At least I'm wearing cowboy boots.

I was going to say you can't take me anywhere, but that's not really accurate.

Because we shifted cultures and settings so often, I genuinly can walk into just about any situation and behave like I'm comfortable. I doesn't mean I am, but I can fake it when I have to.

I grew up attending events at the ambassador's residence in whatever country we lived in. I've been to parties in honest-to-god castles. And on the flip side I've spent days on a camel and nights sleeping on the sand under a disgusting camel blanket (like, the blanket that the saddle that separated me from the camel rested on) in the desert in Rajasthan.

(Thank goodness I had no idea about tick-borne illnesses then.)

But back on topic.

While I'm generally happier and more comfortable on the fancy side than the camping end of the spectrum, it can be problematic, depending on the setting. Or rather, I can. Because, well, you just are who you are.

But I can always look the part.

Like, for example, at dinner at the Metropolitan Club.

I have this conservative blonde bob. I can dress all reserved-like. My makeup is understated. I even have conservative shoes. From the outside, I can blend.

If you've never been there - and I hadn't even heard of it before meeting Nick - it is grand. It's a beautiful old building, with sweepingly high ceilings, marble floors, elegant furniture, huge flower arrangements, lovely fireplaces.

It is not somewhere I would ever, ever go, except with a date, and not least of all because you have to be a member. But also because it is so far from my personality, from the kind of atmosphere that makes me comfortable.

But it is beautiful and elegant and as a place to dine, absolutely charming.

So we had dinner there the other night with Nick's colleagues and spouses. There were 10 of us, and we were at a large table in the center of one of the main dining rooms. There were maybe six or seven other tables of two to four people.

It is mostly an older demographic. Conservative, sedate. People know, or at least recognize, each other.

You don't pull out cash; you sign for things. The staff is extremely friendly and proper. It's all very understated and dignified.

I was seated next to a guy I've gotten to know and really like over the last year - and totally coincidentally, he and his wife are close college friends of Wendy, my high school friend.

He turned to me and said, "Nick shared your blog with me the other day."

Which I found surprising, but it's not a secret, so OK.

The entire long table, non-blog-readers all, turned their attention to the blog. And to me.

"Blog?"

"Lisa has a blog?"

"What does she blog?"

"Lisa, you have a blog?"

And so I, I addressed the table all at once. "I do, I have a blog."

I didn't notice at the time, unfortunately, but this got the attention of the genteel-ly populated room.

"What's it called?"

"Lemon Gloria."

Blank looks all around the table. It is, I realize, a totally random name.

And so I explained, once again to the table, but really, as it turned out, to every single diner in the place, "It's a variation on my porn name."

I believe a couple of my dining companions - most notably the guy who'd organized the evening - actually had to resist the urge to cover their faces.