I was inspired by the news story about the 215 pairs of underpants

This 10-year-old kid was perusing the Guinness Book and saw where some kindred spirit set a record when he put on 214 pairs of u-trow. So the kid (let’s just call him Captain Underpants) decided to use the occasion of his birthday to publicly beat that record. A glimpse at the Captain’s birthday video shows that his mom and dad, thrilled that their son would take on this underpants challenge, proudly supplied and numbered the stacks of white cotton briefs.

He did it, although he lost circulation in his legs in the final stretch, and slipped into #215 while horizontal. The crowd went wild.

You gotta hand it to the Captain, putting some zip in his birthday celebration with something that transcends pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. I’m thinking maybe I should do something equally attention-getting on my  birthday. I’m steering away from the underpants thing because I’d have to go for 216, and I have found that Hanky Pankies lose their allure when worn in multiple layers. Plus, they are not cheap; my party budget does not allow 4K for undergarments.

I’m thinking maybe I’ll look for some other record to break. Maybe I’ll take a whack at the one set by  Andre The Giant, who drank 117 beers in one sitting.

“OMG.” That’s what was in the thought bubble above my head when I opened the Dining section of the NYTimes on Wednesday to find Mark Bittman’s article titled “101 Reasons For Lighting The Grill.” The very thought of all those reasons made me want to   sit down. As it happened, I was on an airplane, so sitting was pretty much my only option anyway.

But I was only on reason #26 when I had a breakdown. I felt like I did at the Bloomingdale’s shoe sale; I was overwhelmed by choices.  I stowed the NYTimes,  grabbed my iPod and summoned the flight attendant for an alcoholic beverage.

Anyway, I already had 1 good reason for lighting my grill (which was the expected arrival of 12 people on Sunday for lunch) and  that seemed like enough. But as I listened to my “mellow” playlist and sipped my wine, two words from Bittman’s piece kept bobbing to the surface of my mind: “Bacon dog.” Everyone is at least a closeted bacon dog lover, if not an overt one.

So now I have 2 Reasons For Lighting The Grill. That’s about all I can handle, Mr. Bittman, but thanks anyway.

It was 7 a.m., it was pre-coffee, and I was making scrambled eggs, treating  Oliver’s infected paw, on the phone with my N.Y. daugher re: travel plans, adding ingredients for turkey loaf to my mental grocery list, and stepping out to retrieve the newspaper, at which time the sprinklers popped up cheerfully to douse me. So when the vuvuzelas started, I was already in a state you might call irritable.

But then soccer took over. Tom and Nora have been obsessed with the World Cup, but I’ve been more, shall we say, aloof. (The most emotion I’ve displayed vis-à-vis the Cup is bitching about the vuvuzelas.) This morning, however, my family’s intense focus zapped me. I turned to the television and, within seconds, I was hooked.

I stood in my damp bathrobe and got acquainted with Landon Donovan, and life’s irritating factors evaporated. Even the vuvuzelas lost their edge.

After The Goal (note-to=self: get that YouTube vid on my iPhone), I skittered across Twitter and now I (along with 60,000 other stalkers) am following Landon. His tweet after the victory? “WOW!” (Well, whattya want, the Gettysburg address? The guy was pooped, for chrissakes.)

After the thrill of victory dimmed slightly, I got real and made a turkey loaf, fantasizing about tweeting old Landon a dinner invite, which would probably be his 59,999^th offer of the day.  Maybe I’ll invite Stan McChrystal instead. Bet his dance card is empty.

It’s all over NPR. Google is making me stupid. But I mean, are they sure? Is that what’s doing it? Or is it, you know, other stuff? I did a scan of recent life activity to see what else might be causing my newfound stupidity.

Could it be: 1. All those vuvuzelas  2. Too many Stacy’s pita chips while watching the NBA 3. That second grapefruit margarita after Game 6 (or was it Game 7?).  4. Watching 40 minutes of Fox News by mistake  5.  Arguing with the mattress delivery dude about whether when they say noon to five that includes five-thirty.  6. Arguing with my daughter about proper etiquette for borrowing my white Splendid tee shirt  7. Riding seventeen floors on an elevator with a guy yelling into cell phone about the “Celtic bastards”  8. Arguing with Tom about the value of owning a smelly ’67 Mustang   9. Hearing Meg Whitman on the radio 10. Rearranging the bookshelf, and now not finding Proust, only Wally Lamb 11. The grapefruit margarita after US tied Slovenia

These things add up; they will dumb you down.  I know I was smarter before all this happened (although I felt better about my own IQ after hearing Barton apologize to BP).

So, I wouldn’t be so quick to blame Google. In fact, I got a smidge smarter yesterday when I learned, courtesy of Google, that the people who attend bingo games outnumber NBA attendees by 59 to 1. (Note-to-self: tweet Kobe about this.)

Grapefruit Margarita:

3 ounces grapefruit juice

2 ounces tequila

1 ounce Grand Marnier

1 tablespoon lime juice

Lime wedges

Pour all this stuff except the lime wedges in a cocktail shaker, add some ice cubes and shake 30 seconds. Pour into 2 glasses, or 1 glass if you’re livin’ large.

Carly Fiorina is having a bad hair day. Not because her hair looks bad, but because nobody likes her catty remarks about Barbara Boxer’s coif.  GOP senate candidate Carly, n capaign mode, didn’t realize her mike was on when she spoke about her passion for hamburgers, then switched topics to focus on her Democratic opponent. “God, what is that hair? Sooooooo yesterday.”

She sounded exactly like Kathy, a bitch I knew  in high school who made a habit of  dissing people’s hair (and shoes and body odor and athletic ability).  I was the subject of Kathy’s ridicule in tenth grade when my own bleach-streaked locks turned red and broke off.

