"When have I had time? You'll get one, dear-first chance."

"Excuses, excuses! Don't interrupt when I'm orating. Sauce for the gander is no excuse for goosing the goose. If you male chauvinist pigs-I mean 'goats'-can dress comfortably, Deety and I have the same privilege." Whereupon my lovely little bride untied that bikini top and threw it aside like a stripper.

"What's for breakfast?" asked Pooh," I misquoted.

I was not answered. Deety made me proud of her for the nth time. For years she had consulted me, at least with her eyes, on "policy decisions." Now she looked not at me but at her husband. Zeb was doing Old Stone Face, refusing assent or dissent. Deety stared at him, gave a tiny shrug, reached behind her and untied or unsnapped something and discarded her own top.

"I said, 'What's for breakfast?" I repeated.

"Greedy gut," my daughter answered. "You men have had baths, while Aunt Hilda and I haven't had a chance to get clean for fear of waking you slugabeds."

"Is that what it is? I thought a skunk had wandered past. 'What's for breakfast?'"

"Aunt Hilda, in only hours Pop has lost all the training I've given him for five years. Pop, it's laid out and ready to go. How about cooking while Hilda and I grab a tub?"

Zeb stood up. "I'll cook, Deety; I've been getting my own breakfast for years."

"Hold it, Buster!" my bride interrupted. "Sit down, Zebbie. Deety, never encourage a man to cook breakfast; it causes him to wonder if women are necessary. If you always get his breakfast and don't raise controversial issues until after his second cup of coffee, you can get away with murder the rest of the time. They don't notice other odors when they smell bacon. I'm going to have to coach you."

My daughter reversed the field, fast. She turned to her husband and said meekly, "What does my Captain wish for breakfast?"

"My Princess, whatever your lovely hands offer me."

What we were offered, as fast as Deety could pour batter and Hilda could serve, was a gourmet specialty that would enrage a Cordon Bleu but which, for my taste, is ambrosia: A one-eyed Texas stack-a tall stack of thin, tender buttermilk pancakes to Jane's recipe, supporting one large egg, up and easy, surrounded by hot sausage, and the edifice drowned in melting butter and hot maple syrup, with a big glass of orange juice and a big mug of coffee on the side.

Zeb ate two stacks. I concluded that my daughter would have a happy marriage.

Are men and women one race?

Hilda:

Deety and I washed dishes, then soaked in her tub and talked about husbands. We giggled, and talked with the frankness of women who trust each other and are sure that no men can overhear. Do men talk that openly in parallel circumstances? From all I have been able to learn in after-midnight horizontal conversations, all passion spent, men do not. Or not men I would take to bed. Whereas a "perfect lady" (which Jane was, Deety is, and I can simulate) will talk with another "perfect lady" she trusts in a way that would cause her father, husband, or son to faint.

I had better leave out our conversation; this memoir might fall into the hands of one of the weaker sex and I would not want his death on my conscience.

Are men and women one race? I know what biologists say-but history is loaded with "scientists" jumping to conclusions from superficial evidence. It seems to me far more likely that they are symbiotes. I am not speaking from ignorance; I was one trimester short of a B.S. in biology (and a straight-A student) when a "biology experiment" blew up in my face and caused me to leave school abruptly.

Not that I need that. degree- I've papered my private bath with honorary degrees, mostly doctorates. I hear that there are things no whore will do for money but I have yet to find anything that a university chancellor faced with a deficit will boggle at. The secret is never to set up a permanent fund but to dole it out when need is sharpest, once every academic year. Done that way, you not only own a campus but also the town cops learn that it's a waste of time to hassle you. A univer$ity alway$ $tand$ $taunchly by it$ $olvent a$$ociate$; that'$ the ba$ic $ecret of $chola$tic $ucce$$.

Forgive my digre$$ion; we were speaking of men and women. I am strong for women's rights but was never taken in by unisex nonsense. I don't yearn to be equal; Sharpie is as unequal as possible, with all the perks and bonuses and special privileges that come from being one of the superior sex. If a man fails to hold a door for me, I fail to see him and step on his instep. I feel no shame in making lavish use of the strongest muscles, namely male ones (but my own strongest muscle is dedicated to the service of men-noblesse oblige). I don't begrudge men one whit of their natural advantages as long as they respect mine. I am not an unhappy pseudomale; I am female and like it that way.

I borrowed makeup that Deety rarely uses, but I carry my own perfume in my purse and used it in the twenty-two classic places. Deety uses only the basic aphrodisiac: soap and water. Perfume on her would be gilding the lily; fresh out of a hot tub she smells like a harem. If I had her natural fragrance, I could have saved at least ten thousand newdollars over the years as well as many hours spent dabbing bait here and there.

She offered me a dress and I told her not to be silly; any dress of hers would fit me like a tent. "You put something bridal and frilly around your hips and lend me your boldest G-string job. Dear, I surprised you when I jockeyed you into taking off your halter, after telling you that you were wise not to rush it. But the chance showed up and I grabbed the ring on the fly. We've got our men gentled to nearly naked and we'll hold that gain. At first opportunity we'll get pants off all of us, too, without anything as childish as strip poker. Deety, I want us to be a solid family, and relaxed about it. So that skin doesn't mean sex, it just means we are home, en famille."

"Your skin is pretty sexy, Nanny Goat."

"Deety, do you think I'm trying to make a pass at Zebbie?"

"Heavens, no, Aunt Hilda. You would never do that."

"Piffle, dear. I don't have morals, just customs. I don't wait for a man to make a pass; they fumble around and waste time. But when I met him I picked Zebbie for a chum-so I gave him an opening; he made a polite pass, I carefully failed to see it, and that ended it. I'm sure he's as much fun on the workbench as you tell me he is-but bedmates are easy to find, while worthwhile male friends are scarce. Zebbie is one to whom I can holler for help in the middle of the night and be certain he'll rally around. I'm not going to let that change merely because a weird concatenation now makes him my son-in-law. Besides, Deety, although your old Aunt Sharpie may seem undignified, I refuse to be the campus widow who seduces younger men. Save for minor exceptions close to my age, I always have bedded older men. When I was your age, I tripped several three times my age. Educational."

"It certainly is! Aunt Hilda, I got ninety percent of my instruction two years ago-a widower three times my age. I was programming for him and we took shared time when we could get it, often after midnight. I didn't think anything of it until one night I was startled to find that I was helping him to take off my panties. Then I was still more surprised to learn how little I had learned in seven years. He gave me a tutored seminar, usually three times a week- all the time he was willing to spare me-for the next six months. I'm glad I got tutoring from an expert before last night rolled around-or Zebadiah would have found me a dead arse, willing but clumsy. I didn't tell this to my darling; I let him think he was teaching me."