My Own Planet

The horror! The horror!
I've always wondered why Eric keeps the door to his room shut all the time, even when he's not in it. Is he afraid I'm going to snoop through his stuff? Is he secretly harboring a fugitive?

Actually, no. Tonight I think I discovered the reason when I had to go into his room to fix our phone line. The reason Eric keeps his door shut, I think, is to save my virgin stomach from the horror that is his room, or, as I am now calling it, Eric's Den of Filth. As most of you know, I am not exactly a neat freak. There have been times when you can barely see the floor of my bedroom. But the worst I'm guilty of is stacks of magazines or schoolwork piled up on the floor, or a rumpled ball of clothes in my butterfly chair. Eric's Den of Filth, however, is on a whole new level. I cannot describe the particulars of the filth for fear of regurgitating all of the Hershey Miniatures I have eaten today; however, suffice it to say that my iniatition to the Den of Filth has led me to renew my pledge to marry a gay man. Fortunately, I now know where to find one.

More fun with Googlism
Instead of doing any actual work during the last 30 minutes of my day, I'm playing with Googlism again. Here's what I've found out.

Googlisms that are true: rob logan is not a nice guy

Googlisms that would be really funny if they were true: sandra davidson is a time travel romance set in the year 1870

Googlisms that would be really scary if they were true: austin davidson is now a cardiologist

Funniest googlisms for one person (it's a tie between Kristen's fiance-to-be and a certain illustrious former Missourian editor):
-jason miller is a true performance artist
-jason miller is a rabbinical student at the jewish theological seminary
-jason miller is not exactly thrilled about the large number of bands that have chosen to have "god" in their names
-jason miller is a typical ninth grader from billington
-jason miller is getting excited in class
-jason miller is the best looking priest ever

-george kennedy is bitten by a rabid skunk
-george kennedy is a post nuclear war mutant
-george kennedy is the antichrist
-george kennedy is just not a menacing looking guy
-george kennedy is possessed by nazis
-george kennedy is menacing with his steel claw hand
-george kennedy is totally wasted here

Number of times I have eaten nachos for a meal in the past three days: 3. V. bad.

Number of times I have heard "Complicated" by Avril Lavigne in the past three hours: 3. Not too good either.

Tricks, treats, and Jennifer Aniston
Tonight I went to the store to pick up some candy in case any of the little rugrats that live in our apartment complex come by to trick-or-treat. I almost didn't find the candy in the store because they had it hidden in a stockroom with this elaborate display featuring a black light and fake spider webs.

For my costume, I have decided to go as something very scary: a twentysomething whose viewing of Must-See TV has been interrupted. A truly frightening beast, and if you don't believe me, you can ask Nikki, whose repeated calls during Friends and ER have often caused her three best friends to turn into one. Hopefully the kids will have the good sense to trick-or-treat just during Good Morning Miami. Or not at all, because that means I could watch Must-See TV and eat the chocolate.

Something fun on Adrian's blog
No, really. Adrian has introduced us all to Googlism, a site where you can type in your name and find out who you are. This is what it said about me (or the prime minister of New Zealand, who has the same name as me):

clare martin is as good as she looks

Wow. That was very nice of them to say.

In other news, last night at the Marble Slab Creamery (the very place that served me the vodka-spiked whipped cream that I referred to in my last entry), this obnoxious little kid pretended to shoot me with a plastic AK-47. Then last night, I had a frightening dream in which this guy from my high school physics class, Dale, pulled a gun on me at a crowded street fair. Of course, it turned out to be a toy gun. But it scared me nonetheless.

I wonder if Eric is making anything for dinner. Probably not, judging by the fact that he has not yet made or even attempted to make (to my knowledge) anything for dinner. I am going through this weird phase where I have no appetite, yet am constantly starving. I don't know how that's possible, but it sucks.

An update
Hate: my bank, Enterprise, job interviews, whipped cream that tastes like it's been spiked with vodka, not having money, not having food, airport delays
Love: Lucky by Alice Sebold, cute little shops with fancy retro-looking bath products, the prospect of a movie with Hugh Grant, Colin Firth and George Clooney, Eric's story about a 12-year-old girl flirting with him, looking forward to a Madonna-themed Halloween party
Am ambivalent about: the prospect of moving to northern Michigan, Car Wheels on a Gravel Road by Lucinda Williams, life in general

Call me over-indulgent
Is it wrong to really, really want one of those Nicole Miller cases for my birth control pills?

