ONE OF MY OLDEST and best friends from college days (daze?) is a guy named Pete Hamilton, and we’re still close. Our families are, too. We visit them, they visit us, gifts go back and forth, I’m Godfather to one of them, you get the picture. He has four daughters, each one prettier than the next, and this is near-perfect proof that God has a terrific sense of humor. In college, Hamilton was one of those handsome, charming guys who made females dilate just by entering a room, and he mowed a swath through the surrounding women’s schools that would make crop-circles look like a ribbon on a box of cufflinks. Years later, after his fourth girl was born, we were talking on the phone, and he said, “I don’t know what it is with all these girls.”
And I said, “Oh, I know what it is. It’s karma. Every woman you drove a truck over in school got together and held hands around a pentagram and put the quadruple whammy on you, but good.”
