Babypants

Scene 14 was entitled "The Many Faces of Ian Grady." Although a lot of hints have been scattered across a great many chapters, you still have not seen the persona that matters. This will come in scene 41. It guarantees that there will be a lot on Ian's mind come the next edition of Rita's Saturday Night Frolic. I doubt if you will want to change places with him in that scene, but next up is scene 2 of Aardvark, Platypus, and Twinkletoes.

This scene (36) opens on Tuesday morning, and ends early on Tuesday afternoon. I think it's fair to say that you won't have to wait for them to move in together on the weekend for Vickie's fate to be sealed.

THE LADY HEADHUNTER Sarah gently shook Vickie's shoulder, knowing that she was a light sleeper and would come instantly awake. “Good morning, baby” she whispered, not wanting to wake the Princess, who was still sucking on the pacifier Sarah had slipped into her mouth as she was falling asleep. “Good morning, Mommy,” Vickie whispered in return, more than happy to indulge Sarah's little fantasy. She had seen the disappointment in Sarah's face when she declined the bottles of breast milk hours earlier, but she was still relieved to see that Sarah was not pressing the issue. “Let's get you out of your diaper,” Sarah continued, keeping her voice low. “Do you want to clean up here, or at home? At least, I'm guessing that you want to go home and change.” “I do. And speaking of change … are you just changing my diaper, or giving me my panties back?” “You get your big girl underwear back until the end of your shift … unless, of course, you want me to diaper you. I'd like that … I worry about you, Vic, because at times you are your own worst enemy. For my own peace of mind, I would much prefer to keep you diapered 24/7.” “Oh, you'll probably get your wish soon enough,” Vickie grinned. “Just not today. Nope. Release me from bondage, and I'll do a quick wipe, get dressed, and be on my way.” Got time for a quickie, so I'm having a play date with my wand as soon as I get home ... Vickie glanced over at Ian, and noted that the Princess was still peacefully asleep. “She is simply adorable, and I love the pacifier. It really soothes her … our little baby girl.” “The baby dresses and onesies you picked out are so infantile. I love them, and can't wait to see her wearing them. But we need to get her booties; those boat shoes that she wears in the ward simply aren't cutting it.” “Already on it. I have his shoe size, and there's a store not all that far from here that sells ballet slippers. I was thinking of getting him pairs that are color coordinated with his baby dresses.” Vickie softly chuckled. “I was planning to have Ian model his new line of clothing on Saturday night, but with all the new faces, Rita's living room is going to get a tad crowded. Another day, perhaps.” “I hate to get her up,” Sarah sighed, “but it's time, and I want you to be here to guide me through it.” She took the key to Vickie's diaper cover out of her pocket, and unlocked it, but she abstained from undressing her. She had deliberately chosen not to ask her friend whether she was wet or poopy-- she was sure that over time this would become routine, but she also knew that, if at all possible, in the beginning Vickie should be brought along slowly. For now, it was best to let her attend to her needs in private. “Do you remember the triggers?” Sarah nodded. “Then get you butt into bed, and take her in your arms. Repeat the code phrase while tickling her-- just keep in mind that it is the Princess who will be waking up, and she thinks of you as her mommy. An aggressive French kiss will summon the Major, who will also think of you as his mommy, yet at the same time see you as the woman he loves. It's complicated terrain, Sarah, because he's happy to be your baby, but he also wants to make love to you. Shaping this relationship to your satisfaction is going to take time and effort.” “Mom drafted a D/s contract for us to sign. I'm going to use it as the foundation for our relationship.” “A D/s contract? That's wild! I can't wait to read it! But right now … get your butt in bed, and cradle your little baby girl. Let here feel you love... hear it in your voice.” Sarah was quick to comply, sliding into bed behind the Princess, and hugging her close. When she was settled, she began whispering in her ear while running her fingernails over the Princess' vulnerable tummy. “Con cò bé bé; does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?” The Princess began waving her heavily mittened hands in the air in a vain attempt to ward off the tickling. “Con cò bé bé; does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?” “Wuv mama,,” the Princess soon responded, her eyelids fluttering as she slowly came awake. “Mommy's here, Princess, and she loves you sooo much! Does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?” “Mommy! I wuv you, Mommy!” Ian rolled over, his arms reaching out to hug her, and to be hugged in return. “Good morning, sleepyhead! Now, let Mommy take off your mittens so that you can hug Mommy properly, and then I'll feed you your ba bas and see to your dirty diapee. Do you want your ba ba” “Yeth, Mommy, please … I wuv my ba bas!” Vickie waited until Sarah was nursing the Princess, and then quietly retired to the bathroom. Her diaper was very wet, the bedwetting episode the first that she had experienced since age seven-- and it wasn't until she was nine that her parents had finally put an end to her nightime diapers and baby pants. Sleepovers had been a nightmare, and she had never forgotten the humiliation that she had suffered on the playground as late as the seventh grade, when the bullies were still calling her Little Miss Pissy Pants. As she quickly cleaned herself with a washcloth snatched from Ian's bathroom closet, she feared that more such episodes would persuade Sarah that she needed diapers for real. And if I have a baby? Talk about fitting the profile for permanent postpartum incontinence! As she finished dressing, Vickie heard a loud burp emanating from the bedroom. She stood in the doorway, and watched quietly as Sarah rolled on top of the Princess, gazed lovingly into her eyes, and began to kiss her. The kisses quickly became invasive, Sarah driving her tongue deep into the Princess' mouth. In a matter of seconds, the flailing arms of the baby girl gave way to the knowing hands of a man exploring flesh and bone, the two lovers kissing passionately. Vickie turned away, quietly opened the door, and slipped out of Ian's apartment. Dawn was still more than ninety minutes away. Her wet diaper, now safely housed in one of the plastic bags that had become all the rage at her favorite grocery store, would disappear into the pile of patient diapers in the ward. . . . . “Okay, it's time for you to brush your teeth, shave, and shower. “I'll make the bed, and lay out your diaper. Anything in particular that you would like to wear?” “Hmm … let's go with the brown trousers that Rita just bought. Light green shirt with a dark green tie, dark brown sport coat, socks and shoes. And speaking of diapers ...” “Yes, baby?” “Mommy, I didn't call the diaper service yesterday. The lady who runs the office has been very kind, and canceling the service over the phone seems like a lousy thing to do. So, I'd like to bundle up the clean diapers and haul them and the dirties out to the office this afternoon and drop them off in person. I want Harriet to know that I am not unhappy with the service, just taking advantage of a much cheaper alternative. Could we take the diapers with us, and put them in aunt Vickie's car? She could drive me out to the office on the way home.” “Of course, baby, and thank you for being so thoughtful. It pleases me that you are as considerate to others as you are to your mommies; still, it was naughty of you to make this decision without my approval … very naughty. Now, can you brush your teeth, or do you need your mommy to do it for you?” . . . . “Good morning, Professor. Clark Carswell, Corporate International Recruiting, or CIRC for short. I know that you have a class coming up at eight, but I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself. I'm hoping that you can give me more of your time once your class is over.” Ian had just finished recording the grades for his Korean course, the blue books now safely stuffed in his briefcase. He would be returning them at the end of class-- normally a harrowing experience, but not with this group. His students were the pick of the litter, and he did not grade on a curve. It frankly surprised him that two of the papers had proven average at best. Clark Carswell was a well dressed man somewhere in his forties, with blonde hair that was artfully beginning to gray. Ian judged his winter coat to be a name brand with a price tag north of three hundred dollars, in contrast to his own well worn, somewhat stained refugee from a rack at Goodwill. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carswell,” Ian said with a broad smile as he held out his hand. “Have you met Officer Canon?” Ian was happy to see that Amy had supplied Priscilla with a chair. While the local fire code frowned on cluttered corridors, departments hard pressed for physical space routinely ignored the fine print. Ian winked at Pris; he intended to have some fun with this one. “And I can give you a few minutes of my time right now. I do not want to ruin my reputation for never showing up for anything on time. First off, how did you hear about me?” “My firm represents a hospital in Saint Paul, which desperately needs someone in Patient Relations with your language skills. I daresay that every hospital administrator in the Cities has heard of the fine work that you are doing down the street. Have you been compensated for it?” “Well, they are supplying me with free diapers, and members of the staff routinely change me when I'm wet or messy. Can you recommend an accountant? I need someone to tell me whether this is income that I have to declare.” “Diapers,” Carswell stuttered; “I don't understand.” “I'm totally incontinent, Mr. Carswell, as in both bladder and bowel. Courtesy of being shot to pieces in Viet Nam. I go through about a dozen adult diapers a day, so I'm grateful for all the help that I'm receiving.” “I see,” the recruiter said as he nodded in understanding. “A position at a hospital … a well compensated, responsible position … sounds like a very good fit for you. And we do have other clients … international corporations … and they pay very, very well for individuals with the kind of skill set that you command. Their benefits packages could easily be tailored to ease the financial burden of your disability.” “Count me interested, Mr. Carswell,” Ian said as he stepped inside the office to grab his briefcase. “And here, let me give you a copy of my resume, complete with the telephone number of my fiancee. She's a charge nurse in the hospital where I've been helping out, and I wouldn't dream of doing anything as important as changing jobs without her input. So, you need to give her a call, and set up an appointment. If you pass muster with Sarah, she'll arrange a group interview with Rita and Vickie, who will continue to be my common law wives after Sarah and I tie the knot.” “Your what,” Carswell gagged, not sure whether he had Professor Grady correctly. “I'm a practicing Muslim, Mr. Carswell-- and please do not step on my prayer rug when you come into my office. At present, I have three common law wives, but I'm in the market for a fourth. Officer Canon here is a candidate, along with my secretary, Miss Reynolds. And then there's Suzie and Harriet-- four candidates in all, and they will be interviewed on Saturday night at Rita's townhome, which is where the four of us live. I wouldn't be surprised if Sarah invites you and the other recruiters reaching out to me to stop by and make your pitch when we're all gathered in one place. Would Saturday night work for you?” “Umm … uh … I would have to check my calendar … can't say off the top of my head.” “That's understandable,” Ian replied with a sympathetic smile. “In any event, I hope that any firm that you think would be a good fit doesn't mind the bright light of publicity. You see, the four of us believe rather strongly in polygamy and polyandry, so once Sarah and I are married here, Vickie and I will be married in Vegas, and then we're going to bring a civil suit against the state to annul the statute criminalizing bigamy. I have quite a few friends in the Middle East … very wealthy friends … who are ready to underwrite the cost of taking our case all the way to the US Supreme Court. We are confident of victory, although the more traditional elements of our society will doubtless be outraged.” “I … I … I don't know what to say,” Carswell stuttered. “That's quite all right,” Ian smiled in return. “Now, I really must be off to class, but if you're patient, I might be able to fit you in during office hours, at either ten or two. Of course, students come first, and I seem to be terribly popular-- in fact, Officer Canon is here to keep the peace. The Department frowns upon coeds trying to decide who was here first by starting a brawl in the corridor. Personally, I find it all wonderfully entertaining, but my colleagues in the adjoining offices aren't so easily amused.” “And I must be off as well, Professor, though I look forward to meeting with you again.” Carswell all but ran down the corridor, hoping to have the elevator to himself as he descended into the relative sanity of the cold, winter air. When he was gone, Priscilla burst out laughing. “Ian, do you have any idea how dull this campus was before you arrived on the scene? I swear, that poor man almost had a stroke!” “What are the odds that we'll see him during office hours?” “Close to zero would be my guess. But you should still call Sarah … at least, leave her a message.” “You may get a call from Mister Clark Carswell of Corporate International Recruiting, or CIRC for short?” “Something like that.” “Should I remind her that we're a Muslim household currently in search of a fourth wife?” “That part I would advise you to handle delicately. After all, she might take you seriously.” Ian sighed deeply. “Pris, did I ever tell you that one of my ten maxims for successfully negotiating life's more treacherous currents is to the effect that one wife is too many, but four are not enough?” “No, Ian, you have yet to share any of your pearls of wisdom with me.” “And just think. You can attend my classes and absorb all of the wisdom that I impart, and you don't have to pay tuition for the privilege. Isn't life great?” . . . . "So, what do you think we should do first, the diapers or the lab?” Sarah had called Vickie as soon as she got to her station. She knew that Vickie had groups at both nine and ten thirty. The therapy for alcoholics was unceasing. “Let's switch the diapers first,” Vickie suggested. “We might have a better chance of reaching the lab without drawing attention to ourselves if we're coming from the parking ramp.” “Meet you there at ten after, and I'll schedule the lab for twenty after. That should give us just enough time to grab something in the cafeteria and make a run for it.” Sarah hung up, and returned to wading her way through the mountain of third shift reports on the patients in her post-surgical ward. . . . . Priscilla closed and locked the office door, insuring their privacy. “Okay, first things, first,” she announced. “Let's check your diapers. And is Korean table etiquette really as complicated as you made it sound in your lecture?” Ian took off his jacket, and hung it up. A few seconds later, and his trousers were around his ankles. “It is. But the real problem is that, by and large, Americans don't have a ritual for dining at the table, and fast food is making things a whole lot worse. When they travel overseas, the so-called ugly American is getting more ugly by the year.” Priscilla used the key to unlock his diaper cover, loosened it, and stuck a finger inside one of the thigh bands of his baby pants. She wiggled her finger inside the diaper, and quickly ascertained that he was wet, but not overly so. Deciding not to change him, she quickly slid his diaper cover back into place and relocked it. “You're good for now, but I'll change you just before your office hour.” “Works for me,” Ian muttered as he pulled up his pants and refastened them. “Do you ever get tired of this … the diaper checks, the changing? It all seems so intrusive.” Ian gave it a moment's thought before answering. “I try to keep it in perspective. I could have died out there, or come home in a wheelchair. I could be doing insulin injections day in and day out. There are a lot worse things than being in diapers, especially when you consider that I don't even have to change myself or deal with the messes anymore. One way to look at it is that I'm being pampered to the nth possible degree. Sure, I get teased day in and day out for being a big baby, and Sarah is actually pretty serious about treating me as such, but good natured teasing is just another form of attention. What guy doesn't like being the center of attention when he's got a large circle of beautiful, intelligent and caring women gathered round?” “I see what you mean. And do you enjoy the view, down there on the floor, when I'm kneeling over you … changing your diaper?” “I do,” Ian smiled; “it's a very nice view.” “I'm glad, because I enjoy babying you. I'm really looking forward to bottle feeding you. But seriously … what goes through your mind when Sarah is babying you for real? You're not a baby, not by any stretch of the imagination. The whole thing seems ridiculous.” “True enough, but the first thing to be said is that it makes Sarah happy to treat me as a baby, and the hit to my sense of self-respect isn't hard enough to deny her the pleasure. And I do get something out of it. Pris, Sarah is my shelter from the storm. She keeps me safe, and believe me, I really, really need her to protect me. This game that we're playing with the recruiters? It's just a way of shifting onto her shoulders something that I can't do for myself. She's the woman that I … well, one of the women that I love … but at the same time she is also my mommy. It's hard to explain, but I'm the baby who will soon be her husband, and she's the mommy who will soon be my wife. It's all quite