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When I turned the corner into the bread aisle, a grandmotherly woman was leaning on her cart, examining that day’s baguettes. She turned around to see me reach for a loaf, and her hands went to her face.

“Oh! Oh oh!”

I looked up.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that your dress is incredible. And you look incredible in it.”

“Thank you!”

“You look just like we did in the ’40s. Just like we did. Incredible. That dress. And your body is just . . . perfect for it.”

“Thanks.”

We shared an uncomfortable moment where we both realized she was staring at my chest. (Falsies, ma’am: this bra doubles my cup size. The things we do for darts.) “You have a wonderful body,” she said.

“. . . Thank you!”

“You haven’t been eating that corn syrup, have you?”

My face was getting warm. “I uh, well you know, I try not to . . . ”

“Well it shows. I applaud and commend you! Just amazing!” Then she leaned in, whispered conspiratorially, “you know, when you get old, you can say whatever you want to anyone you want to.”

Post every day for as long as you can: officially starting today. One mulligan allowed, two strikes and you’re out. (Technically, anyway. But why not keep producing? Produce produce produce!) The contestants:

Adrianne       Beth       Brendan B      Brendan S       Brokavore      
Christopher      datingeveryone       Dennis       Jeremy       Jurvis       Maria       Steve       Tamar      tonguebutnodoor
I’ll keep links going in the side-bar too, with a (1) next to any names with mulligans. Any last-minute stragglers want on board?

I’ve been fantasizing a lot lately about trailer parks. I think living alone in a trailer could actually be really beautiful: assuming you were in the middle of a prairie, and some of your friends lived in trailers around you, and every night there were bonfires, and you all played guitars and sang, and coyotes would occasionally howl (perpetually in the distance), and in the mornings you would hang your laundry on soft, worn string — and every now and then, the passing car.

There have only been a few times in my life when I’ve been able to drop someone off or pick someone up at the airport. I don’t usually have access to a car, and that isn’t usually a problem: there have been shuttles, subways, cabs, other friends with cars. And maybe this is why it’s now one of my favorite things to do.

It feels so simply loving. “Call me if there are any problems.”

I read a book recently where all the main character wanted was to be picked up at the airport with flowers. Unfortunately at MSP the driver is more likely to creep up to the baggage claim doors in a car outside, with the cops yelling at us to move along, keep it moving!; it’s not the best time for a flower hand-off. Maybe if you flew in from somewhere far away, like the Ivory Coast, or Athens, I would pay ten dollars to park, just so that I could be standing there when you came down the escalators, chin-deep in impatiens, forget-me-nots.

For those of you who are inexplicably not on Facebook (I envy you): I give you Otis, the visual. Immediately post-haircut, when he got un-moppified. Owly dog, tell me my future — will I be pretty, will I be rich?

Li’l Otis (Larger)