It was right about then that Ahmad showed up with a portable telephone, informing us that there was a call for a Miss Amy and looked at the three of us, trying to determine which one of us was `Miss Amy.' I pointed to Carolyn who returned with a finger aimed at Debbie who in turn stared at me and simultaneously broke into giggles. "I'll be Miss Amy if the guy on the phone has a great ass," I responded and watched Ahmad's ears turn pinkish red. "It's a woman's voice," he responded meekly and I knew right then he was a sub. I just wasn't sure if *he* knew it yet and he didn't seem old enough for me to tell him. I don't think he shaved yet, but neither do half the pilots-in-training in the US Air Force for that matter. "If it's a woman," Carolyn interjected, "then *she* is Miss Amy," and with that, directed her gaze at Debbie who was still giggling and picking at the remnants of her bloated slice of mushroom. I don't know how anyone eats brown food. Ahmad didn't yet realize he was being put on, but he had a hot phone in his hand and was almost desperate to rid himself of it. He knew who Barbara was but he couldn't figure out who the heck *we* were. Stumbling over his words, he tried one more time. With an uncomfortable hiss, he relieved himself of his mental burden. "It's Mrs. Barbara ...." And three women shrieked as one as I lunged for the phone. "She asked for ME!" I grabbed the handset and smiled broadly into the mouthpiece like she could see me win that round. At least Carolyn and Debbie knew that I won. Winning is just no fun unless everyone sees you win. "How ARE you, dear? And how did you find us in the middle of Africa?" I demanded through smiling lips but figured I already knew the answer. I'm not sure I can go anywhere without Barbara being able to track me down. She knew I was going to be in Virginia that weekend, but I hadn't filed my itinerary with her staff. "Tell her we're shopping," Carolyn smirked as Debbie told me to add, "And we're eating portabella. Let her eat her heart out." The conversation continued like that for several minutes as we all related our life stories of the past few months simultaneously. We hadn't gotten together, not all of us, since autumn in the mountains. Through the magic of telecommunications, there were four of us now, but we weren't complete. Wendy was in her mountains, unable to travel east for the shopping trip. I remember her e-mail plainly. "You buy something kinky for me," she enjoined with a typewritten giggle, one of those emoticons that drive me batty, "and I've got a story to tell you in Florida." Of course, I just had to e-mail her back and demand the details of the story because I would *not* wait until Florida to be entertained, and a few hours later, her missive arrived. It seems that Hal poured out a deep dark secret after 24 years of marriage and Wendy, whom he assumed would reject it out of hand, jumped all over the opportunity. Hal, it seems, had a secret fetish. I'd have to share this with the girls sooner or later, but right now wasn't the time. Wendy needed to be here before I could out her husband with a clean conscience. "We'll see you and Doug for dinner tonight," Barbara commanded and I liked her developing Domina style of invitation-issuing, and then she invited Debbie, John, Carolyn and George to an impromptu late winter gathering at her Washington home. Dinner sounded glorious because I like both good food and good help and Barbara has both of those. "What's for dessert?" I inquired with the biggest grin I could manage while watching Debbie continue to pick at the huge brown blob they were charging her $9.95 plus tax for, and grinned even more broadly when she recited the menu one more time for my benefit. "Whipped cream," she intoned pompously, "with either chocolate torte or apple cobbler underneath it." The dinner of champions, I remarked silently, with four great flyboy asses to entertain me before, during and after the festivities. The girls shrieked as one at the mention of whipped cream and my mind darted to the magnet Mule bought me at the beach that announces, "Whipped cream. Handcuffs. You and me." And when he told me that he bought it because he just `had to,' I agreed with him. He had to. He just had to. Barbara was closing our conversation when I remarked that it was odd to get together without Wendy. "She'll be in Florida next month, Amy," Barbara commiserated, and I knew she was right, but it didn't feel right without her - like a part of us was missing. We hung up, returned the phone to still-waiting Ahmad, and gathered our packages and purses to pursue the elusive perfect Florida outfit and shoes before the sun set. "Wait," Carolyn interjected as we readied to leave, "I gotta pee!" As we piled into the ladies room and gloated that we no longer needed the changing table that was available, we performed our social pee, as George was wont to call it, and for that moment, it seemed Wendy was with us. "I think I'm going to buy George something frilly," Carolyn