High school geometry. Loved algebra, could *not* for the life of me get geometry and got the only D I've ever earned on anything (I don't think I ever got a D on so much as a pop quiz in any other subject). Went on to graduate from college with a 4.0 GPA. Obviously I learned *something* from geometry class... not to even attempt it at the college level.

The Faces of a Rolling Stone
This one could just as easily be filed under "One of the Most Embarrassing Moments of of my Life." In the late 80s I tended bar on the University of Delaware campus at a landmark nightclub called "The Stone Balloon." I wasn't exactly a kid at the time, I worked there from age 27-29 while I went to college (I had finally finished having "the good life" and figured it was time to get down to business).

The Stone Balloon was a big venue. National acts such as Iggy Pop, Meatloaf, Greg Allman and oddly enuf, The Charlie Daniels Band were booked to play there. On this particular night, Ron Wood (nice guy) and Bo Didley (major asshole) were doing the honors, and I was working the front bar.

Now, keep in mind this is a *college* bar. This means the crowd is wild, drinking like mad, and the bartenders are moving at the speed of light if they want to keep their jobs. I happened to be very good at this, mostly because I could care less if I worked up a good sweat and ended up completely covered in beer and orange juice by the end of the night (a concoction we referred to fondly as "Balloon Scum")... or at least I *usually* didn't care. It was not a good idea to work there if you were too concerned about leaving looking (or smelling) anything like you did when you arrived.

Elvin Steinberg owned the Balloon at the time, and he decided I was going to be his bartender for the night. He sat at my bar and I dutifully served him rock glasses full of Chivas all night long, filling 'er up before he ever saw the bottom of the glass. I'm no fool, I knew which side of my bread was buttered. Little did I know I was about to be "honored" for my hard work and devoted attention.

It's the end of the night, I am a mess and completely covered from head to toe in Balloon Scum. My makeup is no more than a memory and I am sure that I smell more like the disgusting remnants from a distillery than the Anais Anais I had applied before leaving the house. The musicians are up in the dressing room, the lights are up, and the last stragglers are leaving the bar. Elvin is apparently three sheets to the wind and thrilled with my bartending capabilities.

"So, you're a fan of the Rolling Stones, right?"

"No, not particularly, but I'm a HUGE fan of The Faces."

To this day I'm still sure I was the only one in the entire club who knew the words to "Ooh La La" when Woody sang it. Granted, it was my undying love for the hard drinking, seriously rock and rollin', long-by-this-time-gone-persona of Rod Stewart that inspired my undying love for The Faces. And btw, if you love the Black Crowes, you really have to check out The Faces. They did it first, and they did it better (Black Crowes fan that I am).

"Well, you've done such a good job tonight, we're gonna go upstairs and meet Ron Wood."

Ummm... huh? You're kidding right?

I've never been much of a stargazer and frankly, I wouldn't even want to meet George Bush adorned in Balloon Scum and sweat, and I *despise* him. Unfortunately, I have a more pressing issue. My boss is favoring me with something that is apparently supposed to honor me to no end, and he wasn't exactly planning on doing the same for any of the other half dozen or so bartenders who busted ass that night. I was The Chosen One and I could tell by his attitude that gushing with much appreciation on my part was expected.

I did give it as much thought as I figured I could get away with before answering, but couldn't quickly come up with a way to gracefully back out of this one. After all, I had apparently accomplished my mission to keep the boss happy, I just hadn't realized there would be consequences to pay for my efforts. How do you turn down a gift the person who pays you is sure you are going to consider to be The Shit? Well, if you're smart, you don't. I reluctantly acquiesced. I reasoned the ordeal would be over quickly, that I would escape unscathed in no time at all and get home to my longed-for shower, and Elvin would be content that he did me right.

Wrong.

Up we go to the dressing room, and we make a beeline for the bar. Elvin now decides he is going to honor me with being *my* bartender and starts serving up drinks. I'm standing next to Bo Didley, and if I wanted to make this diatribe even longer than it already is, now would be the time to explain why Bo Didley was a huge asshole. Perhaps Plinky will provide an appropriate prompt for that story down the road, so I'll save it.

Some chick who was a friend of Elvin's and apparently knew Woody comes into the bar and starts talking to Elvin. Ellvin asks her where Woody is and explains he has brought me up to meet him. And with that, the horror begins.

This chick goes running into the dressing room screaming, "Woody! Woody, c'mere, this girl REALLY wants to meet you!"

OH... MY... GOD. Just shoot me now. Please. IN THE HEAD.

