Not Laura

I was perusing some headlines today and found out about the untimely death of Laura Branigan. The first thing I thought of was a memory I have of her. I was lying on my back alone in my living room when I was about eight years old. I was listening to my vinyl copy of "Self Control," replaying it over and over. "Lucky One," "Ti Amo," "Self Control" were my favorites. But not only was I listening to it, I was staring at her picture. I had a mad crush on her and my little eight-year-old thoughts somehow convinced me that she, too, was staring back at me. One of my early crushes. RIP, sister.

I went to a birthday party last night and had fondue for the first time. There were apple and bread chunks to dip, as well as potato things wrapped in bacon. I didn't know it was bacon until somebody told me. There was also a glass full of really long sticks sitting next to the fondue pot. I just ate the food without dipping. Until my friend, whose party it was, said, "No, sweetie, you're supposed to dip it in the fondue." Oh. I asked for a definition of the melted cheese. How is it different from nacho cheese? I'm not convinced there is one. And I wasn't very impressed, either. It smelled funny. The stinkier the cheese, apparently, the better it is. Well, it tasted like it smelled. And if it smells stinky, then it tastes stinky. By the end of the evening, Jen and I were playing with the sticks in the candle. Until I lit one on fire and learned that the burnt stick worked as a writing implement. I want a quill set now! This is all I've got now.