Inspired by Carly’s remarks, I am making hamburgers tonight (sliders, to be exact). But in spite of her fondness for burgers, I am not inviting  Ms. F. to dinner because she’d have a field day with my hair. While not as stunningly bad as it was in bleachy high school days (it’s more bedhead than redhead, but closer to deadhead), today it is limp, useless.  If it were “sooooooo yesterday,” that would be an improvement.

So I will be avoiding Ms. Bitchorina today, and anyone else with an open mike.  I’ll invite some girlfriends over to share my sliders. I may be having a bad hair day, but I’m safe with my friends. They know that  dissing hair is just sooooooo tenth grade.

Last night I dreamed that Obama, dressed impeccably in his usual suit, collapsed into my arms, weeping. “I’m overwhelmed by the Forces of Evil!” he sobbed. We were in a golf cart at the time. (Michelle was busy watching “The Aristocats” on TV.)

Pre-bedtime, I’d been reading the New York Times article about how the BP-inflicted chaos might  affect the presidency, which was, no doubt, the trigger for my midnight vision. If that oil keeps a-spillin’, my dream may become reality (although perhaps without yours truly and the golf cart.)

But that might not be such a bad thing, if the King of Cool were to show a little more spill-related rage, sweat, tears and teeth-gnashing. I know Maureen Dowd would like it, and she’s not alone. It wouldn’t hurt for us to see real evidence that Barry is feeling at as frustrated, saddened and helpless as we feel when we see the dead pelicans on TV every night. I mean, we know he feels the pain, we know he cares completely. But knowing is like dreaming. It’s a little insubstantial.

Misery loves company. So, come on Barack. Yes, you are being overwhelmed by the Forces of Evil. Go ahead. Make my dream come true. Let’s see some tear stains on that suit.

I

I’m getting a haircut and ditching my pantyhose. No, I’m not having a midlife crisis (been there, done that). I’m being a good citizen, donating hair and hose to the oil spill cleanup.

It seems that a company in San Francisco is making booms out of pantyhose stuffed with discarded hair, harvested in salons. The log-shaped booms are used to trap oil as it laps shorelines. (I tested the theory about oil adhering to hair last week when I was too lazy to wash-‘n-blow for three days, so I know it’s true.)

My hairy dog Oliver must’ve got the memo on this because he is very generously trying to do his part. He is shedding profusely enough to protect the entire coast of Louisiana.

The company (called Matter of Trust) which is producing the hair-‘n-Hanes booms was having one problem. Nobody seems to wear pantyhose anymore. (I wear them maybe once a year. Can’t speak for Oliver.) Without cast-off hose hey were struggling to meet the current demands for booms, until a certain community in San Francisco pitched in. Now M.O.T. is up to their ears in transves-tights.

As a crabby cook I am constantly floored by the fact that, after 63 years of marriage, my mother still cooks three meals a day for my father. Dad does not cook. He (along with my husband) belongs to that cohort that has trouble preparing canned soup. My mother is, however, getting tougher at age 90: she now makes Dad wash the dinner dishes. (He’s only 89—he can cope.)

Mom seems to find this non-stop cooking an acceptable arrangement, maybe because she cooked for eight people for so many years that her current chores seem lightweight by comparison. But I can’t help projecting. Just the thought of how much time she spends in the kitchen makes me irritable, so I try to lighten what I think of as her burden whenever possible. Mother’s Day provides a perfect opportunity for this. The hell with flowers, I’m sending her food.

I’m ordering crab and lobster cakes from Dean and Deluca online, along with a box of their Mother’s Day cookies. That way, all she has to provide is a little asparagus or something and dinner will be so done.

In the unlikely event that my daughters are reading this post, please take the above as a big, fat hint. D and D are taking orders until Friday.

If you follow this blog, you know I’ve been noting the recent proliferation of stupid burglars. The latest one to catch my attention was the guy at Bath and Body Works who stole 75 bottles of body lotion. (Dry skin much?) He stuffed them all down his pants, which of course rendered him helpless to flee when a cop’s suspicions were aroused by the unusual bulges in the perp’s slacks.

(Robbery 101: when doing a B. and B.W. hit, bring a female accomplice with a poofy skirt. Plenty of space under there for a whole shelfload of products, and still room to pick up a few items at the Gap while you’re at it.)

But I just heard a rare story about a smart burglar. This guy in Poland, Stanislaw Muchy, mailed himself to businesses he wanted to plunder. His accomplice did the mailing, the thief-in-a-box was delivered, then, after employees left for the day, he busted out and robbed the place. Then he mailed himself and his loot home again.

The one stupid thing he did was to have a falling out with his accomplice, who then turned him in. (Robbery 101: be kind to your accomplice. Do not criticize their haircut or otherwise offend them.)

So that was a dumb error, but overall the thief was pretty sharp. I mean, I’m damned if I can figure out (and Google will not reveal) how the guy managed to do that last bit, re-packaging and getting himself home post-robbery. I say he gets a lot of points for thinking outside the box.

So, phew. We were just about to send 8000 Marines to Guam, but luckily Rep. Hank Johnson, who is sharp as a tack (and a Democrat, I’m proud to say), took notice of this folly and blew a hole in it. He pointed out that depositing all that Marine life on the tiny island would cause it to “tip over and capsize,” which would really mess things up.

It’s comforting to know that at least some elected officials are familiar with geology and tipping points and Marine activity and the width of Guam and so forth.

I sure as heck hope they don’t turn around and send those Marines to California. We’re already people-heavy here. Another 8000 could cause us to dip into the Pacific, and the east coast to rear up and send a bunch of damn Bostonians rolling in our direction.

Click here to check out the righteous Rep. Johnson on YouTube, engaged in the struggle to keep America (well, Guam anyway) safe.