I can be counted on. For instance, I sometimes blurt things out. Just little observations or idle thoughts. It's only when others nearby turn their heads and stare at me with eyebrows raised that I realize that I did, indeed, say it out loud. Really. I'm the mostly unintentional life of the party. Something like that, anyway. When I'm asked a question and I have the choice of giving a clear and succinct answer like any reasonable person would do or saying something completely inappropriate and ribald, I can't resist going for option number two. My dear sister Martine has remarked in the past that I can say pretty much anything and make it sound dirty. It's a gift. So. Let's move on to Weston's Twinkie. Weston was a co-worker. A college student. He was, and I expect still is, your basic tall, dark, handsome yet wholesome midwestern farm boy. He caused any female within a ten yard radius to swoon when he walked by. He was also polite, raised right, and nice, nice, nice. At lunch one day, he gave me a Twinkie. Pushed it across the table toward me and grinned. I picked it up as if it were the most precious and lovely thing I had ever been proffered. I admired it through its crinkly cellophane wrapper and thanked him. I tucked it into my lunch box for later. All the other ladies at the table were jealous. They coveted my Twinkie. Mostly because gorgeous Weston had given it to me. I was special. Later that day I heard we were engaged. Enter my reliability for the blurting out of the inappropriate. First of all, Deb should have known better than to ask. But she did anyway. She said to me, and I quote, I heard Weston gave you a Twinkie! Then she did a little elbow poke at my ribs and gave me a sidelong, knowing grin. Did that cream filling just explode into your mouth when you ate it? I smiled demurely and answered sweetly. Actually, no. I had to coax it out with my tongue. Deb froze in her tracks as if my super hero power was some kind of catatonic death ray evil stare that I had mercilessly blasted her with. She also turned twenty shades of red. Then laughter burst from the very walls. I had an audience. Apparently word of the Twinkie gifting had spread rapidly and was being discussed just before I walked through the room. I curtsied, thanked them, and did a little happy dance down the hall. I wondered if they had dared Deb to bait me with her naughty comment. Or if she had done it on her own. In any case, the verbal gauntlet had been dropped and I had gleefully picked it up. Laughter is healthy. A good, solid belly laugh is good for you and ought to be on your agenda every day. It's a public service I am happy to provide. You're welcome. I'll do my best to try to keep it clean. Or at least read the room first. That is, if I do say it out loud. I've been told there is medication that might help me. But what's the fun in that.