why I am not a celebrity, reason #307

Last week, the Houston Chronicle published this photo along with its story on Diverseworks' Luck of the Draw 2008 art auction. When the photographer asked if he could take our photo, my first thoughts were: "Put your hand on your hip! Angle sideways! Rotate your shoulder forward! Hooray for Us Weekly!" Yet when the photographer took our plastic cups away and put us under the good light, my next thought was "Oh my God, don't pose like a big douchebag! Someone you know might see this!" The result: a hamhock for an upper arm. I should have given them Blue Steel! Must work on my posing.

take a note, retailers!

overheard on vacation

• A man on a cell phone: "I swear to GOD, I was NEVER married to that woman!!!" (Um, do we really need to get God involved? Why don't we just call the county clerk's office?)
  
• An older woman to a young man who offered to carry her bag: "Look, I am Croatian! I lift everything! I can lift you!" (Okay, but what if he's Croatian too?)
  
• A woman on a cell phone: "Well, I'm in the Florida Keys right now, but I can still give you directions. Take West Alabama to Shepherd -- the corner with the Bookstop on it -- then turn left; it will take you to Westheimer and you can go from there." (Jeez. Don't forget to tell her that you can't go left on Westheimer from Shepherd).
  

boyfriend as photo-op decoy 2!!!

You got a sunburn on your WHAT?!?! Owwwwww!

where nobody knows our name

Ahhhhhh, Islamorada!

• Breakfast buffet until 11:00 (they even have smoked salmon, capers and red onions!)
• Drinks delivered to my beach chair
• 10,000 magazines
• The "Easy Breezy" NY Times crossword book (I can't get past Thursdays)
• And all the internet I can possibly read

PERFECT!

no shame in her game!!!

Look, I don't care how you feel about kids on leashes, if you're trying to move three kids under age 5 -- one of whom you have to carry and two of whom could dust your middle-aged, slipper-in-the-airport-wearing ass in the blink of an eye -- through George Bush Intercontinental Airport at the height of summer vacation travel season, then I think it's completely reasonable for you to tether the two mobile ones to your side. I like to think that this woman is not a sadist but instead took a good, hard look at her situation and (correctly) concluded: "I am FUCKED." So she did what she had to do to keep from appearing on the 10:00 news. Good for her.

Since we're on the subject of how to move through Bush Intercontinental Airport, here is a list of travel DON'Ts from a business traveler who has logged more than 400,000 miles in the last four years:

• When you're checking in with Continental (which has gone 100% kiosk), DON'T get to the front of the line and stand there, mouth agape, waiting to be beckoned by a ticket agent to one of the thousand empty kiosks laid out before you. They put the kiosks there so you wouldn't have to wait for a ticket agent! You wouldn't wait for someone to invite you to take the first open port-o-potty at some hippy Phish-concert, would you? Just go to the first open kiosk, so the people in line behind you can get on with their lives.
• DON'T walk five abreast through the corridors of the airport at .00001 mph with your heads in the clouds, chatting about how many strawberry daiquiris you drank in Jacksonville FL, as passengers who are about to miss their connections try to weave around you.
• DON'T think it's cute to disregard your assigned seat on the plane and sit in the exit row seats (more legroom) hoping that the person who really has that seat won't call you on it. ("Well, it was worth a try! Ha ha!" -- No, it really wasn't, because now everyone on this plane knows you're THAT guy and they hate you.)
• While you're at it, DON'T ask to trade your center seat with someone who has a window/aisle seat so you can sit with your new girlfriend. Nobody cares.
• And finally, when retrieving your checked baggage, DON'T stand shoulder-to-shoulder with your shins against the carousel, watching other people's bags pass you by as you simultaneously block their access to said bags. ("Red Rover, Red Rover, let the guy who owns this olive green American Tourister come over!") STAND BACK, you can rush the carousel when you actually see your bag.

Harsh? Maybe. True? DEFINITELY. I admit it: I need a vacation. I wonder if I could take a good one without going through the airport?

partly cloudy with gusting winds

I recently discovered that I can control the weather, which is very exciting. All I have to do is put on this dress:

and a hot, still day will turn rainy with gale-force winds -- or at least breezy enough to blow the skirt up over my head. If I were craftier I would sew pie weights into the hem; but I'm not, so I make sure to wear clean underwear.