called over the stall wall. I recalled our trip to the mountains where George's particular fetish made itself known, although George didn't know that we knew. One always needs ammunition when one hangs around with flyboys. I decided to keep it our little secret. "He'd adore the short maid's outfit I saw in the kink store," I offered helpfully above the din of flushing toilets and electric hand dryers. "It was short - maybe a little too short for him," I cautioned to the gleeful giggling of my girlfriends in the adjacent booths. "Unless you like that part hanging out," I finished the thought. "Oh god," I heard Debbie moan, although it might have been Carolyn. Who could identify a giggle with parrots shrieking and elephants making that elephant noise? Heck, did they have to run those microphones into the bathrooms? Couldn't we provide our own special noises? I couldn't resist. After a particular loud lion's roar, I shouted over the stall, "Carolyn, is that you? I *told* you not to eat portabella!" The lion wasn't the only thing roaring in the ladies room. Finishing my business, adjusting my hose and straightening out all those things that need straightening, I wandered out of my stall to the magic sinks where the water comes on when you place your hands under the faucet. I looked at the line of women waiting to use the facilities and it occurred to me that there were just not enough toilets for women. Nope, there weren't enough at all. Shoot, the lineup of tense women looked like DisneyWorld's Space Mountain ride. I did that ride once, although when we were on line with the kids, I had no idea it was a ride. I thought - truly, I believed it - that it was an astronomy museum. After all the colors, the lights, the stars, the outer space thing all pointed to a science exhibit. Doug knew better than to take *me* on a ride that simulated something more intense than an airplane. We waited in the hot Florida sun with two kids who didn't stop bouncing the entire time we were in line until it was our turn and they put my 10-year-old son between my legs in the front and my daughter with Doug in the back and we started our journey. We went straight to hell. I wasn't sure I would return. First, there was blackness, and then there was a feeling of fast. We went up, around, down and over. They told me later that there were lights and stars and all kinds of glorious special Disney effects but I never saw any of them because my eyes were shut tight and my arms were wrapped around my son, trying against all apparent odds to prevent his falling out of the spaceship into the vast nothingness of purgatory that I was absolutely certain surrounded us. I'm not sure I breathed the entire time we were prisoners in the evil little capsule. When we emerged into the light, I felt myself prepare to perform surgery on Doug without benefit of an anesthetic when my two kids, still jumping up and down, screamed in unison, "Can we go again?" I think John Glenn needs to have his head examined. It has nothing whatsoever to do with age. It must be dementia from spending time in the Senate. They need to build more stalls in women's bathrooms. Shoot, they did in Erikson Stadium but down here in North Carolina, we *know* how to take care of women. Whenever I beat Mule in a restroom break and emerge from the ladies room before he's finished zipping his important parts, he accuses me of not being female. Instead, I think it's because I know how tense the women are who are waiting for me to finish so they can go in. One of these days, there's going to be a riot of women who no longer want to go through life with their legs crossed. If you think post offices are bad, just wait for the Ladies Room Riots of 98. But, wait! Mule! *Uncle* Mule! He could watch my daughter while I was in Florida. After all, he doesn't go anywhere in March. As long as it's not St. Patrick's Day weekend when he throws the mother of all parties and spends the entire preparatory time cleaning bathrooms (which is another story), he would be available. And my daughter likes him. He does her physics for her. And he usually gets it right, especially if there's a question about cockpits, hanging pencils, inertia, gravity and g-force. If he weren't available, perhaps John Glenn could be talked into helping her. The girls and I marched back into the jungle, paid our bill and made fun of the prices on the merchandise they were unloading in front of the restaurant. But Debbie bought two shirts for her boys and Carolyn toyed with a hat for George. I, on the other hand, chose to save my money for a perfect Florida outfit and, of course, matching shoes. It had to be a special outfit, something in which I would appear as grand as the Head Domina should appear when she read Plaything's latest e-mail that arrived in the same queue as Wendy's earlier epistle. I just hadn't told anyone about it yet. But maybe I'd pick up something lacey and soft for Doug. Or maybe something electric. Or maybe both. He might just like that.