This could be my worst flying nightmare ever. I think this guy deserves at least a million. I would've, well, jeez I don't even know. Taken down the pilot? Thrown my Wet Wipes at the crew? Jumped out of the emergency exit? A thousand and one things before I listened to the crazies telling me to sit on the toilet. I mean really, to me that's equivalent to water-boarding.

I pulled up behind a really funny Hilary bumper sticker yesterday that read: "Just vote for the bitch." Actually made me want to vote for her. And frankly I don't think she's a bitch. Just another dyke with a bigger set of cajones than most men.

I woke up again—this is like the fourth time recently—to Wally poop all over my bathroom. At least he has the decency to do it in the loo. He's really quite the intellectual, that one.

I've developed some interesting, annoying new side effects. Swollen everything, including my eyelids, which look like they do after a night of drinking. Dry, peeling, itching hands that the onco is calling in a lotion scrip for. Insurance probably doesn't cover La Mer. I actually sprayed some eucalyptus on my palms and that stopped the itching immediately. But I'll get the lotion too. Products are products and if I have to get my beauty rocks off at the pharmacy instead of Sephora, so be it. On the cancer tip, I've decided, per Elizabeth's suggestion, to continue to write about it here. As she says, it makes it more a part of my every day life as opposed to putting it over there in a box.

Looking forward to a relaxing weekend in Palm Beach, though I'm still fretting about what to wear to Lynn's cocktail party. Palm Beach exists in its own fashion microcosm. I don't own any Lilly, but I'm thinking a pink Pucci top will suffice. And mom's wearing Pucci too, now that I think about it. The reality is that tennis ball titties and process of elimination will most likely dictate my ensemble though. I think I should just start a blog called tennis ball titties.

And finally, though I've been an Idol abstainer for a few years, I've been watching this year. Natch, I'm totally into David Cook, but can we just talk about the creepy poor thing that is David Archuleta? Yeah the kid apparently has the stage dad from hell, but since the beginning I've gotten the whole child-molestation victim vibe from the kid. I think that if he wins, his life is going to come crashing down by the time he hits adulthood. And his money will no doubt go into dad's pockets. Too bad you can't make your parents sign the equivalent of a pre-nup. Okay, it's beautiful out today so I'm going to enjoy the great outdoors. Translation: I'm going to sit by the pool in the one bathing suit where my tennis balls look normal.