It’s a Funny Thing About Me, But Not Hilarious

Getting to Know Me

I’m on Facebook (no, not to spy on my kids. I just happen to be way cool.) I really don’t spend a lot of time there, but lately I have noticed a flurry of "How Well Do You Know So-and-So?” quizzes, and if you’re way cool and on Facebook too, you’ve probably seen the ones I’m talking about, where people compile random questionnaires about themselves – their fears, favorite foods, first jobs, etc. – the point being for friends to test their intimate knowledge of each other. (Fortunately I scored 100% on my daughter’s quiz which is a good thing – I mean how embarrassing would it have been to miss the first question, "My middle name is _____”.)

So anyway, this whole quiz business got me to thinking that even though I launched my website quite a while back, there’s an awful lot that you, my faithful readers, still don’t know about me. We must rectify this immediately. Otherwise we’ll never be able to take our relationship to the next level. The challenge is how to go about it.

While it’s true that questions like, "What original recipe will my family never let me live down?” [a: Sweet & Sour Burritos; b: Squash Cobbler; c: Catfish Pizza; d: Liver and Cauliflower Casserole (answer: all of the above)] or "Which of the following songs can be found in my iPod?” [a: "Is You Is, or Is You Ain’t My Baby?”; b. "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas; c: "The Theme from ‘My Mother the Car’”; d: "She Was Bitten on the Udder by an Adder”; (answer: again sadly, all of the above)] would make for a bang-up Facebook quiz, I’m not all that crazy about the multiple choice format. As far as I’m concerned, there’s little to be gained by making you guess whether or not I’m a loon. Better for me to just come right out and tell you. Are you ready? Okay, here goes.


For starters, I bite my toenails. Not often, mind you, but sometimes. Of course I realize that in some social circles such a practice might considered uncouth, if not downright gauche, but the way I see it, the very fact that at fifty-five years of age I can still manage it ought to account for something.

Second, I play the guitar, but alas my repertoire is limited to "Stewball.” No I didn’t start out to be a one-hit wonder. In fact, I’ll have you know there was a time when I could play any number of tunes including "Found a Peanut” and "Be Kind to Your Web-Footed Friends”, but over time, what with age and the fact that I no longer have a guitar, my skills have diminished and I’m left with just the one song.

Finally, and this is the big one – Robert Goulet once patted my fanny. It’s true. (I would never make up something like that.) Here’s what happened. He was appearing in a production of "The Fantasticks” at the Dallas Musical Hall, so Marc and I, along with another couple, went to see him. After the performance, my friend Monte and I decided to go backstage and get his autograph. While our husbands waited in the parking lot, we joined a dozen or so other groupies (all middle-aged women, oddly enough) in a small reception area near his dressing room where, after a short wait, he waltzed in just as handsome and debonair as I’d hoped he would be, with his dark wavy hair, those heavenly blue eyes and that voice!!! (Keep in mind this took place a few years before his ghastly toupee, and those dreadful Emerald Nuts commercials.)

He charmed us right out of our pantyhose when he admitted that he’d flubbed a line in the play (we assured him that nobody had noticed – even though we all had.) A few minutes later, with a little more nervous giggling than I intended, I thanked him for autographing my Playbill. As I turned to leave, he smiled and winked at me and then – wait for it – wait for it – Robert Goulet gave me a nice, firm little swat right on my derriere! If you don’t believe me, ask Monte! She saw the whole thing!

Okay I think I’d better stop now. This is probably just about as much information as you can handle in one sitting. But don’t worry. I’ve got tons more stuff to tell you, once we really get to know each other.

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