A gaggle of questions that I wish that people would ask me but they never do:

1) What are some things that one should never, under any circumstances, mix with chocolate milk?

Tequila and Pixie Stix would be two excellent examples of things one should not mix with chocolate milk. Unless one enjoys "science experiments" in one's "tummy," in which case mix away with joy and adventure and perhaps a nearby receptacle for potential joyful-science-vomit.

Friends, I try these things so you don't have to.

4) Did you ever once, maybe for a summer, date someone more than three times without, technically, knowing his name?

I have no comment. Also, I still don't know his name.

2) If you had an intern, what would you make him/her do?

Firstly, I would make him do my dishes. Or maybe I would make him throw out all the dishes and go on a fantastic-all-expenses-paid shopping spree for paper plates in a wide variety of shapes and sizes, with hopefully more than a few of them shaped like animal-heads (no second-chances if he screws up the paper-plate challenge.) Or maybe we would break all my dishes on my floor and pretend it is a Jewish wedding plus or minus any actuality of marriage.

I'm gonna call my intern a him, by the way, not to be sexist but because I would only hire boy interns. They are, I think, better at dishes.

Sue me if you must.

I would secondly make my intern laugh realistically and wholeheartedly at most things that I say (with noted exceptions being prefaced by, "I'm being serious here," or "I'm quoting something from 'Two-And-A-Half Men.") If he is an astute multi-tasker, I would have him laugh whilst doing dishes because we don't have all day here, you know.

Thirdmore, I would have him wear all my ouchy t-shirts and jeans 79 hours a day so as that they would become soft and comfy as I like them to be and I simply haven't the strength to do it myself.

Furthermost, I would insist that he, at sporatic intervals, toss some confetti in hopes of creating an "everyday party atmosphere" in my apartment. I think that would be good for company morale (and, to be clear, by "company morale," I mean "I like confetti.")

If you do not think this would be a very good internship, you must realize that I would probably also sometimes feed him Oreos with reckless abandon.

3) Kittens or puppies?

Yes. And how!

I bought a pack of gum today.

Trident, if you're superficial and into that brand-namey designer gum sort of thing.

Assuming there is such a thing as designer gum.

On the front of the package, right next to the words "Cool Rush" and "Two Way Whitening Power" (what, pray tell, ARE the two ways? I'm dying to know. One way is clearly "using a probably-semi-dangerous chemical," but what for-the-love-of-God is the other way of making your teeth whiter? Does it teach them square dancing? Make them into terrible basketball players? Does it have your white teeth refer to your less-white teeth as "nappy-headed hos" so as to spark a debate as to whether it's ok if the black teeth call each OTHER that, but not for the white tooth to do so? Because that's some gum worth chewing.) it says the following:

NOT A LOW CALORIE FOOD

Up until this point, I had never considered the calorie content of my gum. Naive, I know. A girl cannot AFFORD to just go around HAPHARZADLY chewing ALL the gum she desires without ANY regard for the calories she is PUTTING into her body (which is, as bodies go, a temple.)

So I promptly checked the back of the box and discovered that Trident chewing gum has five calories.

Five.

Calories.

For TWO pieces, by-the-by and p.s.

No wonder America has an obesity problem. It's all the gum.

If 5 calories is not a low calorie food, I am afraid that I shall be forced for the rest of my life to subsist on mint toothpicks.

Sigh....

When I was five-ish, I could not tell my right from my left.

"Up" and "down" were crystal clear. "In" an "out"? Spot-on.

But right and left remained a conundrum.

Before you even get started (and you know who you are,) shut up about that whole "The left hand is the one that makes the 'L'" crap. They BOTH make an "L" if you work hard enough.

Also any one finger on either hand can make a lowercase "L."

So there, bigshot.

Note from author: It is, in fact, possible that I have retained a bit of residual bitterness about my directional issues. Wanna make something of it?

Luckily, just before my sixth birthday, a splendid thing happened. A perfectly chosen and hard-to-find-in-any-store birthday present just for me:

I fell out of a tree and broke my right arm.

A tragedy, right? An ouchy, crummy barrel-of-yucky.

No, friends.

This arm-breaking-extravaganza, in one fell swoop, not only solidified my knowledge of up and down (down, by the way, is far more painful than up,) but also taught me in next-to-no-time the difference between right and left.

The right, I now discerned, is the arm that has the messy autographs of dozens of fellow kindergarteners on a smelly plaster encasement. The left is the one that doesn't weigh sixteen pounds and hurt like hell.

From that day forth, I was a directional genius. Children would come from miles around to hear me tell tales of rightness and leftness.

So I guess what I'm saying is, parents, if you want to break your kids' arms or anything, it's probably a good idea. I mean, it'll help them in the long run. Just make sure you're doing it for their own good and all. Not just because you want to.

You see, there is a moral to this story, friends: Sometimes learning hurts. But after only a few short months, the pain will subside.

And the knowledge will last a lifetime.

(Another note from the author--who might very well deny being the author when she wakes up in the morning: Errrr....what did I just write? Did I just tell parents to break their children's bones? No, I couldn't have done that. It's 4am. I feel fairly sure this entire entry is a hallucination. Yes, that must be it.)

SOME THINGS FROM MY HEAD:

I, for one, do not think it is fair that golf is the only game that has a miniature version.

I would wholeheartedly be up for miniature bowling.

Particularly if there were windmills.

New York City is a nice-ish city. It has lots of nice-ish things in it like museums and Broadway shows and parks-with-statues.

So why is it that, approximately 432 times a day I find myself wanting to say to some person-or-other:

Excuse me.

It’s possible you had not noticed this before, but I am, in fact, a person.

You may have me confused with an object—an annoying obstacle in the fascinating busyness that is your life—but, believe it or not, I am actually a full fledged human being.

Thank you.
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GOP presidential candidate, Mitt Romney, is being criticized by his opponents for claiming to be a lifelong hunter, even though he has never taken out a hunting license.

It's a bit like George Bush referring to himself as an avid reader.

There's nothing like playing a stringbean to give one a true sense of animosity toward vegetarians.

Who me? I'll be back soon. Promise.

We're opening on Saturday. I'll be the one in the green glitter. Like my mom always said, "Just because you're playing a vegetable, that doesn't mean you can't be a SEXY vegetable." And by "vegetable" she didn't mean "person-in-a-coma."

Bye.

Sick again.

On Thera-Flu.

Again playing a vegetable. Different one this time.

Green Bean.

Promise will be more fun and writer-esque soon.

Also will start using nouns.