My Own Planet

I wonder sometimes
Why anyone would pay good money for a dominatrix when they can just attend the Wednesday-night kickboxing class at my local Y. Seriously, I often walk into the class and am surprised to find that the teacher is not actually holding a whip.

The start of my illustrious career
So those of you who have known me for some time know that it has been a lifelong dream of mine to one day become a hand model, a la George on the “puffy shirt” episode of Seinfeld. I figure the exorbitant amount of money I’ll pull in as a highly sought-after hand model will help finance all of my other career aspirations, such as swimwear designer, magazine mogul, documentary filmmaker, and mermaid.

I figured I should start building up my portfolio if I am ever to rocket to international fame. Which is why I’ve been begging our photo stylists for months to use me whenever they take any photo requiring a hand (which actually happens more than you think). Finally, finally, today I got my big break.

My job was to hold an apple in my hand. This was harder than it sounds. I had to keep my fingers perfectly still after the photographer positioned them and be very careful not to move them without realizing it. I had to take direction like, “Okay, turn your thumb out a little bit.” I had to yell at him when he told me my hand looked like the hand of Gollum from Lord of the Rings in one shot. (What? He’s my co-worker; I can yell at him. It’s not like I’m turning into Naomi Campbell…yet.)

In the end, I came away with a promising start to my hand-modeling portfolio and a newfound respect for all of those girls on America’s Next Top Model. When Tyra finally decides to create an America’s Next Top Hand Model spinoff, I am so there.

Brushes with fame
How often does this happen to you? You’re reading a book (a memoir, it has to be a memoir for this to work), and you come across something that’s really funny or really meaningful to you, and you think to yourself, Hmm, I can totally relate to that. I should write to this author and tell him/her how much I enjoyed that particular anecdote/turn of phrase.

If you’re me, this happens a lot. And if you’re me, you never actually go through with contacting the author, because it’s a long way from the bed at night to the computer the next morning and by then the moment has usually passed, or because you talk yourself out if it by thinking, Why would a busy, famous, best-selling book author care that this particular passage resonated with me, someone he/she doesn’t even know and probably couldn’t care less about?

But when it happened to me again last night as I was reading this book, I suddenly wondered, What would happen if I actually sent that e-mail? I mean, I’m a writer, too. I may not be a famous book author, but you can find my cleverly crafted prose on newsstands around the country, and that’s pretty much the same thing, right? (All right, it’s not. But it’s close.) Besides, I know firsthand how much writers like to receive praise about their writing.

So this morning, I sent the e-mail that I should’ve sent a dozen times before. And what do you know? The author himself wrote back within a couple of hours (via Blackberry, which is how I know he’s famous, because only famous people like Sarah Jessica Parker and Al Gore have Blackberries) with what I choose to believe was a heartfelt expression of gratitude for my comments. (I’m ignoring the part where he asked if I might be able to pimp his book in my magazine.)

Not only did this little exchange totally brighten my day, but it also made me want to go back and write to all those other authors (on the short list: Toby Young, Amy Krouse Rosenthal, Dave Eggers, Haven Kimmel) whose words have touched me and let them know how awesome I think they are.

It’s a bandwagon—jump on!
For some reason, even though I technically discovered 43 Things before Kella, it wasn’t until she and Kristin signed up that I decided I would do it, too. (Perhaps one of my 43 things should be “Think for myself.”) However, even after those two lovely ladies signed up, I had my doubts. I feared that my list would just be a regurgitation of my “30 Things to Do Before I’m 30” list. Of course, then I remembered that, because I had promised myself not to look at said list again before my 30th birthday (as it was more of an idea of where I wanted my life to be at that time rather than a list of things I had to check off as I did them), I didn’t remember half of the things I had put on it. Plus, I didn't have anything better to do with myself last night.

Some of the things on my list may be accomplished this week (hopefully #11, which I’ve been trying to do for about a month now), some may not be accomplished for years, and, let’s face it, some may not be accomplished at all. Some may be deleted, and more will surely be added. (I’m currently five short of the magic number.) But it’s kind of inspiring to have them all written down in this manner, serving as a constant reminder not to get lazy and push most of these things aside. And it’s nice having people I don’t know cheering me on (even though only one person has done so thus far). And I suppose I can learn to live with the fact that there’s no way to make the entire list uniform in capitalization and punctuation because that seems to be determined by the first person who marked the goal down.

I think I just figured out what #39 should be.

Flashback to 1999
How did I ever manage to forget how much fun it is to drive around* with the windows down, singing "Galileo" at the top of your lungs? I'm not sure, but I seem to have remembered just in the nick of time.

*This works best on country roads, but city ones will suffice in a pinch.