The blog seems to be very popular with people named Kristen (or Kristin, as the case may be) this week, judging by the fact that I have received two compliments in two days from people so named. Many thanks, girls! You are both ass-tacular!

Amazing stupidity
And I thought the sorority girls I work with are stupid.

Tonight on The Amazing Race, I heard the following sentence come out of Eve's mouth: "Walk to the next pit stop...what does that mean? Does that mean we can ride? Does 'walk' mean 'ride'?"

Looks like someone must have gotten her Harvard degree FROM THE INTERNET.

Part of an actual conversation that I had with Kristen last night, regarding her and her new gay best friend Kyle's plans for Halloween:

Kristen: Kyle and I were thinking about going as Hugh Hefner and a Playboy bunny for Halloween.
Clare: Ooh, are you going to wear a little satin bunny outfit like Reese Witherspoon?
Kristen: Actually, I was going to be Hugh Hefner.

You're so vain, you probably think this post is about you
Actually, Chase, this post is about you. I was all worried that Hollywood would be lothario-less now that Warren Beatty's a family man, but I think you'll fill his shoes nicely. Because Chase is, if anything, ass-tacular. (In truth, I've never looked at Chase's ass; I just wanted a chance to use my new vocabulary word.)

Highlight of my day (so far)
Hearing an interview with Coolio on the radio, during which he used the phrase "ass-tacular."

Pros of Girls Club
-Makes me feel good that I am starting out in publishing and not in law
-Fun to see people struggling with their jobs, rather than TV characters living in a dream world where they all just magically have great jobs
-Nothing else on TV on Monday nights

Cons of Girls Club
-Suspect that all of the girls might be mildly retarded, as evidenced by their behavior, i.e.
-The girls mouth off to any and everyone at work who attempts to give them constructive criticism (although said criticism is usually unrealistically bitchy), an assignment, or tries in any way to communicate with them YET they don't get fired
-The girls seem to be vehicles for promoting sexist stereotypes, i.e. Jeannie, who is sexually harassed yet does nothing about it
-There are these random divisions of power among the girls, i.e. Lynn gets to try cases while Sarah's stuck in the file room, yet we have no idea why these divisions exist because the girls all graduated at the same time from the same law school and work at the same firm (which, by the way, also seems totally unrealistic)
-Thanks to Fox's ubiquitous promos, I had already seen 75% of the episode (However, I did watch the show, so I guess they worked on me.)
-Going back to the division of power thing, it puzzles me that Lynn has a huge office, yet Sarah and Jeannie do not seem to have offices or even cubicles
-Very, very disturbing to see Scott Foley in the role of a perverted murderer, when just an hour earlier he was puppy-dog-eyed R.A. Noel breaking up with Felicity...thankfully, he died in this episode, so he will not be back
-Unbeknownst to the idiots at Fox, the title requires an apostrophe after the "s"

Hmm, have decided to give Girls Club [sic] another chance before I completely write it off.

Too much of a Gwyneth thing
Last night, after staging an impromptu Gwyneth Paltrow film festival (I bought my favorite Gwyneth movie, Sliding Doors, at Target yesterday, and Great Expectations and A Perfect Murder were on cable back-to-back), I learned just how many hours of Gwyneth Paltrow one person can stand in a row: six. This is evident by the fact that I considered capping off the evening by watching my tape of Emma, but realized that I could not stand to look at Gwyneth any longer. I wondered if I was on my way to qualifying in the Guinness Book of World Records for most Gwyneth Paltrow movies watched in a row, but then I realized there was probably some sicko stalker fanatic who could easily beat me. So instead of watching Emma, I just went to bed. Surprisingly, I did not dream about Gwyneth Paltrow. I did, however, dream I was working at the GAP.

Whatever esteem I held for Jewel back in, oh, 1996 has now been competely shot by her horrible, horrible cover of "Sweet Home Alabama." Not that I've developed any state pride or anything but come on, people, she's from Alaska! I know that's right next to Alabama alphabetically, but it's about as far away as you can get geographically. Jewel just should not be "singing songs about the Southland."

But I must say, "You Were Meant for Me" still makes me feel all warm and cozy inside. So now I'm going to "put on my pjs and hop into bed" because I really do "feel mostly dead," due to the huge Mexican meal (and margarita) that I just consumed. I have a whole stack of magazines that came in the mail this week and tapes of Lois & Clark and Sex and the City to keep me occupied. Ahhh, what a wonderful Friday night.

