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The day that will live in infamy, if only he can remember it.

Photo from the same year as my husband's up close and personal encounter with Angie.
Pictured are the infamous vials of blood worn by her and Billy Bob.

Yesterday, I promised to share this story in light of the YUGE news of the Brangelina break-up. (Is it still news today? I haven't checked.) I knew I had told it before and, in fact, it appears I told it twice: Once in 2009 before this blog existed and again in 2011 when my husband inexplicably forgot he went swimming with a topless movie star while swapping stories on a boys' weekend. (This is so typical of him, I can't tell you.) The versions are slightly different, as one would expect as the years pass, but the truth remains. Someone will no doubt tell this story at his funeral someday (decades from now, I hope) because it is so uniquely him: Refreshingly unassuming and far more impressed by female nakedness than celebrity.

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