My Own Planet

These blogs sure are handy!
Last night, I was telling one of my friends this story, and I had to look it up on my blog to remember the details correctly. Now, in my defense, I had had a couple of glasses of wine at the time, but still. When you can't recall something that happened a mere six months ago, to the point that you're forced to consult your blog? That's just sad.

An unexpected doppelganger
Last night, since President Bush had the audacity to interrupt The O.C. with his little press conference (like, would it have killed him to pre-empt The Simple Life: Interns instead?), I had to settle for the next best thing to an actual O.C. fix: reading the new issue of Glamour with Mischa Barton on the cover.

It was during this inferior prime-time activity that I discovered just how similar Mischa Barton and I actually are, save the fact that I’m probably about twice her size (isn’t almost everyone, really?) and the fact that, if given the opportunity, I’d like to think that I would be able to act my way out of a paper bag. But the similarities; oh, they are uncanny! Witness:

Mischa’s favorite bargain-shopping stores are H&M and Topshop. Same here—or at least they were when I lived in London. Not being an overrated ingénue myself, I’m not exactly able to pop over to London at the same frequency as Mischa.

Mischa’s favorite exercise machine is the elliptical trainer. Only she identifies the elliptical trainer as her favorite form of exercise, period, which…not so much for me. But if I’m forced to work out on a machine, it’s definitely at the top of my list.

Mischa's favorite travel destination is Paris. Again, she probably gets there a lot more often than I do.

Mischa loves to cook breakfast foods. As you all may recall, I also love cooking breakfast foods—so much, in fact, that I’ve been known to dedicate entire seasons to them.

See what I mean? It’s like I could be Mischa Barton. In which case I guess that means I would be going to the gynecologist by myself.

Janice Dickinson’s Quote of the Week
This is not so much a quote as it is…yeah, I’m not sure there are words for what this was.

Tyra: This is how you do passion. Come on, Janice let’s do it together.
Janice: I’ll show you passion!
[Janice grabs Tyra’s head and plants a kiss on her, then tackles her to the floor and begins humping her.]

You know, if this were an actual quote, I would be tempted to declare it my favorite of the season, if not the whole series. It looks like Paula Abdul finally gave Janice her drugs back. (Or at least some of them. Judging by last night’s results show, during which Paula…I don’t know, made out with Constantine’s mom or something, she kept a nice little stash for herself.)

Hey, speaking of making out
There was a lot of it going on last night on television, apparently. During a commercial break on ANTM, I flipped over to Lost, where I saw what might have been the hottest kiss ever—and that includes ones that I myself have participated in. Having never seen this show before, I’m not sure what the circumstances of the kiss were; I only know that after it was over, Scraggly Long-Haired Guy (I know that’s not a great description when it comes to this show) said something about not having medicine, which caused Surprisingly Dewy Brunette to slap him. Awesome.

So, as amusing as the Janice/Tyra and Paula/Constantine’s mom make-out sessions were, they were put to shame by the very, very sexy one on Lost. I think maybe I’ve been watching the wrong shows, at least kissing-wise.

Another lyrical mistake uncovered!
As is the case with most bland "rock" songs that have worked their way into my subconscious through excessive repetition on the radio, I had blessedly managed to completely forget about Nickelback's "How You Remind Me." That is, until Constantine Maroulis's performance of it last night on American Idol, which served to highlight yet another lyrical mistake that probably wouldn't have come to my attention otherwise. (What do you know? I guess Constantine is good for something after all!)

Actual lyric: Living with me must have damn near killed you
Lyric heard by me: Little Women must have damn near killed you

Now, I know what you're thinking, but come on! My version is totally plausible. I mean, Little Women did damn near kill me. When Beth died? And when Laurie got together with Amy (Amy!) instead of Jo? Actually, now that I think about it, I like my version of the lyric better. Which means Constantine is still pretty much good for nothing.

The most amazing thing I saw last night on The Amazing Race
You know how sometimes you say things without thinking about how they're going to sound, and then once they're out of your mouth, you're completely horrified by what you've just said? Yeah, I was pretty sure, after seeing the preview of Kelly's "you were a POW just so you could get out of the military" comment last week, that it was one of those situations.

But, watching the entire incident play out this week, I discovered that it so wasn't. Kelly didn't seem to feel any remorse whatsoever about the implications of her comment, which suggests to me that she's either a) kind of slow, and didn't realize what a horrible thing she said, or b) is a raging psycho bitch who actually believes her boyfriend willingly threw himself over enemy lines because he's a commitment phobe. You decide.

Also, no matter what your feelings are toward Rob, I think we can all agree that last night's "pride goeth before a fall" moment was infinitely satisfying. Although, given their apparent inability to find...well, anything, Rob's "blind leading the blind" comment might not have been so out of place, at least where Meredith and Gretchen are concerned.

