“ALSO, I was VERY happily blown away by the recent blogging frenzy on martianderin… total hilarity. keep ‘er coming.” — Carpline 9

“Centuries from now, scientists may point to this as the moment in time when the pickiness gene became dominant. In the end, it will come down to one really old, lonely guy and his list.

“She must have blue eyes. She should like animals, but not in a weird way. No thin lips. No lawyers,” he’ll be writing, just before he keels over and the human race comes to an end.”

Check out the full article from today’s Washington Post here.

“Gary Dahl, as California advertising man, was having drinks with his buddies one night in April 1975 when the conversation turned to pets. As a lark, Mr. Dahl informed his friends that he considered dogs, cats, birds, and fish all a pain in the neck. They made a mess; they misbehaved; they cost too much money. He, on the other hand, had a pet rock, and it was an ideal pet – easy and cheap, and it had a great personality. His buddies started to riff with the off-the-wall idea nd pretty soon they were al tossing around the notion of a pet rock and all the things it was good for.

Dahl spent the next two weeks writing the Pet Rock Training Manual – a step-by-step guide to having a happy relationship with your geological pet, including instructions for how to make it roll over and play dead and how to house train it. “Place it on some old newspapers. The rock will never know what the paper is for and will require no further instruction.’ To Accompany the book, Dahl decided to actually create a Pet Rock. He went to a builder’s supply store in San Jose and found the most expensive rock in the place – a Rosarita Beach Stone, which was a uniform size, rounded gray pebble that sold for a penny. He packed the stone in excelsior in a gift box shaped like a pet carrying case, accompanied by the instruction book.

The Pet Rock was introduced at the August gift show in San Francisco (the gift market is much easier to break into than the cutthroat toy market), then in New York. Neiman-Marcus ordered five hundred. Gary Dahl sent out homemade news releases of himself accompanied by a picture that showed him surrounded by boxes of his Pet Rocks. Newsweek did a half-page story about the nutty notion, and by the end of October Gary Dahl was shipping ten thousand Pet Rocks every Day. He appeared on “The Tonight Show,” twice. By Christmas when, two and a half tons of rocks had been sold, three-fourths of all the daily newspapers in America had run Pet Rock stories, often including Gary Dahl’s tongue-in-cheek revelations about how each rock was individually tested for obedience at Rosarita Beach in Baja, Mexico, before being selected and boxed. A million rocks sold for $3.95 apiece in just a few months, and Gary Dahl – who decided from the beginning to make at least one dollar from every rock – had become an instant millionaire.”

Tee hee!

Madison, N.J.: Tom — As a frequent visitor and DC-wanna-be, I love your chats and reviews.

I was in DC last week for business and my boss and I met up with a former colleague at the new Clyde’s on 7th. Beautiful space, but wow, do the servers need some work! After delivering our drinks, our server asked if we were ready to place our order. I let her know that we’d need a couple of minutes — too busy chatting to have perused the menu. In response, she inquired if she’d have enough time to go to the ladies’ room before taking our order because “the ladies’ room is really far away.”

I’m well aware that servers are people, too, and need the restroom just as their customers do but I don’t need to hear about it! Was I wrong to feel like I should have followed her to the restroom to make sure she washed her hands? Jeesh!

Tom Sietsema: Ha! I agree: the service at the new Clyde’s could use some tweaking. It’s new, though, and ENORMOUS. I know mgt takes its training seriously there, but you can imagine how many bodies are required to make a 500 + seat restaurant work.

Note to servers: Think before you speak. And share your thoughts only on a need-to-know basis.

Jaws2615: Hey. I LOVE your blog
HennessyErin: hey. thanks! i’ve been neglecting it of late.
Jaws2615: It lives up to its promise of witty banter by intelligent women
HennessyErin: why, thank you. i may have to quote you on that.
Jaws2615: It so makes me chuckle, as well as think
Jaws2615: I was showing it to Ray last night and he really enjoyed it
HennessyErin: oh my! what a fan base we have.
Jaws2615: It is “Daily Show-esque”
HennessyErin: okay, are you sure you’re reading the right blog??

So, Jaws2615 (a.k.a. the Fabulous Christi) is now the president of the martianderin.com fan club. Long live Christi.

1. My wake. I want to be propped up in the corner, in a nice outfit (something age appropriate, please). I want a glass of wine in front of me and I want a cigarette between my fingers. In fact, appoint someone to fit me with a smoke, light it, and replace it when it burns out. Don’t worry about ashes on the outfit — more on that later. We’ll have to do some leg work on the location — with the smoking ban due to take effect in NJ in about 90 days, there will be hurdles to jump.

2. My funeral service. Many of you should speak lovingly of me. Many of you should break down halfway through your remarks. Some of you should need to be revived with smelling salts. At least two of you — preferably men, preferably handsome, should fall to your knees and bemoan the fact that you didn’t take me away from it all when you could. Please have someone proofread your remarks. Please feel free to steal quotes from erudite, prominent and witty personages and credit them to me. Please do not put up any pictures of me in the funeral home that make me look fat or show that horrible perm I thought was a good idea in high school. Similarly, no prom photos, please.

3. My final commitment to this earth. Please ensure that I am cremated (hence no need to worry about the ashes from the wake — let them fall where they may), place me in some cool-looking urn thing (spend some money, people — I only die once!), and arrange to have my remains placed on the bar of my favorite watering hole of the time. Or shoot me into space. Whatever.

4. Subsequent celebrations. Who am I to tell you all what to do, but it would be really nice if my nearest and dearest gathered at least once a year to miss me en masse. Also, feel free to name your kids after me. Unless they are ugly. Or ornery. Also, feel free to drunk dial my exes and pretend you are me, haunting their asses. Especially the Jackass. Unless he’s wised up and figured out he’s gay — in which case, call him up, tell him I’m proud of him, and ask him what took him so damn long.

Thank you.

So, here’s a little project that has been taking up a good portion of my time lately….the Advent Mailbox. Because every toddler needs crazy fairy godmothers, my mom and I posted a small mailbox on the porch of our young friend, Colin Patrick, across the street. Every morning, we stash a little trinket in the mailbox for Himself to find when he gets up. Some of the most popular items so far include a wooden dog pull-toy, a moose that grunts “Oh Christmas Tree” when you squeeze his stomach, and (my personal favorite) baseball earmuffs.

Now, some have used the word “smothering” or “obsessed” to describe my relationship with Colin. However, as someone who was lucky enough to have a fairy godfather as a child, I consider this my pay-it-forward opportunity. One day, this kid may well think we’re nuts, but right now, his smiles and giggles and daily surprise are totally worth it….