real, not simply role playing.” “And Vickie?” “She's my therapist, and in that capacity treats me as Princess Poopy Pants in sessions, and the rest of the time as … well … me. But we are also deeply in love and, believe me, Princess Poopy Pants does not have a place in the relationship, although she may be eavesdropping on the goings on. I have no contact with her, so I leave it to Vickie to fill me in on what I need to know.” “Multiple personalities! As far as I know, you are the only person I've ever met who fits the bill, and it astonishes me that you are so casual about it. Doesn't it bother you to share your body with a separate personality that you can't even contact?” “The gaps in my memories bother me big time, but Vickie and Rita are good about plugging the holes, so at least I'm not left to guess whether I ate breakfast this morning or not. But it's getting easier for me to cope with the gaps because I know that I'm in such good hands. Now, skedaddle, Officer Canon. I'm returning another set of exams this afternoon, and I need a few minutes to record the grades. I'm yours at nine thirty sharp! . . . . “Good morning, Wendy … and no, Monica hasn't been complaining about your diapers. I wanted to talk with you about something else.” Suzie lazily gestured for Wendy to take a seat. “Your Japanese friend in the Alpha house, Marilyn something or other?” “Marilyn Matsumora,” “That's right … Marilyn Matsumora. Do you happen to know if we have Japanese sisters in any of the other houses?” “Not that I know of, but if it's important, I can check with Marilyn. I see her every day; she eats lunch in the Student Union with about twenty other Japanese students.” “How many girls, would you guess?” Wendy frowned in thought. “At least a dozen … maybe a few more. For sure, the girls outnumber the boys.” “Excellent,” Suzie said as she clapped her hands in delight. “I have an idea for how you can repay Professor Grady for his kindness, but it has to be today, so time is of the essence.” As she explained her plan, the grin on Wendy Stafford's face got bigger and bigger. Sisters hated early morning classes with a passion, and the Alpha house was only a few doors away, so Wendy was confident that she could get a hold of Marilyn before she left for the day. Twenty minutes later, Wendy was back to give Suzie the thumbs up. Marilyn would spread the word, and get things organized at noon. For her part, Suzie decided to stop by and see Diaper Butt at the start of his office hours. She wanted to make sure that the other houses were doing their bit to protect him from the poachers, but she also wanted to let him know about the surprise that she was planning for his Japanese class. She was frankly curious to discover how many of the young, corporate types populating his courses were ready, willing, and available. . . . . “I could get used to this,” Priscilla sighed; “cradling you in my arms, feeding you your bottles … I'll say it again-- it's very peaceful.” In response, Ian reached up to grasp her arm, knowing that the infantile gesture would please her. But he never stopped sucking on the teat, and pulling the warm breast milk into his mouth. He finished the first bottle, and then the second. He was delighted when Priscilla then eased his head over her shoulder and began gently patting his back. It was taking less and less effort on his part to respond with a very satisfying burp. “Now, let's see whether you're poopy.” Priscilla unlocked his diaper cover and slid it down to his ankles. His vinyl baby pants quickly followed, and then she efficiently unpinned his diaper and peeked inside. “Yep, you're poopy. Let's get you cleaned up and into a nice, dry diaper.” Ian lifted his hips, and Priscilla slid the soiled diaper out far enough that she could use the clean edge to begin the process. She followed with a few baby wipes, which went into the trash seconds before she rolled up the used diaper and deposited it in his pail. The heavily scented deodorizer disk in the lid masked the odor escaping the pail itself, which she closed as quickly as possible. Sliding a fresh diaper under his bottom, she liberally applied baby powder both front and rear before tightly pinning the fabric around his waist and thighs. Finally, she ordered him to stand so that she could slide his baby pants and canvas diaper cover back into place. The latter locked with an audible click. From start to finish, Priscilla guessed that it had taken her about three minutes to change him. Ian's office hours would start in even less time. “You're getting good at this,” he commented as he hastily pulled his trousers up and cinched the belt. He was still putting his shoes on when Priscilla opened the door. The corridor was crowded, but Priscilla was not especially surprised to see that Suzie Marshall was first in line. . . . . At precisely ten o'clock, Candy casually strolled into the lab. Linda was expecting her, and silently handed over a sealed white envelope. Candy pocketed the results of Rita's fertility test, and nonchalantly headed back to the seventh floor. Senior staff were all conducting groups or working with individual patients. No one paid attention when she strolled into Rita's office and slid the envelope underneath the blotter on Rita's desk. It would be waiting for her when she returned to the ward after a very long day in the county courthouse. . . . . Ian stuck his head out his office door, and looked around. He instantly spotted a somewhat older, well dressed business woman whom he took for another headhunter, but there was a wall of a dozen coeds separating them. Suzie Marshall had come through for him again. And speaking of Suzie Marshall … “Good morning, Miss Marshall! It's good to see you again!” Suzie was dressed in the style that fashion designers called casual elegant, giving Ian ample opportunity to admire her trim waist, mile long legs, and imposing bust line. The dark blue dress made her blonde hair look like it was on fire, and her red lipstick was a yawning trap waiting to swallow any man whole. Ian audibly gulped. Suzie Marshall was stacked … the real deal … the whole enchilada. No wonder she had been crowned Sorority Queen in her senior year. Suzie Marshall was a one woman parade, and for the moment at least, he was her chosen spectator. “Good morning, Professor!” Suzie's smile was radiant, her teeth a gleaming white. They actually sparkled in the light cast by the bulb overhead. “I just wanted to advise you that I'm planning to sit in on your afternoon class, and I've arranged a treat for your male students. May we speak in private for a moment?” “Mais oui, Madame, mais oui!” Ian stood aside, gesturing gracefully for her to enter. “Merci, Monsieur le Professeur,” Suzie replied in impeccable French. She had spent nine weeks in Paris in the summer between her junior and senior years, honing the skills that she would unleash on the English Department in her remorseless pursuit of the Sorority Queen's crown. Priscilla diplomatically closed the office door behind them. Ian gestured for Suzie to sit, but he chose to remain standing, gambling that she would cross one leg over the other. The gamble paid off. At a glance, Ian could see that Suzie was not wearing panties. “Are you still planning to walk the guys through a conversation with Japanese girls looking for an American boyfriend at a Tokyo McDonald's?” “I am,” Ian agreed. “Well, Wendy Stafford has come up with an interesting way to repay your kindness to her. As it happens, she's friends with a Japanese girl named Marilyn Matsumora, in the Alpha house. To make a long story short, about twenty Japanese students get together for lunch every day in the Student Union, most of them female. Wendy and Marilyn are going to recruit a dozen or so to drop by your class this afternoon, so your young corporate climbers will have a chance to practice for real.” “Wow! Suzie, what can I say? Double wow!! What a brilliant idea! Now, can you come up with a couple of Japanese guys to pair off with the two young ladies in the class-- both of whom are excellent students?” “I can't promise, but I'll drop by the Student Union at twelve sharp and see what I can arrange.” “And thanks for flooding the corridor with coeds. I had to beat one recruiter off with a stick when I got here this morning … a Clark Carswell from Corporate something or other.” “Corporate International Recruiting? Impeccably dressed? Oozing insincerity out of every pore of his body?” “I take it you know him. Bad news?” “The worst. In contrast, the lady who's quietly waiting out there?” Suzie nodded in the direction of the corridor. “Her name is Marilyn Marsden, and she actually has a decent reputation … apparently goes the extra mile to find the best fit for her clients. If you ever decide to switch careers, I'd give Recruitment Services International a call.” “Thanks for the tip; I don't expect to hear from Clarkie boy again, but I'll treat her gently.” “How did you get rid of him?” “Told him that I was a devout Muslim with three common law wives, and currently in the market for a fourth. Your name came up in that part of the conversation. He took off like he'd been shot out of a cannon.” Suzie burst out laughing. “Ian, you have got to be one of a kind! And diapers or no diapers, I don't understand why someone hasn't got around to scalping you!” “I keep a low profile.” “Yeah, sure. Well, for the record? When you get around to looking for a fourth girlfriend, I'd like to toss my hat into the ring. Whatever Vickie Robinson can do for you, I flat out guarantee that I can do it better!” . . . . Peeking his head out the door for the second time, Ian was happy to see that the corridor was still awash with coeds. The young ladies were standing upright, leaning against the walls, and even sitting on the floor. “Right,” he grinned, “who's here to get a copy of my world famous kimchee recipe?” Stealing a glance out of the corner of his eye, Ian could see that Priscilla was struggling hard not to burst out laughing. The blank looks on the faces of the assembled coeds was priceless. “How about you, Miss Marsden … or is it Missus.?" “Missus.” “Do your taste buds yearn for bulgogi and homemade kimchee? If the answer is yes, then you may enter my lair.” “Actually, I prefer bibimbap, but homemade kimchee is always a treat.” “Welcome,” Ian exclaimed as he kicked the door shut with his foot. “And have a copy of my resume,” he added as he grabbed one off the stack atop the filing cabinet nearest the door. “At least, I'm assuming that you're here to look me over for some corporation or other.” “I am, but I'm not here to make a pitch. What I would like to do is attend your afternoon class, and then talk afterwards. Would that be all right?” “The more the merrier-- and today's class should be a lot of fun!” . . . . “Pee-ew,” Sarah exclaimed as she waved her arms in a vain attempt to banish the foul odor escaping her trunk. “Remind me not to leave Ian's dirty diapers in the car for hours on end!” She lifted the two heavy bags out, and dragged them over to Vickie's vehicle. “After his first blowout in the cafeteria,” Vickie laughed, “we had to send an orderly out to fumigate one of the elevators. It ended up smelling like lavender scented shit! Seeing the writing on the wall, Rita immediately went out and bought a box of those pine smelling thingies that people hang on their rear view mirrors. Here, let me give you a couple.” Vickie grabbed several from her own trunk and tossed them over. “Lesson learned,” Sarah conceded. “When dealing with babies of any age, a mother has to be proactive! Now, ready to run the gauntlet?” “Can't keep Linda waiting,” Vickie shrugged. “We might as well get it over with.” Arm in arm, each of them convinced that hers was an appointment with destiny, Sarah and Vickie headed to the lab. . . . . “Good afternoon, all. Before we gaijin start lining up to order our imaginary Big Macs in Tokyo, I'd like to introduce a guest who's gone the extra mile to make this a memorable experience for all of you. Please welcome Miss Suzie Marshall, the den mother of the Pi Iota Sigma sorority chapter.” “Good afternoon, everyone,” Suzie said as she got up from her front row seat and turned to grace the students with a dazzling smile. Ian noted with amusement that male eyes were on stalks all over the room, and not a few jaws were agape. He winked at Priscilla, who was standing in the doorway at the back of the room. Voluptuous indeed. “Fraternities and sororities have a well deserved reputation for throwing wild parties … and yes, the toga parties have been known to get out of hand.” Suzie also winked at Priscilla. “But on campus we also like to help out whenever we can. Case in point … Officer Canon, if you will do the honors.” Priscilla opened the door, and a dozen Japanese students filed in. two of them the young men whom Ian had requested-- and whom Suzie was now delivering. The students lined up in front of the blackboard, facing the class; a certain amount of giggling ensued as some of the girls whispered to one another in their native language. “Okay,” Ian clapped, “here's what we're going to do.” He walked over to an easel, and removed the cover. A large photographic copy of a McDonald's menu in Japanese characters was suddenly visible to all. “Two of our young ladies are going to stand in front of the menu and talk about what they feel like eating.” Ian looked back over his shoulder, and two of the girls walked over to the easel. “Now, we need two gaijin to join them. Any volunteers?” Hands shot up all over the room, and Ian chose two students at random. “Remember to be polite,” he advised, “but let the conversation go wherever it will. You don't need to shout for us to hear you, but keeping in mind that this is a group exercise, if you need help … just shout out!” The hour passed swiftly, with the students switching out every five minutes. He was glad to see that his two female students interacted well with the pair of young Japanese men, and he was not at all surprised when several slips of paper changed hands, each no doubt harboring a name and telephone number. He had yet to introduce any of his students to the concept of The Long Haired Dictionary, but in his experience classrooms were not where language instruction really took hold. When Ian and Marilyn left the room, Priscilla and Suzie stayed on. For both, a class that continued without interruption after the bell was a new experience, but then so was chaperoning young men and women born and raised in cultures worlds apart. . . . . “So,” Ian offered as they slowly walked back to his office, “if you have questions that the resume doesn't address, please fire away.” “I see that you were in the service. Is your … disability combat related?” “You're referring to my well padded rear end,” he asked with a smile. “I am.” “My last mission ended badly. There's a shell fragment lodged in my spine that can't be removed. It's left me incontinent, both bladder and bowel.” “Does it affect your ability to travel?” "No, not at all. To the contrary, since leaving the service I have traveled a great deal.” “Then let me blunt. There are four large corporations in the Cities that would hire you simply on my recommendation. I can guarantee you a starting salary of seventy two thousand dollars per annum, with benefits and incentive driven bonuses that realistically put the floor at one twenty five. These four are household names … and there are three others far less well known that would offer you a similar package. But after what I just saw in that classroom, no one with a conscience would try and take you away from teaching. You are where you belong-- but at what salary?” “Seventeen thousand.” “That's obscene! So, here's what I propose. You let me run your resume by all seven, with my recommendation that they hire you on the spot, sight unseen, before somebody else leaps in and snaps you up. We get concrete offers, and then we go to your Chair and turn this into a retention case. Every Dean on this campus has money squirreled away to fend off this kind of raid. No, no one is going to come close to what you would command on the outside, but we can definitely get you a big raise, and if it takes the form of a long-term research grant, it won't even be taxable!” “That's the tactic that my department secretary wants me to use, and Amy knows her way around this joint. I don't.” “Welcome every recruiter who shows up with open arms, Professor; the more the merrier!” “Call me Ian. I never use my titles except to put snooty waiters and maitre d's in their place.” “And I'm Marilyn.” “It's nice to meet you, but it's also kind of funny.” “How so?” "One of Suzie's pledges reached out to a girl in another sorority, also Marilyn by name. Wendy and Marilyn are the geniuses who organized the Japanese troupe who descended on my class. And it's Suzie and her coed friends who are keeping the more aggressive recruiters at bay.” “There have been others?” “You're the third. I sent the first two straight to meet my fiancee; it's Sarah who wears the pants in our household, and she's the one to whom you need to sell your plan. But I'll support it, so I'd like to introduce you personally. She's a charge nurse in the postsurgical ward over yonder, so if you can hang on until my office hours end at three, we can drive over together. However, I can't stay; Vickie and I have to rush out to the diaper service before they close.” “Vickie?” “One of my girlfriends. Between final exams and the three of us moving in with Rita, the next couple of weeks are going to be hectic.” “And Rita is …?” “Also my girlfriend … at least, I think she's my girlfriend.” “But you're not sure?” “Nope, although we're going to have a heart to heart talk sometime on Thursday … see if we can work it out. And then there's Suzy, who also wants to become my girlfriend, but Suzie and Vickie are arch rivals from their sorority days, so that's iffy. Which leaves Amy and Priscilla … uh, Officer Canon … who change my diapers for me when I'm on campus. Anyway, everybody is going to be at Rita's house on Saturday night, and the question of my future will be high on the list of things up for discussion. If you and Sarah hit it off, she might invite you to come along and join the fun.” “Professor Grady,” Marilyn laughed, “you are definitely not your run of the mill, stodgy old university professor. And I really do like homemade kimchee!”

