"Have a nice flight, sir."

Forget that my naturally long lashes were painted twice over with Cover Girl 'Marathon' mascara in "very black".

Forget that I was wearing a cropped bomber and fitted -fitted verging on tight- straight-leg jeans, the combination of which unmistakably outlined my waist-to-hips contour.

Forget that the timbre of my voice is consistently described as somewhere between "sweet" and "girlish."

Forget that I had on my feet and dangling off my forearm a pair of patent leather four inchers and a black leather tote, respectively.

In truth, what stunned me most about my being addressed as a "sir" yesterday was not that the screener -a young man who, given his position as the first line of airport security presumably had no serious vision impairments- had in his possession a driver's license that not only informed him of my first name but also included a 2005 photo from when I was in the thick of my 'Nicole Richie long bob' phase and still thought I looked sufficiently unfeminine to warrant a male assignation, but rather my reaction to his mistake.

I honestly didn't care. My feelings weren't hurt. I had no desire to correct him.

In fact, my first reactions upon hearing these five words were to tilt my head ever so slightly, look this boyish twenty-something squarely in his blue eyes, smile, and say, "Thanks, I will."

Check back later today for the Volvo style epiphany that came to me as a result of my interaction with Derek the Dayton Airport security screener.

*to those who identified the 1985 movie from which the above film still was taken, you've earned my utmost respect

Nicole and I are twinsies

Because I have little else to do other than watch my Mother cook, exercise in the middle of the day and coo at how cute it is to see Monte warm his belly in front of the fireplace in my Father's study, I'm now reduced to posting completely useless fare like this, a picture of Nicole Richie decked out in the same, now extreeeemely discounted Geren Ford dress I'm wearing in the photograph at right.

She's pregnant and still looks thinner than I do. That's cool, I guess.

How did I not think of this first?

In its attempt to trump the are-you-kidding-me-with-this-sh*t? factor of VH1's 'I Love New York,' the E! network has decided one of the new roles the two chairs of the super-skinny-skank-patrol will tackle on the fifth - yes, fifth - season of 'The Simple Life' is fat camp counselor.

Call me crazy, but is having a woman still crystal-clearly in the throes of anorexia and another whose 115 lb frame is maintained through a steady diet of nothing but Valtrex, flavored lip gloss and rich men's souls really the kind of influences - even if only for ratings - anyone would bring to bear on the fragile, vulnerable super-obese?

Laughing at the chubby girl sitting by herself in the food court with two trays of Panda Express is one thing, but it's an entirely separate realm of cruelty to inflict two size zeroes with fabulous bangs, Fendi handbags and no tact or self-awareness onto 3000lbs of depression wrapped up in Lane Bryant.

And on camera, no less.

How I love you, E! Network, for lowering the standards of human decency one show at a time.