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So I'm still here. The flight is delayed. What am I wearing, you might be wondering, since I so publically made an issue of how I travel in comfortable clothes even if it means I look like crap and in fact I kind of like looking like crap when I fly bc its insurance against people talking to you although now that I think about it, that doesn't quite hold up. Even the ugly are conversed with. But anyway, I'm wearing a prom dress with pumps dyed to match. The whole thing is lavender but I'm wearing large black and fuschia enamel earrings for a pop of color. It might sound uncomfortable–taffeta can be scratchy– but you see I'm wearing it over an oversized tie dye tshirt and leggings outfit with the face of a tiger appliqued on the front. You can't see the tiger bc of the prom dress, which is on purpose. The tiger takes an otherwise tasteful tie dyed pink (oh yeah, did I forget to mention?) tshirt and leggings outfit which I picked up in atlantic city and pushes it over the edge, and I think when you're traveling that's a time to reel it in. For that reason I'm only wearing one armful of bracelets instead of two. And I'm not wearing my headgear, I don't care what you say Dr. Leir! Oh, looks like we're boarding now!

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I am at the airport. All my bags are overstuffed. Everytime I open a bag, things fall out. I got into the car this morning and realized I'd somehow lost my cell phone on the way from my apartment to the door. This caused a panic not unlike what I imagine would be the feeling of realizing you left your child sitting in a carseat on the top of the car. I'm ashamed of the intensity of the anguish this caused me, but anyway I went back and my phone was sitting on top of the mailboxes…of course (?) Anyway, all this is to say that I feel like a modern version of those 'loose leaf losers' from the trapper keeper commercials. Does anyone know what I'm talking about? No, you're too young, forget it! Also while we're talking school supplies did you know that pee-chee folders were only west coast? West of the rockies actually, I think. That was a special day at time out when we made that discovery. Days, really, because I think I milked it for all the entertainment and sleuthery possible. Yes I know it's not a word. There is an alarm going off. My ears are being assaulted. Not unlike when my sister walked into the bathroom last night and asked what 'that funky smell' was. It was my new jeans, assaulting her nose. They smelled like they'd been dark rinsed in sulphur. I think the rain brought it out more. (They were drying in the shower, which seems counter intuitive.) Also, on the way here I passed the unfortunately named 'Ariola Realty.' A less mature person would have tittered.

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

I remember running into people in the elevator of the building that houses the Time Out NEw York offices and they recognized me from TV and were surprised that I actually had to work real office hours, as if all I did to earn the small bucks was wake up early and go on TV. They were savvy.

I just walked past a guy who was saying “no worries” so many times in the course of his conversation I wanted to stop him and ask if there were any worries.

Wendy sent me this. Looks like I’m falling down on my own self-googling or else I surely would have found it myself!

In New York, white nose syndrome means something else.

I just want to clarify something in the below post. When I say my fingertips are like baby asses, I mean the unchafed butts of babies, not young donkeys, although if they were like baby donkeys, that would be so cute!

Also, is The Hills Lauren Conrad on drugs? This is the second season where, when she makes flirty eyes at some guy, I want to throw a shoe at the television and then take a shower. If I were the guy on the receiving end of that uncomfortable unblinking stare plus shoulder shrug plus strange palsy/shimmy, I would make my way to the exit, and yet they don’t. Maybe the camera adds ten… times the embarrassment by proxy?

And finally, I figured out the way to enjoy the low-sodium miso soup mix from a few blog posts ago: Eat it plain, resulting in a very salty, powdery 25 calorie snack. Like a soy sauce flavored pixie stick with crunchy crap in it.

I played guitar three weeks ago, which was surprisingly painful, though fun, since the calluses that I once had were long gone and instead my fingers were like ten little baby asses, and my wrist like some kind of weak little unborn bird—like the consistency of the beak of an unhatched chicken—anyway, have I made you barf yet? I can keep going.

So what’s weird is that my fingertips are just now—three weeks later–starting to peel, which is phase one of the calluses. Well actually, it’s phase two. Phase one is pain. It’s like I applied Rogaine to my fingertips, which I didn’t, and the tissue is sloughing slowly.

If anyone would like a piece of fingertip skin, please write an essay detailing why and put it in a bottle and throw it in the ocean. I’m curious to see whether that form of communication works.

His name is Charles Chips. http://www.bissell.com/redirect.asp?page_id=47167&Pet=787

Blogfans, because I got called out for it today, I just wanted to take this special moment to tell you, my special and extremely attractive readers, that when I post stories I wrote a long time ago it isn’t because I’m lazy and sitting there thinking “I don’t have anything to post, I know! I’ll post something old!”

It’s that I’ve been going back and reading stuff I wrote from the OC Weekly because, if you must know, I’m trying to see if there’s a book in that old stuff, and anyway, unless you happened to be reading the OC Weekly 8 or 9 years ago, I assume this is new to you, and if you are a fan of mine which you so certainly should be if you’re still reading this piffle, then I assume you would want to read the stuff that I personally think is probably better than a lot of what followed, or if not better than at least on par with. I mean, when you love someone, as you do me (right? RIGHT?!?!?!?!?!) then you love everything about them unconditionally. The way I burp in my sleep, the way I’m covered with pustules, the way I use my uterus as a weapon (I throw it at people) and my penchant for posting old stories. These things make me human. Hence, when I serve up a story from 9 years ago you should just be happy that I have a tenuous grasp on math because it’s occurring to me that I really mean 8 years ago. What? I don’t know. I don’t really sleep-burp. I do like Facts of Life though.