I tried to hide my face in my hand and started slowly trying to shrink down behind the bar, frantically planning my escape route through the side room, to the door and down the stairs as stealthily as possible. Just as I had almost managed to sink low enough to employ my plan I hear, "Hi! I'm Woody." I took this as a sign that things had gone horribly wrong.

"Hi." Weak smile as I nonchalantly stood back up.

Now, I gotta admit, for as horrible as this was up to this point, and granted that there was little that was going to improve this situation, Woody sure did his best to make it an enjoyable experience. And considering he was entirely oblivious to my angst, I will be eternally grateful.

He grabbed me by the hand, drug me into the side room, and sat me down at a table. He asked someone for a piece of paper, and when presented with a paper towel, scrawled an autograph on it for me (which I suspect I still have somewhere). We chatted about unimportant things like the crowd and how busy it was, and briefly discussed the music he had played. I told him how much I adored The Faces and that I'd be front and center if they ever managed a reunion. Hard as it was to resist, I was wise enough not to ask him any questions about Roderick, as much as he would have been my main focus if I could have made the best of the situation without the fear of insulting this person who was so incredibly nice and certainly had much more right to be an ass than Bo Didley did... afterall, Woody *is* a Rolling Stone [insert appropriate swooning here]. His wife popped in and said hello as well. Also very sweet.

My ordeal ended quickly and much better than the stressful, angst-ridden way it had progressed from the beginning would have suggested. I reasoned that Ron Wood met so many people he would instantaneously forget all about my Balloon Scum-ridden self as I finally made my escape down the stairs, only to be met by a circle of bartenders and bouncers who apparently also thought my experience must have been The Shit. As far as I know, they still do... unless any of them Plink.

I'm a Starr
When I was reeeeeeal little (I'm guessing six or so), I met this long-haired hippy guy walking down the sidewalk outside our Long Island home. He handed me a tiny sample box of Bold detergent and told me to give it to my mother. I asked him who he was and he replied, "Ringo Starr." I suspect that given my age he didn't think I would question why a multimillionaire rock star who couldn't even walk down a street without being mobbed would be handing out detergent samples (he was right), much less that I'd even know who Ringo Starr was, but the fact of the matter was that I had three much older brothers, the oldest of whom, Gene, was determined to destroy every Hi-Fi speaker in the house by blasting The Beatles with the volume turned up all the way to 11. Not only did I know who Ringo Starr was, I had named my cat Ringo... after my favorite Beatle (at the time). I chose to believe he was who he said he was. Still do.

Christmas in the Trenches by John McCutcheon

I defy anyone, male or female, to listen to the lyrics of this song and not bawl their eyes out. Devastatingly brutal to the emotional condition.

Duh.

Redford: "Don't move."
Streep: "But I want to move."
Redford: "Don't... move."

Being part of or a supporter of the Bush admnistration should be outlawed, or at least heavily taxed. Oh wait... doesn't that already involve lies, deceit, a total lack of personal integrity and an abundance of criminal activity? Damn. Nebbermind.

Gazpacho. I have a gazpacho recipe that is to *die* for. Nothing like a chilled bowl of gazpacho with floating globs of sour cream on a hot summer day.

Alessi Mushroom Risotto. I could live on their mushroom risotto, it's *that* good and it comes in an envelope! Who'da thunk it? And you don't even have to slice mushrooms or nuttin'!

I actually covered my husband's unreasonable fear of roller coasters in my "Better Bring a Bucket List" post and as a result of said fear, my own fear of going Batmanless for my remaining days, so I'll refer you to that one for the real answer to this question. i do have a little ditty about how we ruined someone else's time however, and I have to admit it was the most fun I had at Great Adventure that day.

Thank god I was smart enuf to get Richard on the log flume ride early in the day before riding any of the "real" roller coasters. I LOVE log flume rides, some of my earliest childhood memories are of riding the log flume ride at the World's Fair in NY in the late '60s. You might say I grew up riding log flume rides.

So anyways, we're standing in this interminably long line, inching slowly toward the flume, and we observe this woman dozens of people ahead of us who obviously didn't read her "How to Dress for an Amusement Park" primer. Now, being the type who for years wouldn't answer the phone without her makeup on, I understand wanting to look at least presentable in public. Hubby and I mused however, that we just didn't get why anyone would come to Great Adventure dressed to the nines, red hair teased and sprayed to *there*, enuf makeup on to make Tammy Faye look "Cover Girl Clean" and sporting stilettos. This poor misguided woman became the source of our amusement for the long, boring wait to get on the ride. We needed something to do to pass the time.