Oops, I did it again
Hey, remember when I did this? Yeah, I somehow managed to repeat this incident again this morning, although not quite as severely and therefore without all the drama about nearly dying. But still...ouch.

Special guest star
As I continue to recover from my trip, I'm turning the blog over to a very special guest: Kate, who this weekend gave me what will undoubtedly go down in history as The Best Birthday Card Ever (With the Notable Exception of the Card I Gave Her for Her Birthday Freshman Year). Drawing inspiration from our newfound moonlighting careers as teen-magazine quiz writers, Kate designed my card in the form of a quiz, which I have secured permission to reprint here in full.

But before I do, I would just like to issue the following public service announcement: Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to travel with super glue in your makeup bag. I'm sure none of you need to be told why this is a bad idea, but apparently I should have been.

Now, on with the quiz!

How Well Do You Know Clare?
(Answer true or false)

1. If Clare had her own fab swimsuit line, it would so be called Razorblade Marshmallow.

2. Clare's fantasy career? Documentary filmmaker, of course!

3. Kristy Thomas is Clare's BSC soul sister.

4. On a rainy/sad day, Clare turns on her Tori Amos and Sarah McLachlan tunes.

5. If Clare missed anthro, she was playing hooky so she wouldn't miss Plinko on The Price Is Right.

6. Clare's other fantasy career? Mermaid.

7. One of Clare's fave books is Atlas Shrugged.

8. Clare's ultimate dream pet is a dog named Howie.

9. Cadbury eggs totally bring out Clare's sweet tooth.

10. Clare is totally crushing on Frank Sinatra.

Answer key: Hello! They're all true!

What your score says about you:
8-10 correct: Martin Maven
You're definitely in Clare's inner circle.

4-7 correct: Close Bud
You read Clare's blog, that's for sure.

0-3 correct: Clare Novice
Clueless. Totally clueless.

All grows up
Lately, it seems that I’ve picked up a habit of wanting to keep things that belong to my friends when they move to different cities. Maybe this is a desire to help them out as they’re frantically trying to sell their worldly possessions before the big move, maybe it’s a desire to have something nearby that reminds me of them; likely it’s a combination of both. First it was Sallie’s entertainment center, which I inherited when she moved to L.A. Now, as Danielle prepares to move to New York, I’ve managed to take/buy several things from her that I only marginally need, including four books, a silverware tray, and a tiny little Tupperware container that is probably too small to be of any practical use but is still really cute.

However, the largest item from my Danielle-moving-to-New-York inheritance is a plant. My first plant. I’ve actually been considering getting a plant for a while, figuring that I should start out on “plant” before working my way up to “pet.” But I was stymied by the fact that, knowing absolutely nothing about plants, I a) wasn’t sure what kind of plant would be suitable to my needs, and b) was afraid I would pull a Brian on it. (Sorry, Brian.) However, when Danielle told me that her plant needed minimal watering and only required a bit of sunlight each day, I knew I had found my plant soul mate, so to speak.

So now I have a plant of my own, which I have to take care of and try not to kill. I’m like an actual grown-up. Scary.

Au revoir, bitches!
Yeah, that hasn’t really caught on the way I thought it would. Anyway, being the glamorous jet-setter I am, I’m off on another worldly adventure, this time to Texas, where I will write a travel story for one of our magazines, spend some quality time with Kate, and possibly continue in my endeavor to make “Au revoir, bitches!” my new catch phrase. We’ll see about that last one.

The Dangers of Cell Phone Usage: A Cautionary Tale
Friends, today I am going to tell you about a very grave danger that will inevitably befall all cell phone users. I’m not talking about the possibility of getting cancer from radiation, or getting into an accident because you’re distracted while talking, or annoying other people in a public location, or garnering the ire of Dave. As you are about to see, the situation I shall relate is much, much more traumatizing.

I am talking, of course, about the fact that you will no longer know anyone’s phone number.

Now, you may not think this is a bad thing. I certainly didn’t at first. The convenience of having the contact information of my friends and family at my fingertips without ever having to write anything down seemed like a positive thing. Plus, since I no longer had to memorize phone numbers, there would be room in my brain for more important stuff, such as lyrics to songs I never liked in the first place yet somehow managed to memorize anyway after hearing them on the radio ad nauseam.

However, I am here to tell you that this is in fact not good thing. Recently, my cell phone display just suddenly decided to quit working. The phone is still fully functional; I just can’t see any of the information (i.e. phone numbers) stored within. I guess if I had thought to memorize the order of the names in my phone book, I could still use it, but I didn’t quite have such foresight, and therefore I’m hesitant to try this for fear of attempting to call the restaurant around the corner to order takeout and getting my grandfather in Texas instead.