We need to expose you to some oldies but goodies! Lesley Gore's 1963 hit You Don't Own Me shocked the industry, rising to number 2 on the Billboard top 100 (number one was The Beatles, I Want to Hold Your Hand). It's the first of the so-called feminist anthems, paving the way for Respect, I Am Woman, I Will Survive, and so forth. By the end of the 70's, however, the feminist revolution had lost its lustre as millions of women, like Vickie, discovered that you couldn't have it all. Sheena Easton's Modern Girl (the most in your face of the feminist anthems) only reached number 18, while another song on the same album that promoted traditional relationships (Morning Train) reached number 2. Dolly Parton's 9 To 5 came out at the same time, drawing attention to the so-called "Glass Ceiling" that was suffocating a lot of feminist dreams. Cyndi Lauper's Girls Just Want to Have Fun is a straightforward song about sex, and it returns the feminist revolution to its mid-sixties campus roots, where casual sex, like long hair, LSD, and anti-war protests, was just another way of protesting against the values of the "Greatest Generation." Let's get you started on the sixties with Barry McGuire's Eve of Destruction and Jefferson Airplane's White Rabbit.

I took advantage of Bambino's latest sale, placing an order for two cases of Bellisimo on the weekend. Diapers arrived here at home at 09:00 hours on Wednesday via Fedex. 2-3 days from order to receipt is fast service, but this was my fourth order this year, and all four have gone this way. The product is outstanding, and the service first rate. My only concern is that the boxes will disappear if I'm not there to receive them, but that's what good neighbors are for. We cover for one another in these situations, and have been doing so for many years.

In this scene, Vickie laments that no one can have it all. "We have to make choices," she says, "and we have to be prepared to live with them." But there was one song in this era, which reached number 18 on the Billboard chart, that asserted the opposite. This song was: A. I Am Woman (Helen Reddy) B. I'm Every Woman (Chaka Khan) C. Modern Girl (Sheena Easton) D. 9 to 5 (Dolly Parton) E. Girls Just Want to Have Fun (Cyndi Lauper)

True, but it's also the case that lactating mothers who regularly nurse their husbands tend to experience a dramatic increase in their milk production. So, keeping in mind that Sarah, Vickie and Rita hope to nurse Ian for many months before having babies, where is all that excess milk going to go if not to the hospital's milk bank, which will require it to be alcohol free? If Vickie and Ian want to go on consuming adult beverages (they do), then they have to find a way to take the milk bank out of the equation. Think of it as an exercise in logistics.

Quickie historical quiz, of the fill in the blank variety: To whom is Spats Belmondo referring in the line "before yous can say 'Frank sent me' ...?

Back in scene 20 (The Breast Milk Blues), Sofia was schooling Sarah on the realities of breast feeding, and assumed that Ian couldn't possibly consume all the milk that his three lactating lovers would produce. She took it for granted that the excess supply would go to the hospital's milk bank, which has strict standards to screen for things like STDs and alcohol. Sarah has concluded that the four of them therefore need to give up alcohol, and Ian has been scheming from the beginning to sabotage her plan. So, here's a forthcoming plot twist for you to game out: how can Vickie also defeat Sarah's plan to turn them into a bunch of teetotalers simply by agreeing to be breast fed right alongside Ian?

