1. My sister's cleaning OCD is so severe that you can now see the fingerprints from the carpenter who built her French side tables in 1879.
2. My mother stretches every piece of fabric she touches. EVEN AT MUSEUMS WHERE IT SAYS DO NOT TOUCH.
3. This was the bar in my Dad's apartment. He tore down a wall, moved a jacuzzi and made one of the bedrooms into a bar. Obviously my father was the normal one in the family. Kind of. He saved every lottery ticket he ever played. He then took the time to arrange them and COUNT them. And here they are: 12,881. I'm hoping those were only a dollar each because if not, my sister and I would have been a lot richer 8 years ago when he died.
4. There's no point in listing my peccadilloes as there isn't enough bandwidth so that's why I wrote my book, All the Bad Sex I've Had, a very, very, very long book. Chapter 2 (part 5) is now up at Scrivel. OR just click on my name on the home page and all the previous parts come up, albeit backwards, which is definitely a metaphor for my personality. Some names in the book have been changed to protect the guilty, including me, and some haven't, like ex-Yankee Reggie Jackson. It hasn't been vetted by lawyers so I hope they have WiFi in prison.
All the odd chapters are about the guy I call Elvis in this blog and it's a continuous story about his dead wife, me and him and how she won't leave us alone for 5 minutes already. Every even chapter is about one of the idiots I had bad sex with and explains what's wrong with me.
"Elvis" is like the guy in "You're so Vain." He exists but I ain't blabbing. For once.
End of chat.