So now the only people I can call are those whose phone numbers I have memorized (which pretty much amounts to…my parents) or those who have at some point sent me an e-mail telling me their phone number (assuming the e-mail was sent fairly recently and has not yet been deleted from my account). So if you don’t hear from me for a while…well, now you know why.

Zen and the art of cupcake frosting
If you happen to run into me this weekend, chances are I will have a plate of red velvet cupcakes in my hand. I made two dozen this morning, and I plan to take them to every event--a yard sale (this morning) and two birthday parties (one tonight, one tomorrow night)--on my social calendar this weekend.

I hadn't realized before this morning how soothing frosting cupcakes can be. Much like operating an excavator, the repetitive motion of the act lulls you into a sort of meditative trance. However, unlike operating an excavator, when you're done frosting cupcakes, you get to eat the leftover frosting. Mmm.

Janice Dickinson’s Quote of the Week
“Au revoir, bitches!” –Janice to the girls as they left the judging room

As Janice Dickinson quotes go, this one’s not that spectacular, except for the fact that it has inspired me to make “Au revoir, bitches!” my new catch phrase. I think I can pull it off, don’t you?

So how awesome was the much-anticipated Tyra freak-out? Pretty awesome, I think, although it did strike me as a bit self-righteous to get mad at someone for not crying when you’ve just kicked her off of your reality show. Whatever, Tyra.

Also, apparently none of the girls read my blog entry dated October 2, 2002, in which I instructed everyone on how to correctly pronounce Hermes. I realized some time ago, however, that my pronunciation was actually incorrect (the correct pronunciation, as exhibited by Nigel last night, is [choking French H sound]air-mezz), but I was a hell of a lot closer than any of those girls.

I take that back
Yesterday, I left a comment on Rachel’s blog, saying that I wish my office, like hers, had an American Idol pool. Last night, I was again reminded why it is not generally a good idea for me to bet on reality shows.

Because if I’d had to pick a winner back when the Top 12 was first chosen, I probably would’ve picked Nadia. (Actually, I think I would have picked Mario, in which case I’d really be in trouble.) She was, hands-down, my favorite performer in the competition, and although, as the weeks went on, I became less and less convinced that she could actually win, I certainly thought she’d last longer than, say, Scott “Thug or Teddy Bear? You Decide” Savol or Anthony “The Poor Man’s Clay Aiken” Federov.

But whatever. As Ryan always says, “If you don’t vote, you can’t complain.” To which I say, “Shove it, Ryan. I’m too lazy to be bothered to vote this year, but I’m damn well going to complain. Nadia did not deserve to be voted off this early in the show, and the fact that she was suggests to me that the American public is either a) stupid, b) deaf, or c) watching a completely different show than I am. So there.”

In conclusion…uh, au revoir, bitches!

This is why I don’t drink tea
You know, I can appreciate the…if not irony, then uncanny coincidence, in the fact that I just ruined several proofs for our tea magazine by accidentally knocking over a cup of tea on my desk. But it doesn’t make the fact that I now have tea trapped in my keyboard any easier to take.

The most amazing thing I saw last night on The Amazing Race
All right. Can someone tell me what was up with the overly enthusiastic reception of Meredith and Gretchen at the gas station clue box? I’ve come up with a few theories:

1) Meredith and Gretchen are secretly rock stars, but they’re only popular in India (much like Uncle Jesse from Full House was only big in Japan).
2) On the basis of her somewhat regal wave, Gretchen might actually be a descendant of Indian royalty.
3) Everyone knew Meredith and Gretchen were the last team, and they were celebrating the fact that those crazy Americans with their camera crews were finally going to stop backing up traffic on their streets.
4) The locals saw a video camera and just assumed they should start asking for autographs—the same thing probably happened to the other teams; the editors just chose not to show it because it’s much funnier to watch the old people fend off Indian autograph-seekers.
5) The citizens of Lucknow decided that they wanted Meredith and Gretchen eliminated from the race, so they banded together to attempt to delay them as much as possible.

Personally, although I think option 4 is the most likely, I’m really pulling for the first one.

Revenge of the nerds
I heard an interview this morning on NPR with Adrian’s boss, in which he referred to his team of Web programmers (presumably including Adrian) as “our nerds.” That made me smile.

How pathetic am I?
As loath as I am to admit it, I am a slave to routine. Sometimes I can get so ingrained in a routine that it will take me months to realize how…well, routine my life has become. For some indeterminate amount of time that is likely around 6 months, my routine has been thus: Get up, eat cereal (Publix Crispy Corn and Rice with 1 percent milk), get ready for work, go to work, work/waste time on Internet, eat lunch (soup, apples, and yogurt), walk around lake behind office, work some more/waste more time on Internet, work out in office gym, go home, eat dinner, watch TV/do freelance work, take shower, go to bed. Repeat as necessary for remainder of week.

