Yola's Three Things

Good afternoon…already? It is I, Yola, removing my snake skin sleeping mask. I'm shocked to realize it's sixty minutes to the cocktail hour. Toaster must have turned off my milk drip early today, probably because of this campaign—more of a death march, really—to make me more approachable to the public. Day Two. Thought the shiny little bastard would have forgotten about it by now.

I was supposed to write down three things people might not know about me. Blah blah and blah. Is that enough? Toaster is holding my Wang Chung tape out the window. Evidently, it's not enough.

1. What's my favorite weapon?
The pen, people. Sharpen the nib and whammo, you've got a whiny, overpaid editor pinned to their desk until the EMTs arrive. If I hold the elevator long enough, like when Steve Coogan is in town (does he have a book or doesn't he? Let's look, darling) the editor will have enough time to do all those irritating little things they're supposed to do, like make my books.

2. How have I developed my fabulous adductor muscles?
Twisting corks out of champagne bottles. As dear old dad used to say, "Champagne to my real friends, real pain to my sham friends."

3. What is that intern's name, anyway?

• Bob: Cored and returned to the manufacturer
• Sylvia: When I chucked my phone, she was unfortunately still attached
• Ricardo: Footbinding. Looks lovely when he sways.
• Max: Publicity. When I tell them to go to hell, it's where they all seem to end up.
• Angela: Twenty city book tour of Nebraska. Surely the definition if not the location actual of the hot place mentioned above.
• Kevin: Rehab. They're so shiny and pink when they come home, like new pennies. It gives me chilblains just thinking about it.

So there you have it. And I feel good about this post. Toaster is bringing up a little triumphant Mozart, it's almost the cocktail hour in central/mountain time, and I'm just waving goodbye to last night's hangover.