AUTHOR'S NOTE Homage and its spin off, Aardvark, Platypus, and Twinkletoes: Attorneys at Law, are interwoven. Indeed, this scene begins where scene 1 (SPATS BELMONDO) ends in Aardvark. Let me encourage readers who have been following this story throughout to read scene 1 of Aardvark before tackling this scene. JULIA TWINKLETOES “Oh, God, this is beyond heavenly,” Priscilla moaned. Eyes firmly shut, she was rolling the baklava around in her mouth, trying to give all of her taste buds a fighting chance. “Frida's outdone herself!” “There's an entire tray in the kitchen,” Julia remarked. “Leftovers from the usual Spanos Thanksgiving bash. You can take the whole tray if you like.” “I like, but my waistline says no, no, no … my waistline and my uniform!” “You can give it to the guys at the station,” her father suggested. Sergeant Herb Canon had put in twenty three years with the police department. He had walked the beat, driven a patrol car, and was now riding a desk. Administrative work had made a mockery of his once rock hard tummy. “It goes great with ouzo,” he added helpfully. “No, Dad, you're wrong. Ian says that you serve ouzo with black olives and grilled octopus, preferably on a moonlit night in the shadows of the Lycabettus. He prefers the baklava in Istanbul, with one of those teeny tiny cups of Turkish coffee … what do you call them?” “Demitasse,” Julia put in. “That's it,” she exclaimed; “served medium sweet somewhere on the Bosporus, just like James Bond in From Russia with Love.” “A new boyfriend?” Herb's ears had picked up. His daughter was closing in on thirty, and didn't have a boyfriend, never mind a husband. He was getting worried about the sands of time, knowing how swiftly the hour glass turned over. “I wish,” Priscilla sighed. “Professor Grady is a newbie, just a couple of years older than me. He's in East Asian Languages, and despite the diapers, he's the hottest commodity on campus. The scalp hunters are going crazy! But he's already been taken off the market.” “Diapers?” Now it was Julia whose ears perked up. “What's this about diapers?” “He was in Viet Nam, Mom, and he was badly wounded. He has to wear diapers all the time … he needs them. But he's engaged to a nurse, and they're moving in with two other nurses, so he's got a lot of help. I met one of them this afternoon … Doctor Robinson. She's really nice, and she's gorgeous in a Sandra Dee kind of way. Standing side by side, she makes Suzie Marshall look like a worn out tramp. Anyway, they're throwing a party on Saturday night, and I'm going … but then, so is Suzie. Vickie and Suzie were both Pi Iota Sigma, and heated rivals. It wouldn't surprise me if we end up with blood spattering the walls in Rita's living room.” “Rita?” Now Herb was really paying attention. “Are we talking about Doctor Rita Stevenson? The psych ward?” Priscilla pulled a piece of scratch paper out of her pocket. Confirming the name, she nodded. “I'm not sure, but Vickie definitely works there. Ian is her patient.” “Rita is the senior charge nurse in the ward,” Herb explained to his wife. “She has given expert testimony on the Department's behalf many times. She's highly respected.” “Pris, it sounds like you have quite a story to tell. It's not every day that you show up for dinner singing the praises of a young, hotshot professor one minute, and then casually adding that he's a psychiatric patient the next. Why don't you lay it out for us?” Julia looked expectantly at her daughter. “I've just got bits and pieces, Mom, but it sounds more like two stories than one. In the first story, Ian's this poorly paid, first year professor just doing his job, and all of a sudden the corporate headhunters get a sniff that there's this new guy in town who speaks dozens of foreign languages.” “Blood in the water,” Julia observed. It was easy to see where this part of the story was going. The Twin Cities were home to some of the largest international corporations in North America. “Well put,” Priscilla agreed. “The first one showed up for his afternoon office hour, and there's probably more on the way. Normally, he would be left to fend for himself, but on Saturday morning the Chief got a call at home from a professor who apparently oversees the psych ward at the hospital.” “John Lessing,” Herb supplied, glancing at his wife. “A very heavy hitter. We get a piece of the action, but he's done a lot of profile work for the FBI. Serial killers are his specialty. He's a good man to know.” “Anyway, it turns out that Ian had some kind of seizure in Rita's office on Friday morning, and it really shook the staff. It sounds like he blacks out when he's under pressure, so I'm there to run interference when the headhunters show up. The Chief says it's an open-ended assignment, and that on campus I have to stick to him like glue. And now I have to contend with Suzie Marshall, who's flooding the corridor with coeds to keep the headhunters at bay. She setting me up, Dad … asked me for a ride back to the sorority house, took me out for a drink when I went off shift … she's playing nice, collecting IOU's.” “Trading favors is a big part of police work. You do something for me, I do something for you. And you don't even have to keep score-- rest assured that Marshall will do so for you.” “Are you and Suzie riding together on Saturday night?” “I'm not sure, Mom. I'm going with Amy … Ian's secretary. She's another nice lady.” “It would be worth your while to collect Suzie along the way.” Priscilla looked at her mother, a blank expression on her face. She clearly wasn't getting the picture. “If she gets drunk, you will get her safely home ...” “A favor for a favor,” Herb laughed. . . . . “Does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy? Mẹ có yêu không nào?” Still cradling Ian in one arm while rubbing lazy circles on his tummy with the other, Vickie was maintaining steady eye contact. The breast milk made it easy for her to overwhelm his senses of taste and smell, and her maternal touch and voice were hypnotic. But she wanted control of all five senses, and vision was proving a challenge. She calculated that getting literally in his face would be the best tactic. “Prin … sess wuv mama,” Ian cried, reaching up for her, both arms awkwardly extended. The deeply infantile gesture gladdened Vickie's heart. Ian was a therapist's dream come true. His determination to work with her to tear down the wall, and his unyielding faith in her ability to make it happen, was a combination so potent that it was opening unexpected doorways into his psyche-- doorways that took her breath away. “And mommy loves her Princess Poopy Pants soooo much! Yes, she does! Yes, she does! Yes, she does! Does Princess Poopy Pants love her ba bas?” “Ba ba, mama … ba ba!!” The Princess began sucking her thumb. She was still hungry, and she wanted to suck. Vickie wasn't at all sure of the age at which Princess Poopy Pants was functioning, and for that matter she wasn't at all sure of the age that she should be trying to lock down. On the one hand, she needed the infant to be helpless, dependent, and trusting. But she also needed her to be both verbal and capable of conceptualizing. Above all, it was vital for the Princess to grasp that spankings were punishments, and that punishments would always be forthcoming when she was naughty and uncooperative. The contradiction between dependence and cooperation was easy to see, but the solution had so far eluded her. “Baby, do you remember Mama's turkey drumstick?” “Dwum … tick,” Ian giggled. “Cwan … bear!” “That's right, Princess! And later auntie Marge put you to bed in your crib ...” “Ba bas,” Ian cut in. “I had ba bas! I wuv ba bas!” “And you had such a good sleep. In the morning, did you have more ba bas?” “Uh huh. Auntie Candy gave me lots of ba bas. I wuv ba bas!” “And did you get to see auntie Rita?” “Uh huh.” Ian was visibly tensing. She remembers. God, she remembers! “Did you have a good time in auntie Rita's office?” “Hurt, Mama … bad hurt.” The Princess was shaking her head, tears leaking from her eyes. Remembering. “Who … no, what hurt you, baby?” Vickie corrected herself instantly. The phone call with Sarah was a dead end. She needed to get inside Major Grady's head. “Tell Mama, baby; what hurt you?” “Scary,” the Princess whispered. She buried her head in Vickie's bosom, trying to hide. “Was Major Grady hurt? Did you see him fall down in auntie Rita's office? Was he hurt?” “Uh huh. Hurt bad, Mama … scary bad.” The Princess was whimpering, but her hand shot out to rub the wound on her left thigh. The round had carved a path through the meat, blowing away a large chunk, the hideous scar papered over by a successful skin graft in one of the surgical procedures that Ian had undergone in Japan or Hawaii. Flashback! It's got to be a flashback! Sarah was painting him into a corner, forcing him to make a decision, and his subconscious countered by hurling him back to his last battlefield. We know he was badly wounded … his fourth Purple Heart … nine months of surgeries and rehab … and on Friday morning the Princess was there! God, when he collapsed she was inside his mind, eavesdropping! Is she touching the first wound? It can't be the last, the one that made him incontinent. But how could he have fought on? The pain must have been … no, wait! Adrenaline! The adrenaline surge would have bought him what? Three, four extra minutes? An eternity on the battlefield. Did you somehow get back on your feet, still in command? Oh, God, Ian! My poor baby! Vickie covered the Princess' hand with her own. “Tell Mama, baby … did it hurt bad?” “Bad hurt, Mama,” the Princess sobbed. “Bad hurt.” Smoke was beginning to blanket the battlefield, the Cobras buzzing like angry hornets, but all of their fire directed at the tree line because he had never input the coordinates for the rice paddies on their right flank. And now he couldn't see shit … not from his knees. Using his M-16 as a crutch, Street Racer struggled to his feet and somehow managed to move, his left leg a dead weight that he could only drag along behind him. But he was moving, that was the important thing. “Sierra three to Zulu three,” he screamed, hoping that Cobra leader would catch his squawk. “Sierra three to Sierra eight … Zulu three to Zulu eight … torch it!” Street Racer glanced back over his shoulder, quickly assessing his left flank. Nothing would be getting through the wall of flame and the roiling, oily smoke that was consuming the ridge line. Nothing. It was time, he decided, to boogie. He let go of the M-16, needing both hands to signal the evac order, the LZ already marked. He wanted to close down their left flank, relying on Grissom and his platoon to serve as a trip wire on their rear. As always, his teams would play leapfrog, closing in a circle that would draw ever tighter around the LZ, carrying their wounded in the classic fireman's lift … and sometimes dragging or carrying their dead. For his company, it was the Eleventh Commandment-- no one gets left behind. Whole, wounded, or in a body bag … everyone goes home. Vickie felt like she was being torn in two. Ian was literally shaking in her hands, the Princess clearly replaying Ian's last battle in her childlike mind. The therapist knew that this was the path Ian must travel, knew that she should be pushing the little girl to give voice to the nightmare in which she was now trapped. But she couldn't do it, and it wasn't because John Lessing had warned her not to trigger another hallucination unless Ian was in a controlled environment. In this moment, and in this place, she simply couldn't bear to inflict still more pain upon the man she loved. Minh would have to wait. Vickie had no anesthetic to offer Ian, nothing tangible with which to ease his pain. And so she took refuge in the one thing she thought might help. Still cradling him, his head resting against her beating heart, she sang to him. Her favorite lullaby. And that is how Sarah found them when she walked through the door. . . . . The telephone rang as Priscilla was clearing the table. She answered it before either of her parents could get up. “Oh, hi, Uncle Andrew; do you want to talk with Mom? She's right here.” Pris held out the phone, wondering even as she did so what Andrew Jones could possibly want with Julia at this time of the night. For the firm of Aardvark, Platypus, and Twinkletoes, Attorneys at Law, the last six weeks of the year were a financial train wreck, with income typically reduced to the rent that the trio collected from the three businesses leasing most of the floor space in their building. The law office shared the second floor with an insurance agent; down at street level, a delicatessen and dry cleaner's did a booming business year round, thanks to the building's location. It was directly opposite the main entrance to one of the largest hospitals in the state, and thanks to a brief conversation between Herb and a City Councilman, a crosswalk not only bridged the gap but also came equipped with on demand traffic signals. Doctors and nurses desperate for a pastrami on rye were not to be delayed as