I was waiting tables in a noisy lobster restaurant in Maine when a vacationing Southerner stumped me with a drink order. I approached the bartender. “Have you ever heard of a drink called ‘Seven Young Blondes’?” I asked.
He admitted he’d never heard of it, and grabbed a drink guidebook to look it up. Unable to find the recipe, he then asked me to go back and tell the patron that he’d be happy to make the drink if he could list the ingredients for him. “Sir,” I asked the customer, “can you tell me what’s in that drink?”
He looked at me like I was crazy. “It’s wine,” he said, pronouncing his words carefully, “Sauvignon blanc.”
There are women whose thoughtful husbands buy them flowers for no reason. And then there’s me. One day I couldn’t stand it any longer. "Why don’t you ever bring me flowers?" I asked.
"What’s the point?" my husband said. "They die after about a week."
"So could you," I shot back, "but I still like having you around."
My wife and her friend Karen were talking about their labor-saving devices as they pulled into our driveway. Karen said, “I love my new garage-door opener.”
“I love mine too,” my wife replied, and honked the horn three times. That was the signal for me to come out and open the garage.
I was cleaning a hotel room when the previous occupant came in, looking for her husband’s keys.
We searched high and low without luck. I finally peeked underneath the bed closest to the wall.
"Don’t bother—that was my bed," she said. "He wouldn’t have gone anywhere near it."