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Petite rain, petite rain...I only want to see you underneath the petite rain.

So I'm watching a rerun of Pop-Up Video on VH1 Classic. They're showing the Prince video for "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World," which I like well enough, in part because Vanessa Marcil is in it. She used to be Brenda on "General Hospital" and when I was in high school, all I wanted was to be dark and brooding like Brenda with expertly applied eyeliner and nights filled with foggy encounters at the docks. Instead tonight I made baked pasta with Ragu alfredo sauce and filed old gas bills.

But I digress.

Pop-up video said that the diminutive artist formerly known as Symbol was a mere 16" taller than "Fantasy Island"'s Tattoo, Herve Villachaize. I knew that Prince was wee, but this struck me as an overstatement so, armed with the world's slowest MacBook, I went to the Interweb to find out.

According to Wikipedia, Villachaize was a dwarf due a thyroid dysfunction. The bummer is that Villachaize, who was born in Paris, had a dad who was a surgeon. Although his dad tried a variety of cures, Villachaize only reached a height of 3'11" (sidenote: he was over a foot taller than Verne Troyer who stands 2'8" tall, or, just shy of three Barbies).

So, according to Wikipedia, that would make Prince, what, 5'3"?

As it happens, the subject of Prince's height is the subject of somewhat animated debate. Many female ans claim that, in heels, they're 5'3" (!) and can look him in the eye. Others suggest he might be as little as 5'1". The myriad of answers is complicated by the fact that all of the Prince sites I've attempted to access are down!

Is he trying to thwart my pursuit of the truth? Does he have some sort of deal worked out with VH1 Classic? Back behind the grassy knoll for me.

The Itchy & Scratchy Show

Long time visitors to this blog know that I suffer from a disease called Pulmonary Light Erruption (PMLE). While it all sounds very prog-rock, what basically happens is that whenever I’m exposed to direct sunlight – and this could be an afternoon in the park or 5 minutes of direct sunlight while driving to the grocery store – I get a poison ivy-style rash of very, very itchy blisters, typically on my hands and arms.

I didn’t start getting this until I was in my late 20’s (which I guess is lucky), but it’s a total bummer. The only thing that helps are cortisone pills or a shot in the ass. Yesterday Dennis and I went running around the park, in the sunshine, and today my skin is a huge itchy pile of suck. I look like I rolled around in an ant pile.

I guess it’s retribution for an adolescence spent shuttling between my pool, where I would lay out with an economy sized bottle of baby oil, and the tanning salon next to Target. I get that sun exposure of the unprotected variety is a bad deal and causes premature aging but I’ll be damned if I wouldn’t like some pigment in my skin. Why I can’t have the universal happy medium between being a wrinkled prune of sun damage and unintentionally rocking the goth girl aesthetic, I don’t know.

Dream Warrior: The One Where I'm Haunted by My Grandmother's Nagging

Later this month, I’ll be attending two weddings which, for the record, is two more than I attended last year. Both in the greater Boston area, and both require me to conquer my fear of dressing room lighting and actually purchase a dress.

Generally speaking, I’m a power shopper and love nothing more than rifling through a rack of sparkly, silky things in search of the last great bargain but for a myriad of excuses (ranging from not having time to not feeling like wearing anything but elastic-waist pants) I haven’t made it to the store.

Apparently, my procrastination is wearing on my subconscious. I had a dream last night that it was the night before my cousin Mike’s wedding and I was in New Hampshire. I was supposed to be at the wedding hall helping set up but instead was at a funeral home talking to my Mom on the phone. Also worth noting, there was a weird Scooby Doo style painting on the wall with little eyeballs that were following me around the room.

Anyway, my Mom is yelling at me to go to Filene’s @ the mall and just get something. I tell her that I’d rather get this green dress at Ann Taylor (which is true). I go to Ann Taylor and the only size available is one smaller than what I typically wear. I grab the dress and go to the shape-wear section to get something to help me suck it in and was on my way down an escalator when I woke up.

I’m convinced that this dream is the work of my Grandmother’s spirit haunting me.

Although she’s been dead almost two years, this is clearly her handiwork: there’s the need to be frugal (Filene’s) as opposed to blowing a big wad of cash (Ann Taylor), there’s the smaller size (she was a lifelong dieter) and then the girdle. But she would have never tolerated me waiting until the last minute to pick out something to wear. She would have been on my ass about it in February.

I hear you loud and clear, Grandma, I’ll go get something this week (promise).