they rushed to and fro, and blood stains were the house specialty at the adjacent dry cleaner's. “Is everything arranged?” Julia was cradling the phone against her shoulder as she opened a drawer and took out a city directory. She had already earmarked the page for the industrial zone in the northwestern suburbs. “Uh huh … good. The delivery truck will leave the premises at ten after eight, and follow the route I laid out for you. Once it reaches the main highway, the driver will follow the same route he always does on Tuesdays. Now, give me the first dozen addresses.” Slowly and methodically, Andrew did so, running through the list a second time to make sure that Julia hadn't missed one. She hadn't. “Right, I'll ease out behind him somewhere along the way. Changing his approach to the main highway may or may not throw them off the trail; it all depends on how many vehicles they have staking out the area. But if they're there, I'll sniff them out.” Julia hung up the phone, and gestured for Priscilla to sit while she poured coffee for three. Returning to the table, Julia added cream to her cup, knowing that her husband and daughter would both take it black. “You mentioned that this Professor Grady of yours wears diapers,” Julia remarked over the top of her cup. “I've just been hired by Lullaby Adult Diaper Service. It seems that last week someone was following their delivery truck around the Cities, stealing the bundles of clean diapers that the driver was leaving on doorsteps. The enterprising thieves have put a sizable dent in the service's inventory, which means in their bottom line. The proprietor is most unhappy, and the proprietor is one Spats Belmondo. He wants his diapers back, tout suite.” “Mom, that's an amazing coincidence! Ian is one of their customers; he gets his diapers delivered to his apartment on Wednesday afternoons. He told me that his fiancee wanted him to cancel the service this morning and use hospital diapers instead, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it … not over the telephone. He says that the lady who runs the service has been very considerate, so he thinks that the least he can do is go out there late tomorrow afternoon and tell her in person.” “Hmm. When do you think he would show up?” “Well, he has office hours until three, so … maybe … three thirty? A little later? It all depends on his ride.” “He doesn't drive?” “His car's down for the count. Vickie will drive over from the hospital to pick him up.” “I see.” Deep in thought, Julia began absent mindedly chewing on a knuckle. “Right,” she finally said, “here's what we're going to do. I want you to confirm that your gallant, young professor will indeed be making the trip out to Lullaby tomorrow afternoon. Second, find out if he will have his diapers in tow, or will be leaving them outside his door for the service to pick up on Wednesday. Either way, I'll be there to greet him, so it would be best for you to tag along and make the introductions. FYI, he won't be canceling his service-- at least, not this week.” “Mom?” Priscilla couldn't see what her mother had in mind. “Bait, Dear … bait. Come Wednesday afternoon, the good professor and I are going to use his diapers as bait.” . . . . “She's sleeping,” “The Princess?” Vickie nodded. “It's been a hard night. She has his memories. The deeper I probe, the more trauma I'm uncovering. It took me almost an hour to calm her enough to get her to sleep.” “I thought you'd be hungry, so I stopped for take-out. You good with Chinese?” “Fong's?” “What else?” “I'm starved. Sarah, this is taking a lot out of me … emotionally, I mean. I never would have guessed that in the process of tearing down Ian's wall, my own would crumble to dust. I looked at that photo … I sat in the parking lot, and I really looked at it. And then I started to cry. The tears wouldn't stop, but I didn't want them to. They were a way to inventory all the mistakes that I've made in my life. And here I sit ...” Vickie leaned forward, and gently kissed the crown of Ian's head. “I'm good at my job, and by any measure, I'm a success. But it's not enough, not any more. Ian's the trapdoor that's opened beneath my feet. Falling in love has led me to some very hard truths, starting with the now screamingly obvious fact that we can't have it all. None of us. We have to make choices, and we have to be prepared to live with them. So, tomorrow I'm going to march my butt down to the lab and let Linda run the tests. And if I can have a baby, I want Ian to give me one. I want to start a family.” Vickie looked up at Sarah, belatedly embarrassed that she had bared her soul to a close friend coming off a twelve hour shift, a friend who would soon marry the man she was cradling in her arms, the man whose child she wanted to bring into the world. “You mad?” Sarah simply shook her head, and bent down to put the bags of Chinese food on the floor. “I'll get plates” she muttered, as she turned toward the kitchen. “Grab a couple of beers, will you? Ian's frig is well stocked … and have you peeked in the broom closet? Rita's pantry will soon be overflowing!” “Do you want to take care of your diaper first,” Sarah asked as she knelt down with a precarious grip on plates, silverware, and two cold beers. “Later. Right now, I just want to eat, and enjoy your company. I missed you.” “Same here … and for the record? The photo also hit me hard. The only difference is that I already knew that my life was a mess-- a quiet mess, mind you, not the truly spectacular, show stopping performance that you were putting on. The whole hospital is having a ball watching you bob and weave way up there on the high wire ...” With Vickie tenaciously cradling Ian, Sarah took it upon herself to load up their plates. On impulse, she took a spoonful of sweet and sour pork and waved it in front of Vickie's face. “Here comes the airplane,” she grinned; “open the hangar door!” Vickie obliged with a smile. A little rice, and then she wanted Sarah to have a go at the lemon chicken. “You should know that Rita has already run the tests,” Sarah went on, “and will get the results tomorrow. The hospital's in a frenzy, and to judge from all the knowing looks that I got en route to the parking garage, I'm guessing that the results of Ian's sperm test have also gone public. Need I add that Manny Cepeda was lying in wait when I got off the elevator? He pressed me on our plans, and ever the gentleman, he wants the three of us to give him our blessing before he starts a pool.” “Roughly translated, what you're saying is that he doesn't want Estrellita to rip him a new one!” Vickie and Sarah both knew who wore the pants in that particular household. “There is that,” Sarah smiled. She loaded the spoon with rice, Vickie already opening wide. She quickly followed with broccoli and red peppers, and then the lemon chicken. Vickie was in Cantonese heaven. “So, tomorrow,” Sarah went on, “what do you say that we boldly go where no nurses have gone before, and pay a visit to the lab before heading to lunch? I'll call Linda in the morning, and set it up.” “Works for me,” Vickie got out between mouthfuls, “and could I have more lemon sauce on the chicken, please?” “Such a demanding child,” Sarah sighed theatrically. “You do realize that our reputation will be toast, don't you?” She made sure that the next bite of chicken was drowning in the lemon sauce. “Don't try to talk with your mouth full,” she admonished as she continued to feed Vickie. For her part, Vickie was absolutely determined to lick the spoon clean. “We have a reputation,” she countered, her eyes wide and innocent. “I'm shocked, I tell you, truly shocked.” “Sarah,” Vickie went on, her tone turning serious, “am I hearing this right? Are you also planning on having a baby?” “I am,” she confirmed, “and like you, I want Ian to be the father … which means that things are going to get complicated.” “Not for the two of us,” Vickie objected. “I've already explained the facts of life to Ian. He'll be just one more of your babies, except that you will never allow him to grow up. And I'll ...” “Also be one of my babies,” Sarah cut in. She was looking pointedly at Vickie's waist, the thick diaper lurking beneath the locked canvas cover all too obvious. She wasn't sure whether Vickie had disrobed for Ian's benefit, or for hers. “I was about to say that, day to day, I would be his wife,” Vickie gulped. “Maybe so,” Sarah conceded, “but you will also be my baby. It's obvious that you want me to keep you in diapers; why don't you just admit it?” “I want you to keep me on the straight and narrow. Don't let me do something stupid that hurts Ian, and jeopardizes our friendship. You're the adult in the room, Sarah; I'm still the same, reckless, do anything on a dare cheerleader that I was fifteen years ago. Like I told you this afternoon before Rita joined us: keep me on a tight leash, at least until I'm pregnant. If diapers are your instrument of choice, so be it.” “So, you want someone to take control of your life, but only in the short term? Ian can't do it and Rita won't, so that leaves me. I'll ask you again: do you want me to keep you in diapers, or should we put our heads together and come up with a different way to keep you chaste?” “Yes, please,” Vickie whispered, hanging her head in shame. “Yes, please … what?” Sarah was relentless. “Yes, please, keep me in diapers,” Vickie whimpered. “Everywhere but at work. Please don't make me wear diapers at work.” “I won't, so long as you don't do something scandalous. If you do, then as I told you this afternoon, all bets are off. Now, enjoy the beer because from now on the three of us are going to dial the booze way back, and if we start lactating, we are going to cut it out altogether. We are not going to donate contaminated milk to the milk bank, only to have it thrown back in our faces. None of us need that kind of public humiliation.” Vickie took a long pull from the ice cold can, noting that she was drinking a Mexican beer with which she was completely unfamiliar. It was good and refreshing, and she idly wondered where Ian had found it, and how, absent a car, he had managed to get it home. She also wondered how long it would take for Sarah to move beyond diapering her to bottle feeding her. Indeed, she was amazed that Sarah hadn't already done so. After all, if the diapers effectively restrained her promiscuity, breast milk in quantity would similarly put the brakes on her lifelong love affair with alcoholic beverages. Her mother's fruit cake had always been an alcoholic wonder, and she had sneaked her first swallow of what mom coquettishly called “sipping whiskey” when she was four. Vickie had long since moved way beyond the 70 and 80 proof spirits that had made her so popular with the sophisticated set in elementary school and junior high, but for old times sake she still occasionally sipped a glass of Southern Comfort or Crown Royal. Her stubborn insistence that the Canadian whiskey, properly served over ice, was actually worth drinking had soured more than one potential date on the 494 strip. Chewing on another piece of the lemony chicken, Vickie gave thought to her future. If no one could have it all, was it at least possible to have half of everything? Could she share juice with her children in the afternoon, and chilled vodka martinis with her friends in the evening? Could she read bedtime stories out loud, and then become the passionate lover that Ian deserved? Could she be a loving and attentive parent, and at the same time a competent therapist? Where would half be good enough, and where would half be an admission of failure? Vickie had a great deal on her mind as Sarah handed her a pillow, which she gently slipped under Ian's head. Emotionally exhausted, their baby was still sound asleep. After washing the few dishes, Vickie adjourned to the bedroom, the time for her diaper change now at hand. For her part, Sarah was attentive but methodical, carefully keeping both her feelings and her suspicions under wraps. She suspected that Vickie needed what therapists called a “do over”-- a second chance at life. Diaper dependency was a good place to start, but it was only a start. Sarah had brought eight bottles of breast milk from the office, but only half of them were intended for Ian. She was going to warm up four bottles, waken the Princess, and after changing her and getting her into bed, feed her two while tapping into the lullabies stored away in her own memories. Once the Princess went back to sleep, her hands encased in heavy mittens, Vickie would be sharing her bed, the impenetrable diaper covers further guaranteeing that there would be no hanky panky in the wee, small hours. Sarah would offer to feed Vickie two bottles of her own, but it would be up to her to decide whether or not to nurse. Either way, Sarah would be going downstairs to sleep in her own bed. She fervently hoped that, when she came back upstairs, there would be two babies awakening in the dark, predawn hours of Tuesday morning, two babies hungry for the bottles of breast milk still lying in wait on a refrigerator shelf.

