The lost week

I don't know what happened. Maggie came over last Monday, and then it was Easter Sunday and my head hurt. Maggie was all "let's go out all night!" and I was like "okay" and she said "drink this" and I muttered "if you insist." Events progressed in this manner. What specifically happened, I couldn't say. We brought Sarah and Zan along with us for much of it, and there were exotic fruits. Here's one. Yeah, we ate that thing.

That, by the way, was a cactus pear, which looked like it should taste like an overripe berry, and instead was like a mealy cucumber. I have dubbed it "the fruit of lies." Other fruits were far more palatable. Gooseberries, we discovered, taste like orange Starburst. Highly recommended.

We had purchased all kinds of crazy fruits because Maggie wants to taste 1,000 fruits. This is the great thing about Maggie Mason, that these things even occur to her. When she told me of her quest, I insisted that everyone knows there are only four fruits in the entire world—apples, bananas, grapes, and bananas—and that she is a silly goose. But oh no no no, she insisted, there are in fact quabillions of fruits. And so we went to a fancy grocery store and found all manner of nutty fruits, and we took them to a bar. And when she told the host and the waiter to give us a sharp knife and plates and also share in our exotic fruit experiments, they had no choice but to comply. This is the Power of Maggie.

And that's not all! With the greatness of our collective mind-force, we came up with the most brilliant fetish site ever. Introducing: Featuring helpless, lovely women, wondering what could have become of their missing shoe. Won't someone help them?

We will make millions.

Scott pointed out that in the picture I've linked to, Maggie is in fact holding her other shoe in this picture, which makes it not so much "Where's my shoe?" and more "Confused about shoes." "Unsure as to how shoes work." "You mean the other one goes on the other foot? It can't be that easy."

Somewhere in there we spent the day with Dara Torres—which, if you're sleep-deprived and achy, can really mess with your head. When one is feeling that unfresh, one should not spend an afternoon with a dazzling, glowy creature. Nevertheless, we had a great time, and discovered that Dara Torres is (not surprisingly) gracious, especially when faced with sexually aggressive elderly women (long story). She is also (surprisingly) enthusiastic about Rock of Love. So that was nice. We were there courtesy of Hewlett Packard, which arranged for us all to get together and fed us sushi. I had a few minutes to interview Dara, but I had no idea what to interview her about because I have only a personal blog in which I talk about my dumb feelings. So we chatted about the Internet. And I learned that Dara Torres has, like the rest of us, read mean comments about herself, and she has cried. You guys, the Internet made a mermaid cry. (I wasn't supposed to tell you that part, about how she's really a mermaid, but now I'll pretend I'm just kidding.)

And now I am recovered and will drink nothing but sparkling water for the next fifteen years. Unless Maggie comes back to town, in which case I promise nothing. Nothing!