So some delegation from Cannibal Blonde, a magazine for which I have written a few freelance articles, asked me out to Cajun eggs and Cajun sausages in a funny old neighborhood I'd never been to before. I assumed it was to tell me that rats are out, and I need to start writing about space ice-cream if I want to keep getting work from them. Instead, they offered me the books-and-fiction editorship at Cannabis Blonde, one of several special-interest spinoffs they're launching next year.

"Why me?" I said, rather surprised.

"Well," said my editor, a weak-chinned but stylish lady with lank, dark hair, "you're very blonde, you're very literary, and from what I hear"--here, she barked a horrible, hoarse laugh--"you're very much into drugs!!!!!!!!" I cannot overemphasize how many exclamation points she used.

"I'm not very into drugs," I said, kind of offended, squirming in my chair as I pulled the skirt of my pumpkin-colored tweed suit straight.

"That's not what I hear," she chortled, and squashed out her cigarette with enormous enthusiasm.

"Listen, Douglas thinks that anyone who smokes pot at all is very into it," I said. "Douglas only likes scotch and cocaine."

"Oh, so typical!" she screamed. "Oh, Douglas!"

Anyway, I couldn't convince them that I wasn't a huge authority on pot. Or that I would be better suited to Cannonball Blonde, their extreme sports-and-fitness book, or Can't-Touch-This Blonde, their 90s-hiphop-and-pop nostalgia book (it's bimonthly.) I suggested Camembert Blonde for French ladies and snotty Americans. The editrix scratched the title into her little notebook, then took my hand.

"Dot, I really think you can do this. Do you trust me?" she said.

Dot is my grandmother's name. I don't know where she got that! But perhaps it gave me some of my grandmother's courage?

I said I would think about it.