It seems that Rolling Stone is trying to win back my favor by sending me their special "Women in Rock" issue. They obviously know I have a penchant for all music performed by women (or, as Diana used to say, "scary chicks screaming from your stereo") and they must know that I like to read RS while I eat because each interview is just long enough to read over a bowl of cereal or a cup of soup.

Ooh, so close, Rolling Stone! But next time you might want to think about putting Tori Amos or Norah Jones on the cover instead of the scantily clad Britney. Shakira, however, can stay.

Thoughts on tonight's TV viewing
Are Busy Phillips from Dawson's Creek and Dixie Chick Natalie Maines the same person? Has anyone ever seen them together in the same room?

Ian from The Amazing Race gives new meaning to the Nick Hornby phrase "that fucking Ian guy." This particular "fucking Ian guy" manages to be rude and patronizing to whomever he meets, talks to his wife like she's his dog, and whines throughout the show how they're definitely going to be eliminated, yet his team always (excruciatingly) comes in next to last, guaranteeing that two nice people whom I would actually like to watch every Wednesday night won't be coming back. Fucking Ian guy.

Best PR pitch EVER
Courtesy of Private Islands Online:

If you're thinking "a private island? sure, maybe when I win the lottery," don't despair - buying a private island is a much more attainable goal than you probably realize. There's no denying it, a few million bucks in the bank will expand your options considerably, but the days when islands were the exclusive status symbols of the rich and famous are long gone. Today, if you can afford a reasonably priced cottage, you've got what it takes to afford an island.

Love, love, love J.Lo's outfit for the Vogue/VH1 Fashion Awards. She looks like a naughty French schoolgirl. Perhaps she will be the one to redeem the beret. (Diana, as some of you will remember, gave it a valliant try a couple of years ago, but to no avail.)

Why oh why is everyone on MTV so stupid?

Where are they now: a statistical analysis
So my dad called me at work this afternoon to tell me that my grade-school friend Amanda Littlejohn just got engaged to another of our grade-school friends, Kyle. (I'm not sure why my dad found this so pressing, other than he was bored and wanted an excuse to call me at work.) Anyway, this is so cute because Amanda and Kyle used to "go together" in sixth grade, around the time that I was also nursing a major crush on him. (We wrote each other heartfelt letters about this, ultimately deciding that since we had been friends since kindergarten, we couldn't let Kyle come between us. Ah, we were such mature 11-year-olds.)

At any rate, this news has led me to come up with the following slightly humorous, slightly depressing analysis of where all of my various crushes have ended up.

Number of former crushes who are now engaged, married and/or separated: 6 (alarmingly high number)
Number of former crushes who are now gay: 1 (see yesterday's entry)
Number of former crushes who seemed like they might be gay at the time I had the crush on them: 1
Number of former crushes who were rumored to be gay but now are rumored to be womanizers, leading me to believe that they might be trying to compensate for the first rumor: 1
Number of former crushes who work for the Department of Energy: 1
Number of former crushes in other countries: 4
Number of former crushes I may or may not have seen riding by in a horse-drawn carriage in Savannah last month: 1
Number of former crushes about whom I do not know marital status, sexual orientation or whereabouts and could frankly not care less: around 30, I would guess

The recipe for an (almost) perfect evening
Leftover veggie pizza from The Mill, a glass of Riverboat Red from Les Bourgeois (both courtesy of Laura Bruegge, who is a goddess), and my favorite episode of Felicity (the one where she decides she's going to sleep with Noel so she pencils it into her planner, buys a book entitled "Gimme an O" and learns how to properly put on a condom, all of which results in them not sleeping together but instead nearly burning down their dorm; also, Elena wears a headband as a skirt; hilarity!).

In other news, Eric broke up with Jill. He had this assessment to offer: "I had all of the disadvantages of having a girlfriend without any of the advantages. Honestly, I'm not that upset about it." Ahhh...he is so level-headed. He is the one who just broke up with someone, yet I am the one crying, diving into the wine and playing Tina Turner's "When the Heartache Is Over" on a loop on my Winamp. This is, as I once said when I was still dating a certain non-straight someone, another drop of Chardonnay in my glass of black flies.

Must. Get. Over. This.

A little too ironic
Although I did say in my last post that I wanted to marry a gay man, I consider it to be a cruel twist of irony that I found out this weekend that my first love and so-called soul mate is not only gay, but also has a boyfriend and a dog.

