If I had a dollar for every AIDS victim I’ve given a dollar to, well, I’d be swimming in a pool of crisp green bills, let’s just say. Tonight I attempted to host a Mexican dinner party, and while it had its moments of I-lost-my-mind-in-a-backyard-in-Acapulco magnificence, it did not go off without a hitch, like I’d so been hoping.
The tacos were to die for, the pinata was extraordinaire, and everyone wore their sombreros, but you-know-who brought along her psychic, and it was like bringing a walrus to a tea party. Excruciating. The alleged “psychic” was an incoherent, blathering woman that would not stop hounding people about how they would die. It was like a forest fire out of control, even though I doubt a word of it was true- I doubt that she could predict that tomorrow is Sunday- and certainly Humphrey is not going to meet his end by wandering off a cliff in the Mojave desert. (Poor him, he'll be terrified of cacti for weeks to come!)
The moral of the story is: next dinner party= no psychics, no mohair sweaters.
