I was walking across the street with Eddy, severely underdressed, on our way to meet Luci et al for dancing hilarity. My heels were cute, sturdy, but flat, with no traction. These were not all terrain fashion statements.

So when a guy heading the other way, wearing eyeliner, looking cute as hell, says, "Hey, I love your coat!" and I turn and say "Thanks!" and try to look all runway model about it, the first thing to go is my footing.

I land sprawled on the asphalt, Eddy already ahead of me and standing on the curb, looking amused, with just the right amount of concern. I am mortified beyond any and all sense. This, for some reason, perhaps because I am no longer a teenager, goes well beyond the period stain on the back of the dress, the lipstick on not only the teeth, but the face.

Cute boy rushes back to me and says "Oh my God! Are you okay? You must need a hug."

I, still sitting on the ground trying to assess the glass absorption into my palms apologize for making him have to witness my flailing around like a clumsy ass.

He insists on helping me up and embracing me, his date furious on the opposite corner, while Eddy offers me an elbow when I catch up to him.

Now I understand why women hold onto the proffered arm.

A patron walked up to my desk and stood there, staring at the side of my head.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I said back.

Then I noticed that he had drool running down his face and soaking into the first five inches of his shirt. He thrust a sweaty clutch of snapdragons at my face.

"These are for you."

"Um...Thanks." I accepted with hesitation, taking the bouquet with only two fingers and placing it gingerly on a piece of absorbent paper.

"What- do you think they're poisonous?" He seemed pretty upset that I hadn't clutched them to my bosom and swooned.

"Huh? No, I'm just putting them here for...later."

Mistake.

"Oh! Not poisonous!" he caterwauled, and snatched them back, bringing them to his mouth and taking a huge, crisp bite and chewing, somewhat messily, while smiling at me as though I had just given him permission to crap on the carpet.

"Sir, you might not wish to do that. In fact, you don't want to eat those. They might not be good for you." I had never encountered anything like this before. Usually the crazy people want to hurt you, not themselves. What was the protocol? I had no idea.

Luckily, the LA sitting next to me jumped up and reiterated my concerns, adding that she thought they might be poisonous.

She called the security officers while I Googled the possibility.

The man happily munched away on the snapdragons, pieces of petal falling from his wet face to land on his soppy shirt and behind him on the floor as he wandered in circles.

Security tried to talk to him and advise him to not down any more exotic plants, but he resisted their common sense advice, assuring them that he knew what he was doing by yelling "Not poisonous! Aphrodisiac!" before he stumbled away and out the door.

A later inspection of the snapdragon arrangement in the lobby confirmed that there was only one lonely stalk left, and that he could have been eating snapdragons all morning. But since he left without the chance to let us know if it was true, we can only speculate on the demise of the decoration.

I was in charge of the Chicken Kiev. The pre-formed, frozen kind; breaded and filled with yellow liquid that by all accounts looks buttery, but tastes strangely synthetic. Chris calls them chicken Twinkies. I was too tired to contemplate the amount of energy it would take to make mashed potatoes, so Chris was in charge of those.

I plunked the solid chunks of processed goodness down in the glass baking dish and walked away.

Chris busied himself with the chopping of the last of the potatoes, having to toss one in the trash when he discovered that part of it had liquified in the bag.

I decided at the last minute to put some frozen corn on a burner, because, well, when else would we eat frozen corn? Why do we even have it in the freezer? What purpose does it serve? But it was a good thing I did, because Chris happily finished the potatoes, announced that he may have put too much milk in them, and left the area.

I went over to investigate, and by checking out their texture, was able to discern that they wouldn't be great, but they wouldn't be too wierd. I stuck my finger in, hoping to be able to make a quick judgement about the possible addition of garlic or butter, but before I even put it in my mouth, I knew something was wrong.

They smelled. Bad.

I sort of hunkered down over the bowl and sniffed. The milk was sour. Not just slightly.

"Chris!" I yelled. "You used spoiled milk in the potatoes!"

He came running and looked at them in disbelief.

"Really?" He took a small bite. "Ooh. You're right."

"Chris, didn't you have cereal earlier today?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't notice the milk was bad then?"

"I guess not. I mean, I thought something was strange, but, I just didn't realize."

We flushed the potatoes and had frozen corn with our chicken Twinkies.

After dinner, Chris gathered all his clean clothes from the laundry area and dumped them on our bed for an enormous version of "The Matching Game."

I love this game, where you spread out all your clothes and separated them into piles, match socks, fold pants and t-shirts. It gives the a warm fuzzy feeling.

After we were left with a large number of orphaned socks, Chris went nuts, inspecting every article of clothing he owned and discarding an entire two garbage bags of socks without mates, t-shirts the color of rust or frayed to a translucent texture, pants covered in ink and paint, and shirts with less than 3 buttons.

It felt great.

A patron just informed me that if I ever wanted to talk about or express my interest in UFOs, I'd be put on a blacklist fo fast it wouldn't even be funny. Then she put her finger to her lips and made a shushing noise. She didn't want anyone to hear her warning me about it, or she'd be put on the list herself. She said she couldn't take off her sunglasses or she'd be recognized for sure. She has to wear them all the time, even in the house.