If You Need Me I'll Be At The Airport Hoping Tina Fey Notices Me

So I get told I'm tall - a lot. Mainly because I am, but also because I don't hang out with a volley ball team or, you know, all of the NBA. Those guys probably never hear it because they're in a group, and would you tell the Lakers they were tall? No, because they're a group of big men over 7 feet tall who can shatter glass with their bare hands, and because there's a possibility one of them will rape you.

(Too soon? It's been like six years people. Plus I'm a firm believer Kobe is slutty, but not rape-y. Because I watch him on tv, so I know all about him.) (All of my friends in Chicago are silently revoking their friendships with me, again, for even mentioning the Lakers, let alone defending them. I can feel that hate stare BW, bring it!)

Anyway, my point is, a group is intimidating. A single girl - that's an open invitation for awkward conversation. But I'm used to it. What I'm not used to is famous people telling me I'm tall. You're the famous one! Lets turn this attention back where it belongs George Clooney - right into your dreamy eyes, and your impressively muscular body for a guy who's . . . oh, you're only 48? Interesting.



Except it wasn't George Clooney.

It was Gilbert Gottfried.

(Close enough)

So, here I am getting all flustered and weird because Gilbert Gottfried stopped and asked where I found a Jack In The Box in the airport, and I'm all, "You're Gilbert!" as if we're on a first name basis. And he's all, "Is it in this terminal?" And I had to tell him my mom drove through J in the B on the way to the airport because she loves me and she even got out of her house before 8am, which is rare for her because she's usually too busy spritzing her ferns with imported soda water or something in the mornings to make it to work at a normal person hour, and then when we get to the Jack she orders her breakfast sandwich without the ham, and then makes me take off the side of the sandwich that has the white cheese because her boyfriend usually takes that side and eats it like a taco while she eats the one half of the sandwich with the yellow cheese even though she can't remember why she won't eat the half with the white cheese she just thinks she doesn't like it.

And Gilbert Gottfried just stares at me for a minute before saying:

"That was a horrible story."

Yes. Yes it was.

"You're really tall."

And then he went to catch his flight somewhere fancy.

So, this wouldn't have been that weird, EXCEPT then I get on my plane and I'm standing in the aisle in the first class section waiting to move to the back of the bus where I belong, when I look down and see Ben Stein. The-Wonder-Years-teacher Ben Stein! Win-Ben-Stein's-Money Ben Stein! President-Nixon-speech-writer Ben Stein! Bueller-Bueller-Bueller Ben Stein! Apparently I was lost in this list of who he was in my head because he senses me looking at him and lifts his head up to look. . . right at my chest. You know, where the head should be. He realizes my face is not there, and neither are some huge boobs that could possibly leave him stranded there, and cranes his neck to look up higher.

"Wow," Ben Stein said. "You're very tall."

"And you're Ben!" Because today apparently I can only refer to famous people by their first name.

Then half the plane turns to see which Ben it is I'm nervously yelling at, and he just kinda sighs. "I guess I deserved that."

Awwwww, I blew Ben Stein's cover and he feigned sadness for me! I told him I was sorry (in a whisper because I was too embarrassed to use vocal chords anymore) and moved out of the way of two blond girls racing down the aisle to get his autograph.

Weirdest flight ever. My sister is always running into like Adam Sandler, and Jamie Foxx, and a variety of Victoria Secret models, but I get Gilbert Gottfried and Ben Stein. Something is off here. Very, very off.