I've told you about my friend, Dawnie. She is often the inspiration for blog posts, for a number of reasons:
- She is incredibly funny,
- She falls down in church,
- She is tiny and blond has been known to stand on a chair to give a hug to a 6' 4" bouncer because he looked sad after he threw that drunk out onto the sidewalk,
- And the bouncer was perfectly fine with her doing that because he really was kind of distressed about the whole sorry affair,
- Those rumors about her hiding in a dumpster in hopes of accosting Josh Groban after his Vegas debut were greatly exaggerated,
- All the charges were dropped, anyway, and besides,
- People say "restraining order" like it's a bad thing.
She's the sanest friend I've got.
That's right, those of you who know Dawnie. We've reached critical mass.
So, today was our monthly lunch date. We commiserated about our jobs, our spouses, our lawns (she doesn't have one, ours hates us), our kids, okay I lied about the lawn thing, and our kids some more.
And I mentioned that my son may be taking the second semester of Algebra again this summer, because as far as this family is concerned, you just can't have enough fights over math.
Anyway, she told me an absolutely horrifying story. It goes like this:
"My mom taught herself Algebra."
I know! What is up with THAT?? She just picked up a book, started at Chapter One, and read to the end. Twisted, twisted, twisted.
So, this was Dawnie's well-reasoned response to her mother's dark and disturbing revelation:
"Who the hell cares what x is? Can't you just tell us what x is, so we can all get on with our lives?"
See? Josh Groban doesn't know what he's missing.
As you no doubt recall - because I sent a notification to all your Google calendars - I spent last weekend in Seattle. Oh, how I love that city. The SITS conference was terrific, and I must say with all the modesty I'm capable of mustering, I was the best speaker on the subject of "Adapting Your Voice to Your Content" on the agenda.
Totally stole the show from all those other speakers on the subject of "Adapting Your Voice to Your Content."
So, while we were eating lunch, I got to know the ladies at my table. And one of the ladies really wanted to win this little Sony camera dealio that, apparently, you are forbidden by law to Vlog without.
Anyway, we were exchanging business cards, and I only had one card left.
And you had to put your business card in this box for the camera drawing. You with me so far?
So this lady - the one who wanted the camera - said to me, "I loved your presentation sooo much. It was the best one on the subject of "Adapting Your Voice --"
And I said, "Get on with it already."
So she cried for a minute, and then she said, "May I have your business card?"
And I only had one left.
And I had made her cry.
But I didn't want to get arrested if someday I decided to Vlog.
So it was a real dilemma.
But in the end, I gave her my card. And would you like to guess who won the camera at lunch that day?
Someone else entirely.
BUT ... later on, there was one final drawing for the law-abiding Sony Vloggy McVlogster, or whatever it was called. And THIS time, my little camera-coveting friend's own business card was pulled from the box!
So I'm putting the word out to my hateful karma: That one earned me one free pass to speed through a school zone.
I mean it.
I spent much of the weekend hanging out with my pals from Mercer Island, which is this delightful town just east of Seattle, across the I-90 floating bridge. You know, the bridge that sank to the bottom of Lake Washington the week we moved to Seattle. The bridge that announced to the heretofore happy residents of King County that DeNae and her diabolical karma had rolled into town...
...by sinking to the bottom of Lake Washington.
Mercer Island is sort of what you would get if Mayberry won the lottery.
Like, a really big lottery.
Goober's fillin' station would pump champagne -- that kind of lottery.
Oh, and Goober would have to change his name to Sean. Or Geoff.
Anyway, on Friday, I met several of my old friends for lunch at this lovely restaurant on the island. And my friend Jennifer - who set up the date - gave me directions like this: "It's on the north end, across the street from [insert business that didn't exist when I moved 14 years ago] and next to [insert another business which also didn't exist when I moved 14 years ago]. Be sure to take [insert freeway exit that - you guessed it - didn't exist when I moved 14 years ago] because otherwise you'll drive right into the [insert lake that did, in fact, exist when I moved 14 years ago] and none of us will be wearing diving gear."
Those kinds of driving directions make me feel right at home.
In Puerto Rico.
Where they say cute things like, "Take ... uh ... that road over there. Stay on it until you see this field. In the field you'll find a black and white goat. Get out of your car, walk up to the goat, and ask it how to get to Ponce."
On Sunday I had lunch with my friends, John and Jennifer. The same Jennifer who gave me directions to the restaurant. But I fooled her! I remembered where she lived! Hee hee!
So they had to feed me.
And they prepared the most unusual meal. Try to stay with me, here.
- John grilled these steaks, and then sliced them thin.
- Then John warmed up this "multi grain" bread.
- Jennifer steamed this "white corn on the cob" stuff.
- Then Jennifer mixed a bunch of "fruits" in a bowl - exotic things like 'raspberries' and 'kiwi' - and sprinkled a bit of brown sugar on them.
- And then we ate all the food.
"At the grocery store."
So of course I said, "Oh really? Some hoity-toity grocery store like Aunt Bea's Emporium of Comestible Delights?"
And they said, "No, QFC."
And I said, "Pfft. As if. I've shopped in QFC, and I never saw these red things, or those purple things, or that green thing, or that whitish-yellowish thing."
And they said, "It's all in the produce department, you simp."
Really. They both said that.
Which leads me to believe that "produce" might actually be a noun! All this time, I've avoided that aisle because I thought they would put me to work. Like, maybe it was a factory or something.
Did you know that "lunch" is a relatively new invention? Even as recently as...um... sixty-fi--, no, a hundred and eighty nine years ago, they just had "breakfast," "dinner," and "supper."
And "supper" was usually just some dirt on a plate.
Those were hard times.
Thank heaven for modern technology. I really like lunch.
It's where my friends live.