What's important.

"The eye doctor I'm at right now has autographed head shots on the wall in lieu of diplomas. I feel like I'm getting an eye exam at Jerry's Deli." - Liz on Hollywood Medicine

My Mother in a Facebook Fandom Nutshell

Super.

You'd think that since I was born just three days after the 1986 Superbowl (Wikipedia informs me that this was Superbowl XX, wherein the mighty New England Patriots were defeated by the Chicago Bears) any Sleeping Beauty-esque fairies that were in the vicinity at the time would have given me the Gift Of Fully Understanding And Only Loving Football. Particularly since, due to my sizable birth weight (just under 10 lbs), curiously dark skin (which my mom and grandmother always recount, every January 29th: "...a full head of hair, and so dark skinned, you were darker than the black family's baby."), and my parents' indecision over what to name me, I was known throughout the hospital as The Refrigerator. That would be after this particular Patriot, whose name, Wikipedia is once again good enough to inform me, is actually William "The Refrigerator" Perry.



Deeply, deeply flattering. As the story goes, I believe we can credit Grandmaman for lighting the flame under my parents to get going and "give dat baby a name" other than one that is shared with that handsome fellow.

Anyway. Despite meeting all the prerequisites necessary for a lifetime of superfandom, I have missed the boat. I don't know how to play football. Or really watch it. However, I DO know that I love bandwagons and chicken wings. So as a result of those loves, hooray for Superbowl Sunday. But since the Tom Bradys are out for the season, I have the next few hours to decide whether to root for the Peyton Mannings or the New Orleanses.

The same guy.

Earlier today, the following question was posed to me by Catherine, an expert in celebrity doppelgangers.

Catherine: I have to get a new computer because I clicked on some celebrity look alike thing and it loaded viruses. Is Channing [Tatum] aware of the fact that he looks exactly like Josh Hartnett?

Which is an excellent point.

Why did Josh Hartnett change his name to Channing Tatum? I know LUCKY NUMBER SLEVIN didn't go over as well as everyone might have hoped (I'd venture to guess that the reason for this is because it featured Morgan Freeman and Ben Kingsley as villains. No one can suspend their disbelief THAT much), but really? And Josh, just as a heads up, Channing Tatum isn't a name. It sounds like a law firm or MAYBE like you're taking attendance in a freshman seminar and looking for a girl named Channing, Tatum. When I saw Pearl Harbor in tenth grade, I loved it. I'm not afraid to admit it. And I still think you're very attractive. My straight brother does, too. In fact, he regularly calls me to check up on your career and well being. Why? I'm not sure. But people care for you. The real you. JOSH HARTNETT.

Spaaaaaaaaaaaa.

So I've never really been much of a spa girl. In fact, whenever I say it, I feel the need to draw out the 'a'. Spaaaa. Reaaaaally top draaaawer. I appreciate massages and skin care and the importance of having cuticles that are trimmed to reduce the urge to peel off layer after layer of my thumb skin. I get it, and I enjoy it, but at the same time, I feel a little awkward and bourgeoise about strangers exfoliating my face or painting my toes and my aversion to strangers touching me naked most definitely gets in the way of most professional massages. I'm not used to it. Growing up, my mom and I never did the thing that some women do where we go and sit in robes all day and take baths in tea. Though if we did, it'd probably be fish-out-of-water comedy hilarious. The closest I ever came to any of that was convincing my parents to let me sign up for a gym membership my junior year in high school. The closest I ever came to using that gym membership was running around a track and stomping on an elliptical machine with Liz every now and again, and we'd almost always close out our sessions with a trip to the local ice cream barn.

However, far be it for me to posses a gift certificate and not use it. After all, aside from my general dismissal of all things time consuming and high maintenance, the only thing that really keeps me from being a bourgeoise wench is general lack of funding. So when I was given a gift certificate to a spaaaa for my birthday recently, I decided to investigate. Get a load of this description:

Cross the threshold of SPAAAAA THAT SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS and be transported to a sprawling, sumptuous oasis where the ancient techniques of a world-class European spa blend with modern advances in health and science.

Slip out of the real world and lose yourself in a delicious, over-sized robe. Breathe in exotic scents. Sip cool drinks that echo with ethereal flavors. Surrender to the desire to indulge your body and delight your senses for an hour or two. Or spend the entire day.

A sprawling, sumptuous oasis? In West Hollywood? You don't say. And well, if it's European, you know it must be good. No one would ever brag about their American spa. There's nothing luxurious about America except, you know, freedom. And a delicious robe? Are we supposed to eat it? Nothing grates on my nerves quite like an inappropriate adjective, sarcastic or not. Robes are not delicious. Tater tots are not sexy. Robes can be fuzzy, they can be plush, they can be luxurious, but unless that robe is made out of Chipotle burritos, it is far from delicious. And I guess I'm going to have to find out what exotic scents I will be breathing and what ethereal flavors will enhance my echo-y beverages. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was headed to Narnia.

LOST.

Me: I thought my days of festively themed lunches were over in high school. Then I started working at Disney. Today is LOST day.
Liz: Did they make you wait in a bunch of different, random lines for food, only to not serve you anything at all?

And scene.