Hotter Than A Pepper Sprout

During the past forty-eight hours I've been paid the following compliments by two of the boys I like.

First, on Friday night: "I promise you're the only girl I'll ever sing Jackson with. Unless, of course, Angelina Jolie walks in. Then you're toast."

Then, yesterday: "No disrespect intended, but if Joan Cusack came into the room where you and I were, I'd shoot you so that she could have a place to sit."

I suppose that's fair. Hey, I'd cheerfully run them both down with my car to dance on a pony keg with this guy.

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