This is the first Labor Day of my entire lifetime, my 87 years, that Jerry Lewis is not hosting the insanely terrible muscular dystrophy telethon. I refuse to watch if Jerry is not on. Even if they ARE gonna feature Andrea McArdle and also Tony Orlando and Dawn. Yes! I will forgo all that mesmerizing talent in support of Jerry.
When I was a kid I was obsessed with staying up all night to watch it, a thing I never managed. Someone should have introduced me to alcohol and/or men, as I later discovered those were lovely impetuses for staying up till dawn. But not Tony Orlando.
Okay, anyway. So, in case you were worried sick, Dick Whitman and Daniel Boone did not hiss at each other and puff up like Anderson did the other day when I had that puppy over. First of all, neither of them like me in THAT way, because I repel men like the fine sheen on a duck, and secondly, once the Whitman pulled into my driveway, I leaped into the car like a banshee, which makes no sense because banshees are not famous for leaping, really.
"Your slutty date is ready!" I announced, at Dick Whitman looked curiously at the car in my driveway that was identical to his. Did I mention they drive the same car? They do. Maybe all men who drive that type of car find me physically repulsive, but a hoot to hang out with.
The point is, Dick Whitman and I drove to the Ava Gardner museum yesterday. As you do.
I took pictures with my iPhone, then also Dick and his Whitman dragged out his gigantic horse-member camera and I will just let you guess which photos were taken by him and which were taken by me. Hint: If you can see the subject being photographed, it was totally a photo taken by me. How does DW not get fired?
Oh! Before we went to see Ava and her gardening equipment (hey, I wonder if we are related. Ava Gardner/June Gardens. Heaven knows we are identical-looking), we went to Starbucks.
Look, I'm being one of those annoying "let me back up" storytellers.
Anyway, after I watched Dick Whitman order decaf (!!) and two cake pops but then only allow himself to eat one (Dick Whitman is fascinating. In every way that I am a crazed berserk uncontrolled banshee, Dick Whitman is a Swiss watch), we went to the art museum in Raleigh…
Ava Gardner was so gorgeous that all she had to do was have a photo taken by her brother-in-law, who stuck the photo in his store window, and some agent walked by and whisked her to Hollywood and got her a movie contract.
I think my senior picture may have been up at the studio in Saginaw, Michigan in 1983 for a few months, and didn't no agent whisk ME off. What the heck?
Anyway, she went on to marry Mickey Rooney, which makes perfect sense because he was so hot.
Ava. Honey. What were you doing, there? Do you have a troll fetish? What gives?
Anyway, once they both stood up at the same time she realized she had to divorce him, or maybe the roofies wore off, I don't know, but she went on to marry Artie Shaw, who was sexy, and also Frank Sinatra. All of her marriages lasted a year, so now I don't feel so bad.
The best part of her story is in her 40s she got sick and tired of everyone and moved to Spain and slept with bullfighters and had Corgis till she died. You go, Ava!
I like Corgis.
In case you are burning with curiosity, Dick Whitman did eat barbecue like a banshee. From now on, I am just going to assign personality traits to banshees that were never there.
He explained how he eats good things all week then bad things on the weekend. In case you didn't know this, Dick Whitman has the smoking body. This is why I was curious about his eating habits. And he works out every single day and has done so since college.
People who have discipline, like banshees, intrigue me.
In the meantime, Daniel Boone was here doing something to my screen door and assessing that my computer is dusted off. It crashes every 14 seconds and it is annoying. I do not know if you've noticed the part where I am filthy rich now that I live on just my income and have a house payment. So getting a new computer should be NO PROBLEM!
I am just saying. If I stop blogging I am probably not dead. I mean, I may be dead from eating barbecue, but probably not. I am from hearty stock. Other than the part where everyone gets cancer. Cancer schmanser.
So my puffy hair and I had fun. Other than the part where Dick Whitman likes to read directions, look at things at the side of the road, split diamonds, write novels and conduct an orchestra while he drives. Good gravy.
Well. Good gravy only on weekends.