A wealthy suburb in the San Diego hills. I'm upstairs, in a gorgeous house. Not mine, though--and I'm not a guest. In broad daylight, I've invaded the house of a woman who collects small wooden figurines from around the world. It's quite a collection--she has taste. I admire, examine and fondle them, but I don't steal any--that's not what I am. I was inspired by Catwoman, but not to steal. Like any cat, I prowl! And follow my own laws: break no locks, leave no prints, do no harm.

But I fail my own last law. She comes home early and I don't hear her! She sees me, gasps in outrage, and I...

...and back-flip over the rail.

Down at the shore, I hit the water--and keep going down! Still feels like flight--air and water are nearly the same to me. I aim for my favorite place, a crease in the surf zone where the waves fall over. An invigorating bubble bath. I breathe deep. Refreshingly cool!

I meet my co-worker here. We're underwater masseuses, working as a team. Too bad she can't breathe water, too--but she has a scuba rig. Our client shows up right on time--an older chubby woman in a full wet suit, tanks, and lots of elaborate weights, not just on the belt but all over--ankles, elbows, neck... She sure must be buoyant! Can't help thinking she looks puffy--needs exercise and better food.

We begin our undersea massage. It's always fun working with my friend, she has good energy, and feels good to touch. But she's not into girls. Sigh! I'm single and bi and she's so hot... Oh, well. Just friends.

A thin bony black man swims overhead, and dives down and gawks, blowing bubbles. When we finish the fat lady's massage and surface, he treads water by us and suggests a new type of weight-belt for our client, one that could simplify the messy mass of lead she's carrying. I wonder if it'd work. Since I can breathe water and have neutral buoyancy, I've never needed complicated gear under sea, and I've been at a loss to advise our client about her flotation problem. She's chubby but not obese; it seems like a simple waist-belt SHOULD be plenty... but it's not.

I thank the guy. It may not work, but there's hope.

Just as there's hope that tomorrow's prowl may find the girl for me.

• House invasion, massage = A masseuse we know wants to rent our living room as a day-use massage room in exchange for free massages. I worried about my privacy--I'm here the most. The dream agrees--we'd both feel uncomfortable.
• Sexy co-worker at the beach = Probably my friend Dawn. Yesterday at Baker Beach she said "I'll HELP you write a singles ad..." I get stuck when I try--I get guilty about liking young smart pretty skinny women. True progressives love old fat ugly stupid women. Why, anything else would be sexist. Thanks, Mom!

  Anyway, Dawn pulled the truth out of me, adjective by adjective, and wrote it down serenely--puzzled why I felt so guilty. "Young, smart, skinny... Hey, you like weird, too. Which all makes sense, since YOU'RE skinny and smart and pretty good-looking and weird as hell. So why are you guilty for wanting pretty much what you have to offer?"

  Good question. Why DO I have all these weird weights holding me down? I guess it sounds strange coming from a bird-fish-prowler girl, but... is it my conscience who's overweight?

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