The funny thing is, I always thought he was a cat person. But then again, I always thought he was straight, too, and I was obviously wrong about that.

Eric is walking around in a muscle T and eating sausages. Like, could he get any grosser? That's it. I am marrying a gay man. I don't care if I have to forego sex; I would do so gladly for someone who walks around in Prada and eats canapés.

Ways that living with Eric is different than living with Diana
Now instead of someone stealing my Glamour as soon as it comes in the mail, I have someone stealing my Esquire and Rolling Stone. But at least Eric doesn't complain endlessly about how trashy Esquire and Rolling Stone are, only to snatch it up before I even have a chance to see who's on the cover.

Caustic, yet not sensual
In case the sarcasm on this blog isn't enough for you, try Holly. Then Doug. And if that's still not enough, try this.

Trapped in a car with wholesome Midwesterners, or How I spent my Saturday afternoon
Eric's parents were in town yesterday, which meant a lot of wholesome, Midwestern-type fun that I got dragged along for. The fun included a) driving around the town of Helena, Alabama endlessly, trying to find a craft fair that ultimately did not exist and b) driving/hiking around Oak Mountain State Park (which we had to pay $8 just to get into...an outrage, if you ask me) trying to find a waterfall, which would have been worth the effort had I not been wearing flip-flops at the time.

I shouldn't complain though, because they did take me to brunch at my suggested restaurant, a darling little place called Crepes Egg-Cetera where they play Frank Sinatra and have a little coffeemaker on every table. I don't think the Chaneys were digging the Crepes Egg-Cetera vibe, however, because as my mouth was watering over the choices of raspberry crepes and cheese blintzes, they were bemoaning the lack of meat and/or eggs on the menu.

Ah, touché, Mr. Marciniak
This is probably the type of thing I would say if I were to sit around in a wood-paneled library, talking about golf and fountain pens. Which I don't. And neither does anyone else I know who reads Esquire. Which suggests to me that Mr. Needham has never actually read his "guilty-pleasure read," or if he did, it was in 1938.

I'll admit that his Esquire slam was not as harsh as some I've heard. (Laurie Abraham, executive editor of Elle, told us when we visited her magazine that "Esquire is the loser of the magazine industry." She explained this by saying, "It's good journalism and everything, but they're just hemorrhaging money." Now we know, if there was ever any doubt, what Elle's priorities are.) It's just that I don't think it would be such a bad thing for ol' Ed to pretend that he actually has some class by admitting to reading Esquire.

Oh my sweet Ryan Adams
I must now begrudgingly give Rolling Stone props for including that absolutely adorable picture of Ryan Adams in its Q&A section. He is so utterly smoochable. Next time, though, I wish they would put him on the cover instead of a shirtless Keith Richards, who has not been even remotely smoochable for about 30 years.

Ralph Fiennes nudity is a beautiful thing.

Take that, Ed!
So I read a Q&A with Ed Needham, the new managing editor of Rolling Stone, in the August issue of Folio, in which he says that he would be embarassed if anyone ever caught him reading Esquire.

Well, guess what, Ed? I'd be embarassed if anyone ever caught me reading Rolling Stone! And maybe if RS had just an ounce of the journalistic prowess Esquire does, people wouldn't go around talking about how much it sucks. I will not be renewing my subscription. (Not that I was going to renew it anyway, but still. In fact, the only reason why I renewed last year is because I think Rob Sheffield is one of the funniest people on Earth and I am totally in love with him. Rob, if you're reading, this rant directed toward Rolling Stone is in no way aimed at you, and in fact, I thought they were bastards for yanking your column. You should really go work for Esquire.)

I simply cannot stand to hear Esquire dissed by magazines that are so far inferior. People at Elle and GQ both dissed Esquire when we visited their offices in New York, and for that reason, and also for the reason that they're not really that good, I will never subscribe to Elle or GQ. I nearly cried when I found out that Michael Paterniti had left Esquire for GQ this past winter. And just because they offered him more money. Have you no soul, Michael Paterniti?

Here's another magazine I will never subscribe to again: Vanity Fair. The useless celebrity interviews; boring, rambling historical stories that are nevertheless teased interestingly on the cover; unimaginative photos by people who are supposed to be the best of the best (side tangent: What is so great about Annie Leibovitz? Her only talent, as far as I can tell, is being able to get a bunch of famous people to stand still in one room.); and the mountain of heavy-paper-stock ads, blow-in cards and other things that make it impossible to actually turn the pages of the magazine: these are not the reasons why I will never again subscribe to Vanity Fair.

