There is something about a woman named Joan that I just don't trust. I don't know why, historically Joans have been perfectly respectable ladies, Joan of Arc, Joan Collins, Joan Rivers. But the name is just so wrong. Maybe it is the parents of a woman named Joan that I shouldn't trust.
I just spent $165 on a bathing suit. And for those of you paying attention, even though I seem like an extravagant money spender, I am actually a cheapskate when it comes to such things. I'm more quantity than quality. I mean, I wouldn't mind spending $165 if I got like 5 bathing suits. But I'm headed to the beach, and I felt it necessary.
Gigi is 19 and from what I can tell from the dozens of pictures that she sent me, hot. Now that I'm days away from carting her down to a beach full of horny perverts, I'm cussing my insistence on picking the hot 19 year old that likes dancing and boys and not the mousy 15 year old that likes ponies and flowers. I have suddenly entered fretting overprotective mother mode and she hasn't even gotten here yet. But I don't want a Natalie Holloway on my hands.
I ran into the drug store the other day and when I came out I caught Big Daddy scrolling through my cell phone. It was interesting trying to explain to him why I had so many text messages to a "Hot Lipz". But since honesty is the best policy, I simply explained to him that they were wrong numbers.
I'm interviewing a new girl today. Wish me luck.
