26 March 2002 - 10:34 p.m.

Tonight the President of my U gave a talk on nuclear waste, which was pretty informative. Among other things, I learned that there is a place in Texas call Deaf Smith, which is going to make her want to move there, don't ask me how I know.

Anyhoo, the discussion was "informal," and so when the person who introduced President C. asked if it was ok for people to pop out into the hall for refreshments, he said, "Sure, you can all do whatever you want." So I decided I would crochet, which I do as of Saturday. FYI.

Then I felt kind of like an asshole for being the only person at the lecture doing crafts, but I couldn't stop, because it would be even worse to be the asshole who stopped doing crafts because she felt like an asshole, even though her asshole-dom had been established from the start.

Plus, given my history with PC, even the most embarrassing crochet incident would really not even touch my other embarrassing incidents with PC.

Incident 1: I am walking past him on a nice day, wearing a tight blue sweater and a circle skirt made out of pink Scottie dog fabric. I turn to smile at him, because he's the president, and that's what you do. Suddenly, a gust of wind right out of The Seven Year Itch comes along, and all of a sudden, my head is surrounded by pink terriers on all sides. Yes, My skirt has blown up around my head, and the President of the University gets a good look at my underwear. Luckily, I had randomly decided to wear what someone in my fiction class calls "Grade-A panties." But it was small consolation.

Incident 2: Later that same week, Friday to be exact, which I remember because I purchased a tuna melt at the bagel vendor we had on campus, I got on the elevator to go to work, and lo and behold, there was President C. Judging by his uncomfortable expression on his face, he remembered me and my drawers, and probably even thought to himself, "Uh-oh, here comes hotpants" or something really unflattering when I got in the elevator. So there we are, alone, creeping up each floor at a criminally slow pace, and, worse still, my sandwich stinks to high heaven. Tuna. Mayo. Hot cheese. Yeasty bagel. You know how these things work. And were I not Hotpants as of 2 or 3 days earlier, I would have just turned and said, "Yo, PC, I have to apologize for the rank nature of my Papist lunch, but you're Jewish, and you have rules about what to eat when, and so please forgive me for subjecting the whole elevator to this full-blown Lenten moment." But, you know, I was Hotpants. And once a girl becomes Hotpants, she's pretty much too far down the road to disenfranchisment to turn back. Look at how they treated Hotlips in M*A*S*H, and those are above the waist, and not typically hidden by clothing.

Incident 3: Gus serenades PC. Serenades him! In public!

So it could have been worse. Granted, by only crocheting tonight, I have no good stories to tell about the nuclear waste lecture that don't deal specifically with nuclear waste. And after two years, I'm sure the man's forgotton all about my underthings.

Maybe, then, I need to find out when PC's birthday is, gather the biggest group of people I can, get them to dress up like Marilyn Monroe, gather them all in front of his office building, and stage the largest chorus of "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" this town has ever seen.

Yeah, that's definitely the plan.

What I'm wearing:

What I'm reading:

What I'm doing after this: