If a book is ever written about my life, it should be entitled, “Only You.”
That’s because whenever I do something extraordinarily stupid, the person I am with says, “Only you…”
This past weekend, a friend and I met at the Washington, D.C., convention center for the Metropolitan Cooking and Entertaining Show. Or as featured celebrity chef Paula Deen called it in the TV promos, Metropolitan Cookin’ and Entertainin’ Show.
I didn’t see Paula, or Bobby Flay or Rachael Ray, because I didn’t want to shell out the hundreds of dollars their personal demos and book signings commanded.
Instead, I went on a General Admission ticket, which got me into the exhibit hall, along with the rest of the masses, who stood in long lines to taste a piece of cheese the size of a pinky nail.
It turns out that General Admission was where I belonged. You can’t take me anywhere nice.
My first mistake was to go into the hall hungry. My second mistake was to walk up to the first booth without a long line, take what looked like a delicious peanut butter cookie, and pop it in my mouth.
Just then I heard the voice of the exhibitor. “Ma’am, that’s a dog biscuit.”
So, what’s my beef with Halloween? I’ll hit the couch and tell you that much of it goes back to childhood. For some reason, I frequently got sick on Halloween night. Not from too much candy; I didn’t even make it out the door for trick-or-treating. Whether I spiked a high fever or spouted a projectile nosebleed right there in my Mary Poppins costume, something tended to strike me.
Word Nymph 
