I am SO FAMOUS NOW.

First of all: Behold my banner! It was created by the lovely and talented Heather. She makes a good banner. I've heard her site is quite popular, too. I mean, I haven't read it, but that's what I hear.

(Here is where I consider inserting an emoticon to fend off the emails in which I am called a dumbass.)

It's weird to watch a show and wonder why you aren't on it. And then you show up! But only for a second. And I think they used a clip in which I was babbling off the record, when I thought, "They will never show me laughing like this, will they? Isn't it illegal to show this much gum on television?" And yet there I was, exposing my mouth parts to the world.

I realized my mistake when I was watching the show: I had tried to be funny, but apparently they wanted sincere. They were heading for Earnestville, and I was waiting for them over at Snarky Junction.

Anyway, at least I wasn't the young woman who cooed over "The Polar Express." I am glad it was someone's favorite-est movie ever, but that person should never be allowed to speak in any kind of public forum.

Ooh, you're thinking, are the grapes sour, in that basket of grapes you have there? And I'm thinking, what grapes? What basket? Are you insane? Shut up!

Honestly, watching a show and worrying that you might make an appearance is... uncomfortable. For the entire two hours of the show, I hid under a blanket, peeking out at the beginning of each segment to confirm that the talking head was not me. Meanwhile, my husband mocked me.

Me: I'm not in this one either. I must have been really terrible.

Him: God, you're right. Why am I still married to you?

Me: I don't even remember these topics! Why did they come up with new topics?

Him: That's because you were so bad that just looking at the questions from your interview made everyone cry, so they had to rewrite the entire script. Or, no, wait, I know what happened--your utter lack of charisma caused everyone on the set to die, and all copies of the questions to burst into flames. Then the building burned down. Thanks a lot.

Me: This is cute, the mock-insults. I find it amusing.

Him: I don't know what you're talking about.

Me: They let Bruce Vilanch on this show. So at least I know I wasn't cut because of my looks.

Him: Oh, make no mistake--you're much worse-looking than Bruce Vilanch.

Me: Hey, wait, was that me?

Him: That was you! That was you! You looked so great!

Me: Oh my god! You totally love me.

Him: God only knows why.

3:30 a.m. conversation.

Me: I discovered a new skill I have!

Scott: And you're going to tell me about it.

Me: Yes I am. I can guess the ages of any of the women pictured in the wedding part of the Styles section. Within a year! It's uncanny!

Scott: Wow, that's lame.

Me: It would only be lame if I weren't married.

Scott: Because then it would be some kind of spinster exercise.

Me: Anyway, I discovered that the women are kind of hard to read, but the trick is to look at the man in the picture. Unless the guy is like obviously wealthy, the older he looks, the older she probably is.

Scott: Why didn't you just guess the guy's age?

Me: I don't know. But what I'm trying to tell you here is, you're dragging me down.

Scott: I could have told you that.

Me: So as soon as you fall asleep, I'm going to be combing some Just for Men into your hair.

Scott: Go crazy.

Me: You know what I just realized? I'm twice as old as I was when I was eighteen. I'm eighteen times two.

Scott: You're Doubly Legal. And that's my second favorite magazine.

If it's not one thing, it's your mother.

Diagnose me, Internet: for the past three days I have had a blinding headache, my entire body aches, I am mildly queasy, and if I walk more than a few blocks I feel as if I should just lie down in the gutter forever. My guesses are hanta virus, or imminent death. Any other ideas?

Speaking of hypochondria, my husband spent last weekend obsessing over a mole that had suddenly sprouted on his wrist. The mole was all the things they say moles should never be: irregularly shaped, dark, raised, shiny, bumpy, mole-y. We enjoyed 48 hours of Scott peering at his wrist and whispering “Oh god oh god oh god.” Of looking at pictures of moles online and predicting the grim outcome of the biopsy and why didn’t he have life insurance and etc. So this week he went to the dermatologist, who diagnosed him with…

… a scab.

Yes. A scab. The mole that had suddenly appeared was a CUT that suddenly SCABBED. And oh, how I laughed. I laughed and laughed. There may have been some pointing. I’m not a nice person. I am now calling him Scabbers.

(My husband agreed to let me share this story on one condition: that I mention how, by the end of the weekend, he told me he thought the Cancerous Mole was getting smaller, and I told him that he was insane, that he was seeing things because he was so afraid of going to the doctor. So. But still. A scab! Laugh! Laugh and point!)

Speaking of words that begin with “scab,” my son’s itchiness has also been diagnosed. The kid has scabies. It took three doctors to figure this out. As I had joked, he was in fact being eaten alive by microscopic vermin. For MONTHS. One application of scabicidal ointment later, my son’s skin is smooth and clear. I shared this news with my mother, who shouted, “He has SCABBIES? I don’t understand! How did he get SCABBIES?” and I'd like to say that I told her he caught them from his father, but I wasn't clever enough, probably because of the parasite that’s eating my brain.

Pretty Rambo: love him at your own risk.

My husband now believes that if I ever leave him, he will have a bevy of Pretty Rambo groupies lining up to audition as my replacement. So listen up, ladies: he may be funny and clever and bearded, but he has his dark side. To wit:

He’s a talented impersonator, but he will never impersonate on command. This is maddening. Try telling him to do his Christopher Walken when you’re out with friends. He will not.

He knows more about B- and C-list actors from the '60s to the '80s than you could imagine. He can tell you the entire professional biography of Blue-Uniformed Guy #4 in Episode 38 of Star Trek, and then he will. Sometimes you’ll be trying to sleep while he’s telling you. Imagine it.

Hope that he never gets pink eye in your lifetime. According to Scott, pink eye is the dreaded scourge of this and any century, the Worst Affliction Ever. Once, while we were watching television, Scott turned to me and said, “My eye itches.” Then he paused to rub his eye. “Wow, my eye really itches,” he said. Then I watched him as he continued: “My eye really itches. Now that I think of it, both eyes itch. [Pause for frantic blinking.] MY EYES REALLY ITCH. Shit! Shit! I have pink eye! Shit! I can’t believe this! [More rubbing and blinking and shouting] I have pink eye! This is terrible! Don’t laugh! My eyes really itch! [Pause]… wait, wait. I think it’s okay. [blinking] Maybe they’re just itchy. They’re… yeah, they’re okay. Whew. I really thought I had pink eye. [looks at me] What’s so funny?”

You have been warned.