Tippi is indeed named for New Ulm, Minnesota's most famous export. Who, or what, would this export be?

Needs a bit of proof reading, but I like the slow start that you've adopted here. It reads like a slice of real life, and that always a plus in fiction. Looking forward to the next chapter.

Can anyone help Aardvark out? What is the five letter word for an eland in Zulu?

Oops.

Holy Cat Whiskers, Batman! Commissioner Gordon says that college girls are cheating on their exams, having sex, and getting drunk! To the Batmobile, Robin! We have to investigate this in person! Quick! There's no time to lose!

The students don't have a clue. After all, who would expect a diaper service to be owned by a kingpin of organized crime?

Good point. This story has passed the 120,000 word mark that is generally considered to separate novels from epics, and the end is not in sight. Epics always have large casts of characters, but in a serial format with chapters appearing about once a week, it can be easy for the reader to lose track of who's who. Perhaps a cast of the conventional type that we see in film credits would be useful, for this and other stories with similarly long lists of characters.

I asked this question after part 9. And given the importance of the technology here, the police would be swept aside and an intelligence service take over very, very quickly. A lot of answers could be "sweated" out of everyone who worked there. And I would expect the children to be taken and studied for purposes of reverse engineering. It would be neat to have a sequel here that would pull back the curtain and answer your question, and others.

Thanks! From the beginning, An Homage to Vincent Vega was designed to allow prequels, sequels and spin offs. Each of the three narrative arcs in Homage to date (Rita's house / psych ward / campus) was designed to have continuing characters like Ian and Vickie anchor the whole, with new characters being introduced in each arc. New characters in new settings create new story lines, like Aardvark. This is a satiric piece; I wanted to inject a little humor into this "universe" (neat way of characterizing the whole ensemble of stories) to complement the often wacky characters populating Homage. Rest assured that Ian and Vickie will continue to spread mayhem wherever they go, much to Sarah's dismay.

And without further ado: AARDVARK, PLATYPUS, AND TWINKLETOES, ATTORNEYS AT LAW IAN AND VICKIE JOIN FORCES WITH A HARD BOILED PRIVATE EYE TO FOIL A GANG OF DESPERATE DIAPER THIEVES!

