When Hollie failed to appear, he set off in pursuit. The pickup was easy to spot in city traffic, so Jerry was content to stay well back. They were westbound on Main Street, heading into the business district, when McElroy made a left onto First. “What the hell,” Jerry yelled, as he also made the turn. Did he spot me? There's nothing down here except the … “Post Office,” he swore to himself as McElroy swung into the lot and parked, leaving Jerry no option but slowly to follow. Mercifully, there were several other vehicles occupying some of the spaces, so he was able to put some distance between himself and the pickup. “Well, well, well,” he chuckled. He was staring through a huge plate glass window at a phalanx of post office boxes, and there was Ken McElroy, collecting his mail. Jerry slapped his forehead several times, displeased with himself for missing the obvious. Like so many transient workers, McElroy needed an address to which his mail could be forwarded, and a post office box was the obvious answer. The big question was whether he would walk out with a paycheck in hand. Jerry breathed a sigh of relief when McElroy came out, fired up the engine without looking around, and turned right exiting the lot. Two more rights would bring him into the heart of downtown from the south. But where would he park? On one of the side streets, or in one of the lots? Either way, he would have to walk because there was no parking on Main, and that's where the banks were located. Timing it perfectly, Jerry pulled out onto First just as McElroy was making the turn onto Santa Clara. He could afford to take his time catching up because pickups stood out like sore thumbs in this part of town. Jerry was a block behind when McElroy made a right on California, where curbside parking figured to be readily available this early on a Saturday morning. Sure enough. McElroy was just crossing Main when Jerry made the turn, and he watched him pull into the curb half a block north of the intersection. The entrance to the Security Pacific bank building was back on the corner. Jerry decided not to stop. He would catch the red at Main, which would give McElroy plenty of time to enter the bank. Then it was time to drive back to Santa Barbara and make a long distance call to a very private number in Las Vegas. The capo would put the wheels in motion. . . . . “Another productive week,” John commented as he wrapped up the latest edition of Lessing's Folly. “Marge, you've brought Don Phillips along to the point where I think we should have him interact with Amos Waring.” “Not Ian?” “Grady was an officer at command level. Amos was a noncom. He and Phillips probably shared experiences in the field that would make Don more comfortable with him. All I want here is to get Phillips to engage in a coherent conversation. That's the ending I'll need to convince Glenn Albright that this project is worth his time and input. We need the VA's files to give us a base line for any vet that we treat.” “How did it go at the sorority?” Candy knew that Professor Lessing had dined with Joyce and Babs, testing the waters before he would commit to treating the abused policewoman inside the ward. “I'd say very well. They are both fully committed to see this through to the end. Joyce convinced me that she can shelve her sexual feelings for Babs until you think it's time for her to transition from baby girl back to womanhood. You will also need to work with Grady, who is ready to become the girl's father figure. Pick a role for him to play over the long haul … big brother … kindly uncle, and incorporate him into her adult relationships. It's critical that Babs have a man in her life whom she can trust completely.” “I'm going with big brother,” Candy noted. “There's only five years between them, and they share emotional trauma that makes it natural for each to look to the other for support. I want Babs to come out of this giving, not simply receiving. If we do this right, each of them will benefit over the long haul.” “That would be ideal,” John concluded. “Vickie,” he went on, “you were awfully quiet this morning. Are the alcoholics getting you down?” “No, John, it's not that, and I thought that my one on one with Candy went well. It sure felt good to get it all out in the open. No … it's my time of the month, and the monster has come up with some new tricks … new, and nasty. I'm having a hard time coping.” “I ask because your color's not good. Look, if things haven't improved by Monday, take the day off. Rita can handle your group, and she needs to take the occasional tour in the trenches to make sure her skills don't get rusty.” “I've got her back,” Rita interjected. “Vic and Priscilla are going to spend the weekend with their parents, and hopefully put the finishing touches on the adoption ceremony.” “Judge Reynolds has already completed the paperwork, so all we need to do before we book something is finalize the guest list. It would be great if we could do it just before the wedding … maybe Saturday afternoon or Sunday morning.” Vickie was feeling queasy, which didn't make any sense because everyone knew that nausea didn't set in until the fourth or fifth week. Could she be coming down with something right when her period was about to slam her into the mat? . . . . Ian settled back into his chair and gazed out over his classroom. He had passed on Tippi's words of advice to his students, who for the most part seemed eager to attend the end of term party at PISS. Now their heads were collectively buried in their blue books, answering what he hoped were straightforward and easily anticipated questions. He had time to think. If Aldo passed the test at Stoney Point, then using a surfboard to get him ashore in the dark wouldn't pose much of a challenge. Ian would teach him to cover his tracks on the beach, and show him how to use palm fronds to conceal the board. He would need to stay on the island for at least twenty-four hours, and preferably forty-eight-- learn the layout first, and then probe its weak points. There was an old wooden control tower alongside the dirt runway, and Ian needed a detailed report on how often it was manned, and how much attention the guard on duty paid to the seaward side of the island. Did the garrison send out patrols day and night, and if so, were they on a fixed schedule? The more intelligence that Aldo gathered, the more precise Ian's planning would become. In a way, it's just like gearing up for the assault on that POW camp southwest of Hanoi. I was able to scale the mission, prep it, rehearse it. It went off without a hitch. If Irina can get a trawler in close enough and we can get a Spetsnaz team through the surveillance net unobserved, we can take down the garrison fast. Gotta assume that the buildings are all wired and that there's at least one guard with the kids wherever they sleep, so stealthy will be the order of the day. Hit 'em hard and hit 'em fast.