Just as we are finally reaching the boarding ramp, the ticket taker starts pulling couples out of the line and having them stand aside while larger groups were directed to their logs. Eventually he points at us and points to a log. Just as I am about to get in, I hear this sarcastic voice coming from the back of the log, "Ha ha, you are going to get SO wet! The people in the front get SOAKED!" I looked up and suddenly realized it was the sprayed-to-within-an-inch-of-her-life redhead. I also realized she had never ridden a log flume ride before. I smiled.

As soon as hubby was safely tucked behind me, I whispered a little something in his ear. He smiled.

And away we went, sloshing and banging and slipping down small hills and making little splashes. I didn't even hear any unusual sounds emanating from hubby, so it is safe to assume that even he was enjoying himself.

Now unlike a roller coaster, which generally has the biggest drop in the beginning of the ride, the biggest drop on a log flume ride is at the end. I know this. I've done this before.

We reach the crest of the hill and find ourselves facing down. Just as the log goes over the top I yell, "NOW!"

I duck. Hubby ducks. The water goes SWOOSH! I am dry. Hubby is dry. Redhead is drenched. Life is good. And wet hairspray *so* sucks.

I love log flume rides.

'55 T-Bird convertible. A *pink* one. And I can't believe Plinky actually had a pic of one and I didn't even use the word "pink" in my search. Must be a sign. Oh, Sweetieeeeeeeeeee.....

Define "famous." I am famous for my one-of-a-kind hair jewelry designs, but it's among a *very* niche group for obvious reasons! Nono, no autographs.

I hate the theaters
I stay at home and watch films
eating GOOD popcorn

I rarely try to impress anyone but if I were to make the effort and actually set out to do such a thing, I'd wear my Marc Jacobs or Prada boots, my fav Isabella Fiore or Versace bag, my full-length lavender mink coat or black leather jacket with silver fox collar, and any of a number of gems, all depending on the formality of the occasion. Impressed? Don't be. My personality is much more impressive, for better or (mostly) worse, than my impeccable taste in clothes and accessories, as it should be. And I have tons more fun making peeps who really care about such things squirm than I do impressing them with my "stuff."

And before I get a bunch of comments from activists, not only have I rescued more dogs than you and the next ten people will in your lifetimes, but I eat meat too. LOTS of rare red meat. It's a dichotomy. However, being at the top of the food chain rules. You have the choice... wear 'em, eat 'em or save 'em. Choices are good. I partake in all of 'em .

And mostly I wear PJs. And gems. Gems *so* rule. And big ones are only gawdy on *other* people. And they go with anything... including PJs. Talk to me Harry Winston, tell me all about it.

Be a Man
Before you obey me, fight me once in a while. Make some sport of the whole thing before you bend to my will. At least make a go of it, even though we both know you will inevitably lose.

Don't Lie to Me
Not even white lies. Fessing up immediately will get you much further than than any lie, which I can smell before it even leaves your mouth.

At Least try to Have Bigger Balls Than I Do
Keyword here is "try."

Listen to Me
If I talk to you and I can immediately ask you what I just said and you can't answer, I am immediately thinking about how I can get rid of you.

Most Importantly, Make Me Feel Loved
The payoff is beyond your wildest dreams.

"Instant gratification takes too long."

A diamond big enough to have a name
Just one, I'm not greedy.

All the foie gras I can eat for the rest of my life
Which won't be long if I'm eatin' foie gras all the time. Die young but happy, I always say.

An H2 that gets 40mpg
I missed my chance to own one while it was still socially acceptable :/

Dinner with Christiane Amanpour
My god I wanna hear her stories!

Republicans to smarten up and stop living in abject fear of just about every damn thing
Who am I kidding. This one will NEVER happen.

Just about anything by Hans Christian Anderson is great stuff but my favorite of them all was "The Little Mermaid." No, not Disney's horrific version, the REAL version. You know, the one where the mermaid actually kicks at the end. That's right kids, ARIEL IS DEAD! DEAL WITH IT! I had to! And by the way, she wasn't named Ariel in the REAL story either! She was "The Little Mermaid" dammit!

I digress.

I actually have some very special Hans Christian Anderson books that have 3D covers that I've owned since I was a very little kid (they are prolly about 40 years old). They're so important to me that I keep them in our safe in case of fire. My mother used to read them to me over and over again as a kid, and just a few months before she died suddenly I actually got her to record them. I have never been able to listen to that tape.