“Don’t fret,” I admonished. “I’ll take a cup of coffee in the car and forget my Mentos. One whiff and he’ll be over me for good.”
“That’s a better plan,” she agreed. “That’d turn anybody off.”
I took a deliberately long swig from my mug and stuck out my tongue at her.
“So now Liliana’s new favorite movie is Annie Get Your Gun,” Katie announced, referring to my five-year-old goddaughter. She put the soundtrack in the CD player. “We watched it a couple of times while you were gone so I could get some ideas. You’ve got to hear this song.” She scanned forward through the first several numbers until the CD player emitted a great cheer and beating drums, accompanied by a 1950s Hollywood idea of Native American chanting. She stepped away from the machine. “Listen.”
Shortly, Betty Hutton burst out squawking, “Like the Seminole, Navajo, Kickapoo…” and proceeded to debase native cultures everywhere with her rendition of “I’m an Indian, Too.”