Even my weekends seem to settle into their own routines, which usually involve sleeping in, making pancakes, going to the library, watching movies I’ve checked out from the library (or TV shows I have on DVD), hanging out with my friends, talking on the phone to friends who live far away, doing my grocery shopping for the week, doing freelance work, doing laundry (if necessary), and/or tidying up my apartment.

So, needless to say, when my nice little routines get messed up, the effect is that it throws my entire life a little off-kilter. A change as small as drinking 2 percent milk instead of 1 percent (like, can someone tell me why Piggly Wiggly does not make half-gallons of 1 percent milk? I really don’t think that’s too much to ask) is enough to throw things a little off balance, so you can imagine the effect that interrupting the routine for two weeks with things like going home to play with puppies, going to Paris, and having my parents in town for the weekend might have. The complete and total annihilation of my routine has left me so out of sorts that even the simplest tasks, such as making cupcakes, have become so challenging that they are actually impossible. (In my defense, the cupcakes I was trying to make were sugar-free, which requires considerably more thought than just regular, sugar-filled cupcakes. Still, it shouldn’t have been that hard.)

I’m hoping I’ll have enough free time this weekend in order to fall back in line with my old routine (or, better yet, start a new routine, because I really was getting kind of sick of the old one). In the meantime, I’m just concentrating on accomplishing the few tasks I can. Like posting pictures from my trip, which you can now find right here.

More truths (uncovered this weekend)
-When you have dial-up Internet, uploading 90 pictures can take awhile. So if you were expecting pictures from my France trip soon...uh, don't. (Just kidding! I'm working on them. Really. They could even be up as soon as tomorrow.)

-While undoubtedly an excellent workout, the stairs of Montmartre in Paris are not adequate preparation for the hills of Little River Canyon in northeast Alabama.

-Skinned knees hurt just as much at age 25 as they do at age 5. In fact, I think they hurt more.

Undeniable truths uncovered in the past week
Hot Pockets in France (which are still called Hot Pockets, and not Poches Chaud, as you might expect) are much better than Hot Pockets in America. Next time I go to France, I'm taking an extra suitcase and filling it up with Hot Pockets. You might think I'm joking, but I'm not. They're really that much better.

In addition, on the flight back, we received some sort of Hot Pocket-esque snack from Northwest that was also far superior to regular Hot Pockets. How did the original Hot Pocket come to suck so much in comparison to its counterparts? I'm not sure, but Hot Pockets might want to consider making some changes around here. And I mean changes bigger than just the new soft-bread "sub" crust (which is what I'm eating right now), because that's just not cutting it.

C’est si bon
I’m back. Finally. I say “finally” because getting home involved more forms of transportation than I care to count, and also because it was a really long trip. Not a long trip like, Oh my God, this trip is so long; is it ever going to be over? but more like, Wow, this trip is so long that I’m kind of starting to forget what my life was like before I came on it…and that’s not necessarily such a bad thing.

Being pretty much completely cut off from life as you know it for more than a week can be kind of odd, especially now that we live in the age of cell phones and e-mail and 24-hour news. While I was off eating pain au chocolat, drinking way too much vin and biere and perfecting my Franglais, blissfully unaware, things were changing that I knew nothing about. Gas prices went up another 10 cents. The pope died. The leaves came out on all the trees. Some of you probably got married and had babies. Seriously, that’s how long it feels like I’ve been gone.

Somehow, this seems like a fitting way to mark the passing of the first quarter-century of my life. I didn’t have as much time for introspection as I would have liked on this trip, but when Jeff and I were in Tours, eating frozen pizza and drinking cheap wine in our institutional-style hostel digs, I was struck by a thought: This was me five years ago, too. I guess I thought that within the span of five years, I would have had some concrete evidence that I’d moved up or on or somewhere, at least, but I didn’t, and I found it kind of upsetting. I shared this thought with Jeff, and he pointed out that I was still in France, and therefore I was pretty damn lucky. And I had to agree.

Introspection aside, you may have guessed that this trip is a story better told in pictures (and also possibly videos, if Jeff can figure out how to get them off of his phone and onto the Web), because it would require far too many words otherwise (and getting just this many words out under the fog of jet lag is quite a feat). Of course, some things, such as our translation of Salt N Pepa’s “Let’s Talk About Sex” into French, can’t be captured in pictures, but you’ll get the basic idea. Or you will in a few days, once I finally get them downloaded from my camera.

Until then, au revoir! (The Franglais is hard to stop.)