Seven cheesy things I love anyway:

• Finger guns in photos
• Black umbrellas with “sunny sky” detail inside
• Gilligan hats
• Fashionistas!
• Talking to cashiers
• What-will-I-wear-for-this-important-event? clothing-change montages
• Old men who wink

9:48 a.m.

Me: Wait! That’s Prince!

R: That’s a good reason to put in my Wallflowers CD.

M: Are you kidding me?

R: Prince sucks big dick.

M: Whaaaat? What are you talking about? You have to love Prince. Did you not grow up in the ’80s? It’s your duty to love Prince.

R: Prince is a has-been, leftover pop-star wannabe, a-sexual, talentless chump. He’s no Jakob Dylan.

M: NO JAKOB DYLAN? Are you listening to yourself!? I don’t even know you anymore. “Purple Rain?” “Raspberry Beret?” Where were you, brother?

R: Come on, listen to these lyrics, “It takes two to tango/but only one to let go.” That’s poetry.

M: All I have to say is, “She wore her raspberry beret/the kind you find in a second-hand store/Raspberry beret/ And if it was warm, she wouldn’t wear much more.”

(extended pause)

R: Touche.

9:43 a.m.

From a “Survivor” party e-vite:

“Hey folks. With less than a week away, Survivor tension is building, especially in our legs and lower backs.”

11:04 a.m.