IAN AND VICKIE JOIN FORCES WITH A HARD BOILED PRIVATE EYE TO FOIL A GANG OF DESPERATE DIAPER THIEVES! SPATS BELMONDO Holidays are bad for business, and Thanksgiving and Christmas are the worst of them all. Especially here in the Twin Cities. It's not enough that the serial adulterers who are the mainstay of our business, cursed with the occasional twinge of conscience, opt to stay home with their families over the holidays. No, at this time of the year we also have to contend with blizzards and snowdrifts, which really ruin a wayward doctor's day, not to mention his nights. I ask you … how is the jerk supposed to interview the cream of the latest nursing school crop at a sleazy airport hotel down on the 494 Strip if the road's impassable? And even if by some miracle the highway department deigns to roll with the plows, where's he supposed to park? Leave the Volvo on a city street during a snow emergency, and you get towed. Put the BMW in the motel parking lot, and there's a fighting chance it'll still be there when the snow starts to melt sometime in March, or maybe April. Minnesota winters are not exactly predictable. No, there's no doubt about it: holidays are bad for business. Year after year, Twinkletoes and her trusty Olympus 35mm camera with its handy dandy collection of lenses and filters go their separate ways in mid-November, not to be reunited again until New Year's Eve, when things will finally start to get back to normal around here. Come early January, aggrieved wives will be storming through the door, eager to get the goods on their wayward spouses en route to a big payday in divorce court. Our paydays are somewhat more modest. Twinkletoes will cost you seventy five bucks an hour, plus expenses. Pat and I charge three hundred an hour, and we bill in six minute increments. Get the picture? Anyway, on the plus side the two of us have six weeks a year to catch up on our reading. Pat favors Playboy and Hustler. My taste runs to crossword puzzles. Anybody know a five letter Zulu word for an eland? Oh, and as for Julia? What can I say? The week before Thanksgiving is when she renews her acquaintance with the kitchen. It's an annual tradition. For six weeks, she cooks up a storm, and we all loosen our belts another notch (it's the Minnesota way). In any event, Twinkletoes is married to this really nice guy, so we'll overlook the fact that Herb Canon is a cop with more than twenty years on the force. Alas, it's impossible to overlook their winsome daughter, Priscilla. Pris is also a cop, of the campus variety, and she packs a mean right. A guy in a bar up nordeast recently called her Prissy, and she laid him out with one punch. No one paid much attention, this being a cop bar and all, and to his credit the guy got up, rubbed his jaw, apologized, and then offered to buy her a drink. She accepted graciously, and all was forgiven. He was lucky that Pris didn't break a cue stick over his skull. So here we were, Thanksgiving looming on the horizon, and nary a client in sight. Still, there were pluses, and the three of us did have reasons to be thankful. For one thing, we didn't have to worry about paying the rent because we owned the building. Our office was on the top floor-- all right, already … a second floor walk-up-- and there was a very good delicatessen down below. We shared Two with a guy selling insurance, and he had a dry cleaner's underfoot. We all did well because we were directly across the street from one of the largest hospitals in the state. Desperate nurses made periodic forays to the deli, the weekly pastrami on rye an antidote to what passed for food in the hospital cafeteria. The dry cleaners specialized in blood, vomit and assorted gore. The insurance guy did a booming business writing policies for the boats tied up along the St. Croix, including the houseboats that a small troop of physicians used for extracurricular activities all year round. And of course the soon to be ex-wives, most of them nurses past and present, were the mainstay of our own thriving concern. Julia got the goods with her trusty Olympus, and we nailed the cheaters to the proverbial courthouse wall. Over the years, from Stillwater to Prescott, many a houseboat title had changed hands thanks to our diligent efforts. In our experience, long suffering wives definitely had a thing for houseboats. To make a long story short, we were just marking time when the door opened and the Incredible Hulk filled our line of sight. It took the Hulk a few moments to figure out that he needed to do the sideways shuffle, or remain forever condemned to stand in the hallway. The sharpest stick in the bunch the Hulk definitely was not, and his jacket was at least two sizes too small. Still, the cannon that he was packing in a shoulder holster looked like a good fit for his hulk like hands. The second guy through the door was a celebrity, although not one whom we had had the honor of representing in court. In fairness, though, Spats Belmondo tended to favor extralegal solutions for his more pressing problems. You could buy a lot of lead for three hundred bucks an hour. “You want I should frisk them, Boss? Maybe look for a wire?” “Fuhgeddaboudit, Walley; deese guys ain't wearing no wires … not in their own office. Besides, dey didn't know we was comin'.” “Right on both counts, Spats … right on both counts. But what gives with the muscle?” I was nodding at the Hulk; a third fellow was now standing just inside the door. Short and wiry, wearing a fedora with the brow too low, he was sporting a mustache that looked like an oil slick. The black shirt and white tie were straight out of Hollywood. The guy couldn't pull off Bogart, but maybe he was going for Alan Ladd. “I mean, seriously. You've got a walleye on the payroll? Since when did the gorillas get shoved to the curb?” “Ha, ha; very funny, shamus. I like your sense of humor.” Spats settled into a chair on the opposite side of the desk and crossed his right leg. He studied the shine on his shoe, pulled a handkerchief out of his breast pocket, and flicked an imaginary piece of dust aside. “Julia's the shamus, Spats; I'm a mouthpiece, and my esteemed associate here is a legal eagle.” Pat had set the latest issue of Hustler aside, reluctantly joining the conversation. “It speaks,” Spats laughed. “For a moment dere, I thought yous was a potted plant!” The two bodyguards laughed politely. “Twinkletoes I get,” Spats continued, “but what's with Aardvark and Platypus? Those your real names?” “Andrew Jones and Pat Smith at your service,” I said. “Aardvark puts us first in the phone book, and I have absolutely no idea how Platypus came about. Pat, you remember?” “I was drunk at the time. I don't remember a damned thing.” “Smith and Jones? Jeez … yous was right to scratch 'em off the list. Smith and Wesson? Yeah, now that I could see.” The Hulk and his oily friend once again laughed politely. “To business,” Spats announced as he slapped his hands firmly on my desk. “I wanna hire da Twinkie to help me out with a lidda problem.” “Seventy-five dollars an hour, plus expenses, with a retainer of five hundred samolies, payable in advance and in cash.” I was not big on beating around the bush. Spats snapped his fingers, and the oil can stepped forward. He pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket, and handed it to the mobster. Spats casually threw it on the desk. “Dere's a G in dere; if the Twinkster needs more, have her call this number ...” Spats slid a business card across the desk. “Lullaby Adult Diaper Service?” I stared at him blankly. “One of my more profitable enterprises,” Spats smirked. “We supply all dah nursing homes in the Cities, and we even got regular joes as customers. Why, we even got us a university guy, a regular war hero who got shot to pieces over there.” Spats nodded vaguely in the general direction of the Pacific coast. “Makes us look real classy.” “You mean Viet Nam?” “Yeah … maybe … hell, I don't know. We're fightin' so many wars in so many places … who can keep track?” “You have a point. And with whom at your diaper service are we supposed to speak?” “My niece, Harriet. Nicolo's little girl, only she's all grown up now. She fronts dah whole operation, and she runs a real tight ship.” “Ah,” I said, the truth dawning as I looked more closely at the card. “Miss Harriet Belmondo.” Fingering the card, I leaned forward, just a fellow conspirator trying to get an update. “So, what's the play, Spats? How can we help?” “Somebody's stealing my diapers,” Spats growled. . . . . “No, Ian, really … there's no need to apologize. Many of our individual customers suspend service for a week or two, especially during the holidays. If you're going out of town for a family gathering, you can't very well carry a diaper pail on the plane with you.” Sitting at an adjoining desk, Francine Sullivan could hear the young professor's voice through the phone, but she could not make out what he was saying. Still, it was easy enough to fill in the blanks. “No, no, there's no inconvenience. Your service is on Wednesday; giving us notice two days in advance is more than enough time. Can you call Monday next to confirm resumption of service?" More mumbling on the line. “That's a good idea. Give me a number next Monday, and I'll adjust your order. No sense in paying for three dozen if you will only need two. How's your car doing? Still down for the count?” Mumble, mumble. “It must be so hard for you, this being your first winter. And I got used to you driving out here on Wednesday afternoons to process your order in person. Do you realize that you are the only customer I've ever met? Everybody else is just a name, address and telephone number in the files.” Mumble. “No! I appreciate how embarrassing it was for you to leave two bags of dirty diapers sitting in the hallway all day long when you left for work, where your neighbors couldn't help but see them. And then there's our brightly colored delivery truck pulling into the parking lot of an adults only complex. None of this could have been easy for you, so I was happy to help.” Ian started to mumble yet again, but Harriet cut him off. “No, Ian, it's never been an inconvenience, and please, stop apologizing for the day you came in just as we were closing. It's not every day that a guy apologizes for something so trivial by taking a hungry gal out to dinner! And my offer still stands. I can drive down on Wednesday nights after you get home from work, and do the pick up and drop off in person. I would be barely going out of my way, so it would really be no trouble at all. So, will you at least think about it?” One last mumble. “You will? That's great! Enjoy Thanksgiving!” Harriet hung up the phone with a long sigh. “Not going out of your way?' Francine had a very knowing grin. “Harry, you live on Lake Minnetonka, and he's down in Bloomington, which, the last time I looked, is half way to Iowa! The two of you are barely in the same time zone!” “I know, I know, but what can I say? He told my uncle that the tagliatelle was to die for, and the gnocchi the best he's ever eaten. He praised the wine list, raved about the Valpolicella … and he did all this in Italian so polished that my uncle mistook him for an aristocrat from Milan or the lake district. He even tore up the bill-- and Rudy never comps anybody for anything! It was the best date I've ever had!” “Someone's got a crush … nah de nah de nah nah,” Francine teased. “But he's not Italian, he's not Catholic, and he not only wears diapers and pees in them … he poops in them! Sorry, Harry, but this guy is definitely a no-no. Your uncle would have a fit if he found out about your date, and you can count your lucky stars that Rudy chose to keep his lip zipped.” “I know, Francie; I know. But a girl's entitled to the odd fantasy, isn't she? And you don't know what it's like! Every, single Sunday after Mass, Ariana rubs it in … 'you're twenty-six and still no husband? My Francesca is your age, and she's expecting her third bambino any day now'. I am so sick of it!” “Shitty diapers,” Francine countered. She knew that Harriet needed to get out more, but being a Belmondo was a social curse as well as a financial blessing. No one wanted to date a notorious gangster's favorite niece-- at least, no one respectable. “True, and believe me … I've peeked into his dirty diapers. Yuk!!! But you forgot something. Ian's a professore! Uncle Vinnie would kill to have a professor in the family!” . . . . “I can't believe how easy it is to rip these people off,” Cindy crowed. “I mean … seriously? The driver drops off bags of clean diapers at the front door, picks up the used and walks off. He doesn't even bother to ring the bell. Who are these morons, anyway?” “The gift that keeps on giving,” Melanie laughed. “Just think. A week's worth of adult diapers for one of their customers is enough to keep one of our pigeons in diapers for a week as well, and the baby diapers make wonderful stuffers! The photographs should be enough to keep them in line, but if need be, we can always up the ante by threatening to send them to class with a dozen baby diapers stuffed inside their already bulging pants!” “And I can't wait to track them down in the laundromat,” she added as she checked the mirror, making sure that one of their sisters in a trailing car would be stopping to execute the snatch and grab. “I'll be there offering to help them fold their nice, clean diapees! God, how I love humiliating these jerks!” “A pigeon here and a pigeon there,” Cindy hummed, “means easy A's in physics, chemistry, astronomy, calculus … am I leaving anything out?” “Why stop there? Beg, borrow and steal the diapers … invest a little of our own cash in lovely, pink baby pants … seduce the brainiac with a blow job, promise him real sex if he just indulges a teensy, weensy innocent little fantasy, click, click-- don't worry, dear, the photos are just to remember you by-- and then blackmail the twerp for four years to do all of our coursework! Our house ends up with the highest GPA on sorority row, and we get to spend four homework free years partying like there's no tomorrow. The frat boys will love us, especially if we get our pigeons to do their homework as well.” “And our misbegotten parents will be so thrilled when we all graduate Phi Beta Kappa!” “The ultimate bang for their tuition bucks,” Melanie concluded, watching the diaper delivery truck round the corner and ease to a stop at the next house on its route. . . . . “Give me the skinny, Spats. We looking at a B&E at the laundry? Or did somebody hijack one of your delivery trucks?” “Nah, nuttin like dat. It looks like somebody's tailing the driver. He makes the pick up an drop, an takes off. Before yous can say 'Frank sent me', somebody runs up and puts the snatch on my diapers. I want da Twinkster to find the guilty party, and den get back to me.” “No police involvement?” Spats gave me a sour look. It was eloquence itself. “Dey even ripped off Fredo's load. Can yous believe it? My brudder … my poor brudder … some asswipe stole his diapers right offa da front porch!” “How's Freddy doing these days? Getting any better?” “Nah. Dey held his head under water too long.” “Toothpick Charlie,” Pat suddenly exclaimed. “That's who he reminds me of,” he went on, nodding at the walking oil slick. “Toothpick Charlie!” “Yeah,” I said, snapping my fingers, “the resemblance is astonishing! And you, Spats; did anyone ever tell you that you look just like George Raft?” “Who?” “Spats Colombo … you know … the Windy City hood that got bumped off by Little Bonaparte down in Florida at the annual Friends of Italian Opera convention.” “I don't know nuttin bout dat. And da convention was in Vegas, not Florida. We ain't been to Florida since the Commies took Havana. Dat bearded guy ain't no friend of Italian opera.” “So, when did Fredo lose his diapees, anyway?” Spats turned to look over his shoulder. “Last Monday.” Toothpick Charlie's voice was as lugubrious as his mustache. “There has to be a gang of diaper thieves out there, because they followed the driver from stop to stop, and stole everything that wasn't nailed down.” “Dis here's Pauly, my Consigliere. He keeps an eye on things for me.” “Any chance that a rival gang is trying to muscle in on your territory, maybe another diaper service?” “Geesh! Come on guys, act yours age. If we was dealin' with a competitor, I wouldn't need da Twinkster, now would I? Geesh!” “Point well taken, Spats … point well taken.” “Wally rode shotgun on Tuesday and Wednesday.” The oil slick nodded at his companion the Hulk. Now that Spats had taken off his muzzle, Charlie seemed determined to talk us to death. “We knocked on doors, and if somebody answered, we delivered the diapers and best wishes for the holidays. But every drop where there was nobody home? On both days, they all went missing. The hit to our inventory, both baby and adult, has been significant. If we don't get our diapers back, service will be interrupted, and we'll lose customers. Can't have that, gentlemen; the diaper business is very profitable.” “What about the university guy? Was he condemned to spend Thanksgiving peeing in his pants?” “Nah. He called Harriet on Monday. He was goin' outta town or somethin', so he got no service. Unless somebody broke into his pad, his stash is safe.” “Good to know. Well, here's what we're going to do. I'll phone Julia and get her ass in gear. She'll start tomorrow. What time's your first truck roll?” “Eight sharp.” The Toothpick was obviously in command of the details. “Okay. Best guess is that she'll want to tail your driver, and see if she can spot somebody else clinging to his fender. However, at some point she'll want to drop by the shop and have a chat with Harriet. You know the drill, Spats … always look for an unhappy employee, or one down on his luck. Nine times out of ten, these capers turn out to be inside jobs.” “Good thinkin', Aardvark. I'll get Harriet on the blower, and let her know what's up. She's a good kid, and she's takin' this personally. She wants her diapers back, period, end of story.” Spats climbed to his feet, tipped his fedora, and strolled out of the room with the same casual grace that he had displayed entering it. His spats were spotless. . . . . So there we were, Pat and I, alone once more, but with an envelope stuffed with hundred dollar bills sitting quietly atop my desk. I looked over at Pat, wondering if he was also thinking that having Spats Belmondo for a client was about the stupidest thing we had ever done. Pat shrugged, picked up his copy of Hustler, and resumed reading, or looking at photos of naked ladies, whatever it was that Pat actually did when he opened the covers of one of his dirty magazines. I didn't really want to know, and so far had managed to refrain from finding out. Instead, I picked up the phone and dialed the Canon residence. It was time to let Twinkletoes know that we had a client who was rich and appreciative of her expertise. It remained to be seen whether she would be less than enthusiastic about solving the case of the missing diapers on behalf of the shadiest mobster in the Twin Cities. . . . . “We need more diapers,” Cindy summed up. “We simply do not have the resources with which to blackmail the braniacs who can make all of our academic problems go away, for the simple reason that the list of our academic shortcomings is inexhaustible. If we don't want to lose our charter, we need more diapers.” Cindy was addressing the sorority's brain trust. Trailing the diaper service truck for the first three days of Thanksgiving week had netted them a huge pile of baby diapers, but precious few of the adult variety. In fact, they only had enough to entrap three pigeons, which would nicely cover physics, chemistry and calculus, but the rest of the curriculum was a gigantic black hole eager to swallow the sorority whole. “We could all spend more time hitting the books,” Joyce suggested helpfully. “You know … reduce our exposure.” “Oh, please,” Melanie snorted. Joyce was only in the house because she was a legacy, and she was only on the Council because her older sister had been on the Council. In Melanie's opinion, Joyce Wiggins was proof positive that something had gone terribly wrong with the whole fraternity system. “Does anybody else have any bright ideas?” Cindy shared Melanie's opinion of both the fraternity system in general and Joyce Wiggins in particular. “I have a suggestion,” Tippi started to say. “Who the fuck let that cat in here,” Janis screamed. “Everybody in the house knows that I'm allergic to cat hair. And who the fuck would name a cat 'Blofeld' in the first place? That's just plain sick!” “As I was saying.” Tippi tried again. “Blofeld is an oriental shorthair, and they don't shed,” Melanie sniffed. “So, calm down, already.” “And what's with you and psychopaths, anyway? I mean, really … you boo Batman, and cheer for the Joker. You don't get Smart, but you write fan letters to Siegfried. And you name your fucking cat after the creepiest guy ever to crawl across the silver screen. And who put you in charge of this meeting, anyway?" “Actually, Cindy's in charge.” “Would anyone like to hear my idea,” Tippi asked yet again. A tall, slender, hauntingly beautiful nineteen year old blonde from New Ulm, Tippi rarely spoke up. In fact, she worked hard to stay out of the limelight. Tippi's parents had not done their daughter any favors when they named her for New Ulm's most famous export. From elementary school to university, every boy who crossed her path had asked her the same, dreary question. “Tippi has the floor,” Cindy proclaimed, pounding the table with her gavel in a bold attempt to restore order. “Laying low today was a good idea because we have to assume that whoever owns the diaper service will now have someone shadowing his delivery truck. For the same reason, we should back off tomorrow as well. Rather than trailing the truck, we should send a team to hang out at three different addresses on his route-- addresses widely spaced. If we spot one car at all three locations, we'll know what's what. Then, we get back to work on Wednesday, but we only target one drop … the large, adults only apartment complex down in Bloomington that he hit late in the afternoon two weeks ago. There'll be at least a week's worth of used diapers waiting outside somebody's door, which I am going to steal before the driver gets there. We'll stuff some dirty, old rags into the bag so that it looks and feels the same, and once he's gone, I'll also grab the clean diapers. We get two weeks worth of adult diapers in one go, and give these creeps the middle finger in the process. Then we give our pigeons enough diapers for three or four days, forcing them to visit the laundromat twice a week … for double the humiliation. We'll end up with maybe nine guys doing our coursework, and the Great Diaper Heist of 1979 will be just another unsolved crime.” “Any other ideas,” Cindy asked as she scanned the room. “No? Then we'll vote on Tippi's proposal in accordance with house rules. All in favor so signify by touching the tip of your nose with your right hand; all opposed so signify by grabbing your left ear lobe with your left hand.” Cindy once again scanned the room. “The ayes have it, and the vote is unanimous. Tippi and I will take care of business tomorrow, and on Wednesday. The rest of you get to work drawing up a target list. Finals are just a couple of weeks away, and some of us have term papers. We need to trap our pigeons this weekend, and have them in diapers by Monday next at the latest!”

