In case anyone is worried sick, I'm on page 198 of that statistics book. Only 102 more pages left! Oh, and could someone stab me in the head? Thanks.
However, I have returned to address more of your "Here's what you should blog about, June" comments from the other day, probably 70 statistics pages ago. I'm like a Native American, over here. Instead of telling the time by moons I'm using statistics pages. Ugh.
See what I did, there? I said "Ugh." A little Indian humor, if you will. Sioux me.
Okay. Here are more of your topics you'd like me to address.
Who would you have over for dinner, living or dead?
I'd probably invite someone dead, because they'd be easier to cook for. Remind me to tell you about Ned and me failing at brownies this weekend. It took two kitchens and 36 hours, and still we failed. We're thinking of opening up a restaurant together, maybe call it Fail. You go in, order something, and order in Chinese for you. Any profit we make goes to muscular dystrophy. What say you?
Oh. And Ned wants me to clarify that that terrible story he told about stealing from children with MD happened when he was 8 or 9, tops. By 11 he was already in a gang knocking over 7-Elevens, I guess.
Speaking of which, my high school boyfriend Cardinal, who has NEVER ONCE been a good influence on me, said to me the other day, "Have you been watching Orange is the New Black?" I hadn't. And now I abhor Cardinal. Because do you know who has a statistics book due in its entirety this week? Do you? Do you know who needs to get on it? And do you know who is COMPLETELY OBSESSED NOW with the show Orange is the New Black? Oh, that show is riveting.
Seriously. He's never been a good influence. He's the one who introduced me to delicious sloe gin and Pepsi. He gave me my first Cadbury egg. He said, "Here's an Edie Brickell tape" and I spent the next decade listening to sad hippie songs. It was he who said, "Come up to my room. It's cooler there" when his parents were out of town one summer day.
Cardinal. Hmph. Oh my god I'll never get through your topics.
Eff, Marry Kill, June. Hulk, Tank, Marty Martin?
Eff Marry Kill is a game Howard Stern plays, and Faithful Reader Jan knows how I am about Howard Stern, and that of COURSE I'd know this game. Okay. I'd kill Hulk, with pleasure. I'd marry Tank, because he's a devoted husband. And I'd eff Marty Martin because he's left over. I know his girlfriend reads my blog, and Kayeeeee, please don't beat me up. It's just a game.
She also asked me Eff Marry Kill about three characters on Howard Stern, and Jan: Eff Jackie.
What would constitute your perfect week? Who'd you be with and what would you be doing?
What was the best date you've ever been on and what was the worst?
I can think of two good worst-date stories. In about 1988, this fancy attorney asked me out. I was 22 and a bartender. I went out and got an adorable outfit I could not afford from Jacobsen's (cream-color croppy sweater with big buttons up the back. Hey, it was 1988. Black miniskirt, black high heels, and long huge black-and-cream earrings. Again, NINETEEN EIGHTY-EIGHT). He got to my house having already been drinking.
He took me to a fancy restaurant in town, and before we went in, he told me this was a lawyer hangout and that I was to walk in on his arm. Like, he was instructing me to grab his arm. "And I think we should kiss before we go in."
"I don't wanna kiss," I said. This pissed him off. I did take his arm when we went in, God knows why, and believe it or not, people would come to the table and say, "Oh, she's a pretty one" like I was his new Sarah Coventry charm bracelet.
I just cracked my own self up. Sarah Coventry. Oh my god.
Anyway, he was still mad about the lack of kissage, and he said, "I really shouldn't have asked you out. I mean, you're white trash. But you're so pretty."
Now, see. Today? I'd have walked out. Called a cab. Called my mother. Something. Instead I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu and ate none of it. He got so drunk during dinner that I was afraid when he drove me home.
Good times! We dated for a year. No. That was it. I heard he went to the bar where I bartended after the date, because let me tell you, he needed a drink to unwind at that juncture. He told everyone it didn't work out.
White trash. What a dick.
Oh, and the other bad date was the one I had early last year, when the guy decided he wanted to be exclusive--with someone else. So he texted her at the table. Yeah.
Best date? Ned.
What was the best vacation you ever went on?
A few years back, my pal Sleeping Beauty was coming to the Outer Banks here in NC. She was renting a house with a bunch of other people and asked me to join her. The morning I was to get there, she called me. "There is a child here who's throwing up. I know this means you can't come." It was true. You know how I am about throwing-up things.
But I looked around online and found this room in a 1950s hotel nearby, and it had a little kitchenette, and was right on the water, and it was perfect. Perfect! Sleeping would ride her bike the mile to my place, we'd spend the day on the beach or looking around the town--one day we went to a lighthouse--and it was perfect. I got my alone time and I got to enjoy the beach and Sleeping. Plus, I was really thin then, so.
All right, I'd better go get ready for work. I only have six thousand more topics that you sent me, so stay tuned for more! Oh, and I have a new Purple Clover article out.