The reason is that, as some of you may know, I have been engaged in a battle with the Vanity Fair subscription department for more than a year. It all started when I subscribed in April of 2001, then realized that I did not have enough money to pay my bill. Still, VF was nice enough to send me my April and May issues. However, when I finally did get enough money to pay in June, they responded by refusing to send me my June issue with J.Lo on the cover. I did receive issues through the rest of the summer and fall, so I thought things were fine. But in December, no issue with Brad Pitt on the cover. I did get the Tom Cruise issue in January, but then the issues stopped coming altogether. I decided not to investigate because, for the reasons listed above, I did not really feel it was worth it.

The one valuable thing I did get from my VF subscription was an offer to get a year of The New Yorker for $30. It was for this reason that I decided to buy a subscription for Nikki for her birthday in April 2002. Things have been going smoothly until recently, when I inexplicably received the October issue with Madonna on the cover. Apparently VF now thinks that I have a subscription that ends in December 2002 because they have been sending me approximately 4 renewal notices a week. Today I actually received TWO renewal notices from them in the mail. How, I ask, is it possible to receive two renewal notices in one day for a magazine that one does not even subscribe to in the first place?

Vanity Fair, I wash my hands of you. I will not subscribe to your magazine again, nor will I buy gift subscriptions for my friends. In fact, I will not even buy it on the newsstand for fear that you will somehow think this means I have a subscription. I know, however, that you will probably still send me renewal notices for AS LONG AS I LIVE.

Still hooked after all these years
Embarassing as it may be, it gives me a strange sense of contentment to know that I am still as obsessed with Dawson's Creek at 22 as I was at 17, despite not having watched it regularly the entire four years of college. It's as if, even with all of the new friends, experiences, etc. I had at college, one thing in my life has remained constant. (Of course, it helped that one of these new friends was Kristen, who was also obsessed with Dawson's Creek, and enabled my habit as best she could during our college years.)

Of course, it does make me feel incredibly old knowing that Dawson, Joey & Co. were sophomores in high school when I first started watching, and now they're sophomores in college. Why can't everything just be like The Baby-Sitters Club, where they stayed in 8th grade for like 10 years and no one cared?

Her-what?
This afternoon, I overheard a phone conversation between my co-worker Tina and her boyfriend on the pronunciation of "Hermes." Tina was apparently trying to correct her boyfriend, who I assume was pronouncing it "Her-mees." Only she was pronouncing it "Air-mass." Literally. I thought she was talking about the weather until I heard her spell it for him.

Just for the record, the only reason I know how to pronounce Hermes (which would be [Choking French H sound]air-mays) is from watching The Princess Diaries.

A deep thought
Here's something to ponder: Is it possible that Adrian's blog will one day become so accessible that it is actually inaccessible?

My air conditioner decided to celebrate the first day of October by suddenly, inexplicably refusing to produce air. F*&%!ng Alabama.

Part of an actual conversation I just had with Nikki, during which she was telling me about her new cat:

Clare: Hello?
Nikki: Help me think of names for my new cat!
Clare: Aaawww, you got a cat??
Nikki: Yeah, I just got it tonight, [cooing] aww, sleepy baby...[more cooing]
Clare: Nikki. You are talking to me now, not the cat.
Nikki: Sorry, it's just that I thought I might have killed it on the way home.
Clare: What?!
[Nikki's other phone rings]
Nikki: Hold on.
Clare: OK.
Nikki [into other phone]: Hello? No, I don't like that one. I'm talking to Clare now. Bye.
Nikki [back on phone]: OK.
Clare: Who was that?
Nikki: Oh, it was my parents. They keep calling up and suggesting stupid cat names.
Clare: What about Mr. Darcy? I thought that's what you wanted to name it.
Nikki: My parents thought Mr. Darcy was a stupid cat name. And the German foreign exchange student hated it for some reason.
Clare: What German foreign exchange student??
Nikki: Didn't I tell you, there's some random German living in my parents' house for a year.
Clare: Where did he come from??
Nikki: Germany.

You know what really sucks? Having a mildly bad day at work, then going to the store straight after work to pick up some milk, only to hear a cheesy Amy Grant song on the loudspeaker that reminds me of my past romantic failures.

Today is the first day of October, which I celebrated by going swimming. God bless Alabama.