No Flybabies Allowed

Last night I landed at Midway Airport after spending four 100% fun and 100% non-dietary days with my brother Lee in Vero Beach, Florida. He’s studying for his commercial pilot’s license, and he and his roommate and their many pilot friends also clock in a certain amount of time watching reruns of The Office on DVR and playing flight simulator games via computer. I could probably write the script for the movie Superbad 2 based on my notes from the trip, but since that’s going to take a few days to put together I’ll just start you off with some conversational snippets.

On chicks:
1. Dude, look at that hot chick over there smoking.
2. Check out that hot tall chick. She’s big-boned. I like it. I like girls with, like, size 13 feet.
3. Hey, why do you think there are no hot goth chicks?

On food:
1. Why would anyone eat snails? Sick.
2. Do you really think gummy worms are bad for you? No way.
3. I can’t wait until 49-cent hamburger day at McDonald’s.

On bodily functions:
1. I’ll be back. Gotta adjust the weight and balance.
2. I’ve never seen so much s*!% come out of that dog’s a$%.
3. There’s nothing better than a good puke.

I also picked up a new hobby when we went to Chili’s for 2-for-1 drinks one afternoon during a thunderstorm. Basically what you do is turn on the TV to the hunting and fishing channel and activate the closed captions. Hunting and fishing are so much more riveting on mute:

Fisherman 1: Look what we got here.
Fisherman 2: That’s a fish.
F1: That’s a big one.
F2: Yep. A big one.
FI: He’s puttin’ on a show.
F2: Look down there.
F1: Those are some big rocks.
F2: Ha ha ha.
FI: You can really see ‘em.
F2: Mmm hmm.
F1: Here he is.
F2: You gonna keep him?
F1: Yep. Gotta prove to my wife I’ve been fishin’.
F2: Ha ha ha.

P.S. Someone just sent me a Breast Cancer Awareness hula-hoop and it appears to be regulation size. I cannot WAIT to go home and see if I can still hula-hoop indefinitely.

Dots & Thoughts

Last week a random phrase kept repeating in my brain and wouldn’t desist. Here it is: “My poor begonias.” I kept walking around saying it to myself. “My poooor begonias.” I have no begonias nor would I recognize one if I saw it (until now, when I did a Google search to find this picture), but there was something about the repeated “o” sounds that I loved.

Another ditty that gets stuck in my head from time to time is this one from Hee Haw:

“I searched the world over and thought I found true love…
then you met another and PFFT! You was gone.”

The attraction has nothing to do with the subject matter; I just like the hillbilly accent. Reminds me of the good old days.

P.S. Speaking of accents: Jeff! Happy Birthday dear Siiiirrr!

P.P.S. I wonder how many more times this year I can safely wear my polka-dot dress. Maybe today and one other day? Maybe three more days, including once in late September? It all depends on how summery things continue to be. I really do like wearing it, though. I've never had one fight in this dress (well, except for that minor scuffle with the cabbie). Ruffles + dots = good cheery fun.

Go for the Gold (Nail Polish, That Is)

What have I done? New rule: Avoid any and all buffet situations. Last night at the Horseshoe Casino in Hammond, Indiana (which recently received a $500 million facelift and now contains arguably the most comprehensive collection of crystal chandeliers ever assembled under one roof in the universe), I actually sat down to a plate of the following:

Fried chicken
Pizza
Refried beans
Meatballs
Shrimp
Oysters
Asian chicken wings
Zucchini
Beef fried rice
Guacamole
Mini Tacos
Pecan Pie

It was utterly shameful, but Jeff ate pretty much the same thing plus sushi and a strawberry mousse cup so I can’t feel too bad.

Meanwhile, I am drafting a style memo to the Olympic athletes. Please review.

Dear Olympic Athletes,

You are incredible. Your strength and coordination astonish me. If I could do a synchronized dive like that, I probably wouldn’t be thinking about my hair, either. But since I do have a little extra time on my hands, I figured you might appreciate the following:

Fashion Faux Pas to Avoid When Competing in the Olympic Games

1. Glitter. On the eyelids, on the outfits, sprayed into hair. Ahem, gymnasts.
2. Goatees. Swimmers, I imagine facial hair contributes to drag, does it not?
3. Numerous white, pink or heart-shaped barrettes. If you feel compelled to control every flyaway in your ponytail, I suggest classic tortoise clips.
4. White iPod headphones. If you are a six-time gold medal winner with endorsements out the wazoo, one would think you might want to take the sound quality up a notch.
5. Unpainted toenails when standing at the edge of the Olympic pool and being photographed by every major news organization in the world. Suggested nail color: Chanel’s new Facettes D’Or in Gold Fiction.

Love,
A Fan

Winnie + Kevin 4EVR

Whilst eating a peach and my usual one egg for breakfast this morning, I watched Danica McKellar (aka Winnie Cooper from The Wonder Years) being interviewed by Diane Sawyer and promoting her new book, Kiss My Math. I couldn't help but think to myself, 'Well, if that isn't the most wholesome, well-rounded former child star.' Her mission in life is to help teenage girls feel confident about calculating percentages; as far as I know she's never been in rehab; she made a yoga video with her mom; and best of all, she still looks JUST LIKE WINNIE COOPER. Dear Lord, how I wanted to be Winnie Cooper. I wanted flat hair that hung straight down my back and made a curtain over my face while I was doing my homework (come to think of it, I'm still chasing this look). I wanted a boy with puppy dog brown eyes to move in next door (impossible on the neighborless Drury farm, where the cable company wouldn't even run a line) and hold my hand while walking me to my locker. That would have been the best.

Meanwhile, I am pissed beyond belief that there's still no Wonder Years anthology available for purchase on DVD. Bogified! Wouldn't a bootlegged copy make the loveliest 30th birthday present?

P.S. One day during Lollapalooza last weekend, I wore my black T-shirt with the blinding gold letters that say, "OBAMA IS MY HOME BOY." In the crowd of 75,000, it conferred upon me instant celebrity status. Every person looked. People of all races, genders and ages smiled. Many commented enthusiastically. I got a couple of thumbs ups. One girl even asked to have her picture taken with me, which was fantastic. There was just one disturbing moment, when a man approached me and said, "You know that shirt is borderline, right? I mean, 'home boy?'" Hmm. Stalling as I prepared for a debate, I said, "The truth is, I'm pretty borderline myself." That seemed to satisfy him, and we both walked on. But I definitely need a better comeback for next time, so let me know if you have anything.

P.P.S. My friend Tim and I were just discussing our love lives over tater tots at the Old Town Pub, while I waited for Old Yeller to get a tune-up at the bike shop next door. Tim made an enlightening observation when he said, "People are just too scared to hit on the really hot ones. That's why we're both single." Mystery solved.