My fear of flying makes no sense. I've flown a few times a year since the womb. I love looking out the window, takeoff and landing but loathe every single bump along the way. Flying became a fear when Pan Am blew up over Lockerbee, only 20 years ago. This morning, at 8am, my plane was eerily empty with a mean flight attendant who made me put my carryon in the overhead even though my row was empty. Why do I keep flying? I wondered before resigning myself to two hours of terror. Then, a few minutes before pulling out of the gate, a couple dozen 8-year-old Indian children raucously boarded the plane, swarming around me. They were like my guardian angels.
Now that I'm home, I've caught up on the stars: Piers Morgan and his wife are preggo; X Men beat Hangover II, which shows just how crappy the latter is. Still wondering when the mystery of January Jones's babydaddy will be cleared up. Paris Hilton got skewered on The View for her scoffing at doing community service, then got mad that smarter people had the audacity to cross her. That girl's peaked already, so unless she does something new and amazing (like become articulate, get a degree of some kind), the low ratings of her show will continue. If my gramma were alive she'd kick Paris's bony butt. Whenever I spent too long in a lethargic stupor from hours of television, Gramma S.'s shoe would hit my backside until I got a bucket and started pulling weeds in the garden. I'm still a lazy sh*t.
Is it true that Sean Penn and Scarlett Johansson have split? Cameron Diaz and A-Rod, too. Lastly, Olivia Wilde seems to be making up for years of not being able to sew her wild oats--linked to Bradley Cooper, Justin Timberlake and someone else, but keep forgetting. Well, good for her! (wear a condom)