A few weeks ago, the woman who gardens for my complex left plants in pots next to the front step. I stared. To my right, a jade plant, which is nothing special, I suppose; to my left: basil, rosemary, oregano, parsley. I couldn’t believe it. She garnished my building.

Terminology is everything.

A million years ago, when Bert Convey roamed the earth, an unnamed university had a conference in New Brunswick, and I emceed the performance night. What? Your serious academic conference doesn’t have a show? Your subject specialty needs more fabulous degree seekers, who know people like me. On my way to this show, I stopped at my local, where one of the bartenders followed me into the kitchen and, while I bent over the cruddy meat slicer, zipped me into the loudest, tightest red sequined dress you have ever seen in your life. My hairstyle was architecturally unsound. My lipstick set off fire alarms all the way down George Street. I was freaking ready.

Maybe an hour or two later, the show was rocking. My patter was light and insinuating. I’d sung a few bars between performers. It was going well. The room was practically moist with audience approval. The night was a tremendous hit and ended on a fine note. The conference was a success. I didn’t give it a second thought until a week later. A friend who’d organized the evening called to say people were very upset with me.

Tata: Which people? What for?
Friend: Ron was offended by remarks you made.
Tata: Listen, over the course of two hours, I said a lot of things. Can you be more specific?
Friend: He said you were very offensive to lesbians with hair issues.
Tata: (Long pause.) Ron is an idiot. If he’d actually listened to what I said he’d be writing me a damn fan letter. You were there. Did I say anything less than adoring?
Friend: You didn’t. I don’t know what he’s talking about.
Tata: I do. Tell him I’m emceeing a show in two weeks. If he wants a public apology, he knows where to find me.

Two weeks later, I looked into the audience and found Ron standing against a back wall with his arms folded. This time, I was dressed in a wicked backless black number and combat boots, which was a hot combo. Between acts, when I knew Ron couldn’t miss my meaning, I repeated what I’d said the first time. I’ll paraphrase.

Tata: You’re a great-looking audience. Did you know that?
Audience: I did! Thanks!
Tata: I Naired my mustache just for you.
Audience: Wha…?
Tata: I’m a fantasy babe, right?
Audience: Help me, mama…
Tata: To turn you on, I shaved my legs and my underarms, slathered on makeup with a trowel, spent weeks in a tanning salon, lifted weights for two hours a day since the second Kennedy assassination and dyed my hair this shade of red found only in tropical fish. I am so, so, hot, aren’t I?
Audience: Against my will, I find you attractive.
Tata: I’m Sicilian, you know, which is exotic and threatening. In forty years, you’ll see me walking every day along Route 18 in widow’s weeds, with a thick mustache and a set of rosary beads.
Audience: I will?
Tata: You will. You’ll wonder what happened to me. I used to be gorgeous. How did I let myself go?
Audience: You won’t! You couldn’t!
Tata: I might. I’m not even Catholic…

When I walked away from the mic, Ron uncrossed his arms, and apologized to me for reacting without listening.

I’m guessing that’s what happened here. Need I explain the joke?