Vickie eats a lot of Chinese take out, and one of the following is her favorite. Which one do you think it is? A. Beef and Broccoli Stir Fry B. Shrimp Chow Mein C. Lemon Chicken D. Pork Fried Rice E. Tofu with Vegetables The answer will become apparent in the next scene.

Coming first: Scene one of Aardvark, Platypus, and Twinkletoes: Attorneys at Law. Tags will include such teasers as "desperate diaper thieves" and "shady gangsters." Ian and Vickie join forces with a hard boiled private eye to defend truth, justice, and the American way!

Vickie's a screamer, so the wand may or may not prove her undoing. i promise you, however, that by week's end she will have done other things that Sarah takes as a direct challenge to her authority. And in the story, it is only Monday night!

A lot to unpack here, but this one is easy. Ian has transparent, blue, and yellow vinyl pants; Vickie has transparent and pink. Back in the day, you could buy baby pants individually or in packs, and a typical pack had one each transparent, yellow, pink, and blue. If you go back to scene 5 (Vickie's magic wand), you will find that Vickie keeps a wand in a bedroom dresser drawer, and later we discovered in a passing remark that she also keeps one in her locker at work. In scenes lying just ahead, she is going to become very, very frustrated, and both the wands and her diapers will figure large in the solution. When we get there, let me know if you find the deal that Sarah will offer Vickie creative.