This is from an old Margaret Smith joke I love.
She says, “No, but I’ll take the three bucks.” You can see how old that joke really is if a drink was so cheap. Now her answer would be, no, but I’ll take the twelve bucks, or nineteen if she was at The Carlyle.
I look down at my glass and say, “Thanks, already have one.”
Now if I was smart I might have been a smidgeon more charming and reaped that dinner he was itching to buy me, but I’d rather sit home with a book and a ham and cheese on rye than be with someone whose hair looked like a laundry basket. It made me wonder what he was like as a baby.
I just don’t have that gene…Camille has it, and even my mother did but one I didn’t inherit. I have no patience. The minute he’d say something remotely leaning toward lust, I would have been out of there so fast feeling guilty no less. That Catholicism, though lapsed, dies hard.
You ordered Spaghetti Marinara and Tartuffo under false pretenses? You’re going to hell young lady, in a laundry basket.
Tartuffo is my friend Hal’s favorite dessert. For those non-Italians out there, it’s a block of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ice-cream that could easily crack a tooth if you’re not careful.
Forgive the digression.
I tell Camille she should teach a seminar on how to accept dinner invitations from men she’d never speak to the next day. I’d be the first in line with Joanne bringing up the rear.
She’s another one whose charm is down a quart. If we’re out together and Camille attracts a homely threesome, she’ll get up and leave. Connecticut, sadly, doesn’t allow me to do this, but Joanne’s halfway home before anyone can say, “Does she always go to the ladies room with her hat, coat and umbrella?”
“He was fat and bald, yet he swept her off her feet.”
“She was drunk, and thought he was a stray of some kind and you know what happens when you let one in your house…that’s it.”
I know, a flimsy argument, but it’s all I had.
The thought made me giggle out loud, so I asked him if he wanted to sit down…and no, I didn’t accept his appetizer.
That hair swinging in the breeze like Tarzan snatched away my appetite, as it were.
All pictures courtesy of Google Images