in memoriam

May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face, the rains fall soft upon your fields, and, until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Beloved Beaver Head, from the day we brought you home from Petco, already disembodied, we could tell that you were something special. Not like the other gaudy toys whose showy displays faded so quickly amid gnashed teeth and thrashing head, you have been a true and faithful friend to Cricket. You were there for her when she wanted to wake us up at dawn with authority (squeaky-SQUEAKY, squeaky-SQUEAKY), when she wanted to negotiate a toy sharing accord (who could forget the historic Navy Blue Sock for Beaver Head Treaty of '07?), and when she needed a pillow on which to rest her weary head. To our complete astonishment, you lasted MORE THAN A YEAR. Alas, today your number was up, dear Beaver Head. Who knows why these things happen? (Well, actually, in this case we do know -- it was because Cricket hated it when you looked her in the eye, and you did that a lot today. Badly played, Beaver Head!) All we can do is look to the future and hope that we are someday lucky enough to find another friend like you; if not, we will be forced to take Cricket on walks or maybe up her daily dose of Benadryl.

where everybody knows our name

What are you doing this summer? If you're not summering in the South of France, may I suggest a worthy alternative? I propose that, if you haven't already, you become a regular at a local, non-chain restaurant. I don't mean "regular" as in you get the same thing every time you go and would probably recognize the girl who takes your order if you saw her in the checkout line at the grocery store. I mean regular like, when you've already eaten everything on the menu, you can talk the chef into letting you eat what the guys in the kitchen are eating. And regular like, when your imagination for cocktails is sorely lacking, the genius behind the bar will give you something you've never tasted before that involves a homemade gastrique and goes well with lamb. (Our genius' name is Bobby, and he has a blog.) Somehow, Blaine and I have managed to become this kind of regular at Beaver's and it has been worth every calorie.

it's the economy, stupid

Okay, I am freaked out. Are you freaked out? Because I am freaked out. What is going on with the gas and the food and the mortgages, and the money? The other day, I paid $3.27 for two apples. Are you cutting back? Because I'm cutting back.

Here's what I'm going to do for the greedy, greedy economy: I'm going to try not to go to the best restaurant in Houston more than twice a week; I'm not going to buy these shoes (probably); I'm going to forego mani-pedis in favor of Incoco's awesome, awesome stick-on nail polish. (I'm actually so excited about this one. You should try it -- it's only available at Walgreen's and it will make you wish that the recession would last forever.) I hope this makes the economy very happy.

so you think you can emote?

A strange thing has been happening since I let my talky-doctor talk me into "processing my feelings," which involves things like answering the question "how does that make you feel?" with something other than the word "fine" and saying the phrase "processing my feelings" without involuntarily rolling my eyes. Anyway, the strange thing that happens is that I get all weepy and emotional when I watch modern and contemporary dance. It started in New York when I watched the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater perform Revelations and noticed big tears rolling down my face. I wasn't sad, I was moved. It was an unnamed emotion, but I was feeling it. Take that, talky-doctor! Anyway, it wasn't a fluke. I cried when I watched the video for 1,2,3,4 and when I saw each of the following performances on the (you would think more lowbrow) So You Think You Can Dance -- my new summer obsession.

tattoo you?

Are you the kind of girl who wants to get a tattoo but haven't yet because you haven't decided what you would get if you got one? I'm not. I'm the kind of girl who has finally decided what tattoo I would get if I got one but I haven't yet because I don't want one (me no likee needles). If I did want one, though, I would want something meaningful, something that really gets at the essence of what I am, and the essence of what I am is crazy indecisive. Unlike my friend Megan, who will actually stop reading a menu once she sees something that she'd like to eat (even if it's the first item!), I will sit for half an hour, stomach growling, agonizing over whether to get sausage or bacon with my eggs (is it link sausage? patty sausage? chorizo? it matters!). This is because, in most aspects of my life, I am a maximizer, as defined by Barry Schwartz in The Paradox of Choice. I will not buy a pair of jeans -- even if they fit me and are the right price -- unless I have tried on every single other pair of jeans in the mall. As for that tattoo -- it would have to be a question: "Yes or No", "This or That", "In or Out", "Up or Down." In Old English script, of course.

ready to come home now.

I have been out of town for the last month. I've been to Beaumont, Atlanta, Jackson (MS), Dallas, San Antonio, and Beaumont again. On airplanes, I have been seated next to crying babies (not so bad) and weirdos who climb over me to get to the aisle from the window seat without any advance warning (unbearable). I am always seated directly in front of the person with the wettest, phlegmiest, hanta-virusy cough, aka "patient zero." I've eaten fast food, not exercised, failed to brush my teeth, neglected to remove my eye makeup, and fallen asleep to Sports Center's 2am broadcast more times than I can count. I've done all of this because I love my job and I love to travel. But as I sit at my computer and watch a three inch long reddish-brown cockroach wend its way around the walls of my hotel room, I think I'm ready to come home now.

half right

The other half of this sign should say, "If your dog is shorter than the red line, you must use the small dog run." This would cut down on the small-dog maulings that take place daily at the dog park thanks to people who insist that their yappy, nipping shih tzus are really big dogs on the inside. Maybe they are, but on the outside, they're still shih tzus.