A loud sigh whooshes through the phone line. It's Arlene calling me. Again.

Her whooshes sound like a hurricane about to hit.

"Oh my lord," she whines. "I just don't know what I'm gonna do."

Shoot! Another 'I screwed up again' marathon. I open my mouth to say, "Chaing tau. Ahso. Wong Numbah" in a high-pitched voice. But before I can get the first squeaky word out, she's talking again.

"You know my red polka dot scarf? Well, I put it on yesterday to accent my purple polyester pantsuit. It's the one I bought special for the meeting."

I know I shouldn't ask, but I do. "What meeting you talking about, Arlene?"

"The Bloomin' Bloomers. We had a brunch. I told you about it, don't you remember?"

Oh, no, not the Bloomers. Hey God, didn't I thank you for getting her into the Bloomin' Red Bloomer Sistahhood so she wouldn't call me up every whipstitch? I can't help it if picturing a gaggle of goofy women wearing red bloomers on their heads cracks me up. Be honest, God. You laugh, too, don't you?

Big whoosh again. "You just won't believe what happened yesterday."

"Try me."

Thank God for portable phones. I settle myself down in my temperamental Barcalounger and switch on the TV with no sound.

"The brunch was at Shirley's house. She was the original Red Bloomer, you know. In fact, she's the one who got me in."

The fact that Squirrelly Shirley talked a bunch of women into wearing red underwear on their heads and calling each other Bloomin' Bloomers pretty much says everything there is to say about Arlene.

"I volunteered to make the centerpiece for her table, thank heavens. You know, I love Shirley to pieces, but she doesn't know a daisy from a dandelion. Lord knows what she would have stuck in the middle of that table."

"Probably something silk," I say, click the remote and tune into Oprah, this time with sound.

"You are so right, and I'd have been mortified. The thing I created my own self was a bee-u-tiful centerpiece with a summer seaside theme. After all, we DO live on an island."

Oprah's guest today is the Coupon Queen. She's hawking her most recent tell-all book (probably ghost written) about how clipping coupons saw her through four divorces, ten law suits and made her a multi-millionaire.

Arlene draws in a breath. "I worked my fingers to the bone. Why, it took me fourteen hours and twenty-three minutes to fashion petite palm trees out of red potatoes, carrots and bell peppers. She whooshes again. "I was inspired."

The Coupon Queen is about as compelling as Arlene's veggie trees. I flip to Judge Judy and watch as she throws the book at a dumb-ass looking couple that tried to trade grandma in for a riding lawn mower.

"I took my Barbie doll that I got for my thirteenth birthday and dressed her in a red polka dot mid-drift and hot pink shorts. Then I put a pair of teeny red bloomers on her head, identical to mine."

"Of course you did," I murmur.

"I set Barbie down under a cute little Piña Colada umbrella next to a beige lace doily that kinda-sorta looked like sand. She can't take the sun, you know." (Arlene giggles like she just chugalugged four of those cute little Piña Coladas.) "It was just precious. And my little veggie palm trees? You couldn't tell them from real trees to save your life."

Speaking of life, somebody I know needs to get one

. "Shirley's contribution, you should know, was a freaking frozen quiche from Winn-Dixie. Microwavable!"

Sighing loudly, albeit not at tornado strength, I exclaim, "You KNOW you're lying!"

"Don't worry. I saved the day," Arlene announces with pride.

"Glad to hear it."

"Yes ma'am I sho' did. I fixed my famous dessert. Twenty dozen dipped-by-hand-chocolate-covered Ritz Crackers that I stayed up till way after midnight fixing, was the coop dee gracie."

The devil himself pulls the next words from my lips. "Arlene, tell me the truth. You're doing drugs, aren't you? Or maybe all you Bloomin' Red Bloomers eat like truck drivers whacked out on Wacky Tabacky."

"No, no, no, no, no. I just wanted everything to be special yesterday, even though Shirley told everybody she didn't think it was necessary."

The light begins to dawn. "Arlene, did Shirley call you and thank you?"

"Well, no. Not exactly."

I flip the remote to OFF. "What exactly does not exactly mean?"

She clears her throat. "It means she isn't exactly speaking to me at all, and I'm upset! I thought she'd 'preshate all my hard work. Those potato palm trees alone took me half the day to carve out."

The light dawns completely. "Shirley kicked you out of the Bloomin' Red Bloomer Sistahhood, didn't she, Arlene?"

"Only till hell freezes over," she says as a hurricane force whoosh hits the phone line.