Complimentary
One of the purchases I made during my unauthorized Mall of America spending spree was a vintage-looking ‘50’s-style dress with yellow roses all over it. This purchase was completely unjustified, as I have absolutely nowhere to wear it in the conceivable future (although I’m hoping I can manage to pull it off for one of my October weddings, as it will be at the beginning of the month and in Florida, which to me still says “summer”). However, it was half-off and so adorable that I just couldn’t resist.

With no special occasion to which to wear the dress, I decided to wear it to work today. I’m not sure if it’s because I never wear dresses to work, or if it’s just because the dress is that freaking adorable, but I have received no fewer than 10 compliments on it today. I spent $40 on the dress, which figures out to $4 per compliment. And while I would never actually give someone four bucks to compliment me, I have to say that I don’t think this is such a bad deal.

UPDATE: I'm now up to 14 compliments, which has cut the price per compliment to around $2.85. Score! I think all of this is starting to go to my head, though. Now when I see someone who has not yet complimented my dress, I want to say to them, "What is wrong with you? Why aren't you complimenting my dress?!" I think I probably need to go home and change soon.

I came. I saw. I kind of conquered.
Apparently there is another secret to the Semi-Annual Sale. (That Victoria! So many secrets!) This is: If you’re going to go to the sale on the first day, you should have a lot of money to spend on undergarments. Which I don’t. Therefore, I could only by a fraction of what I wanted to buy, which was somewhat disappointing. Still, I was proud of myself for only exceeding by about $4 my self-imposed budget of 20 bucks.

The selection was dizzying. Dizzying, I tell you! In addition to the traditional plastic bins, they also had drawers underneath them filled with even more sale merchandise, a phenomenon I had never witnessed before. Not only that, but the drawers were even semi-organized by color and style. It was almost overwhelming. At one point, I think I had seven pairs of panties strung onto my forearm before one of the salesgirls took pity on me and offered me a bag.

In addition to the lack of funds dilemma, the broad selection presented another conundrum, in that I was tempted to buy items I knew I shouldn’t. For example:

-Boy shorts. These do not look good on me. I learned that the hard way when I bought some at the last Semi-Annual Sale. Also, they give really bad wedgies. You’d think this wouldn’t happen, given the extra amount of coverage they provide, but somehow it does. Plus, I always feel strange wearing them under clothes, like I’m wearing two sets of pants or something. But when I see them in the bin, they’re almost too cute to resist. Especially if they’re pink with red script and little red bows on them. It was hard to put those back.

-Horizontal stripes. If you happen to think your bum is too big, the general wisdom is that it’s not good to cover it in horizontal stripes. And yet I love horizontal stripes, especially in the bright, fun colors that were at the sale yesterday. I finally allowed myself one horizontal-striped item, but only because the stripes were widely spaced and probably won’t do much damage. (And also because they reminded me, as rainbow stripes always do, of my childhood.) However, I did have to give myself a stern talking-to for seriously considering a pair of horizontal-striped boy shorts.

-Sexy lingerie. There are those women who will tell you that wearing sexy undergarments even when you know they won’t be seen is its own personal thrill, but sometimes, I think these women are lying. Because a black mesh bra with hot-pink tulle ruffles? Was clearly made to be seen. And considering that the only people currently seeing my underwear are me, the other women in the locker room at my gym, and anyone who might happen to walk by my apartment and catch a glimpse of me walking around in my underwear before bed (none of whom merit hot-pink tulle ruffles), I really have no need for this kind of stuff, particularly when I’m on a budget.

Now if I can only keep myself from going back to the sale to buy all those items I desperately wanted but wouldn’t let myself have. This could be a challenge.

In praise of cheap underwear
Today is the most wonderful day of the year (or technically, one of the two most wonderful days of the year). No, I’m not talking about the summer solstice, although that makes me smile because it reminds me of how my friend Amanda’s dad used to give her and her sister cards and candy on each solstice and equinox just to be quirky, which I thought was kind of awesome.

Anyway, today has earned the distinction of being one of the two most wonderful days of the year because it is the first day of the Victoria’s Secret Semi-Annual Sale, at which one can find a plethora of cute undergarments at scandalously low prices. Today is especially happy for me, as I have missed the last two Semi-Annual Sales—last summer’s because I was unemployed, and last winter’s because it started insanely early. (Seriously. They usually start in January, but I went to the mall two days after Christmas last year, and the only thing left was some sort of underwear that had to be tied on, which is just waaay too high-maintenance for me.)

Some people find the Semi-Annual Sale frustrating, digging through bins of undergarments, most of which, let’s face it, are pretty ugly (why else would they be on sale?), hoping to unearth that one gem that makes the search worthwhile. But I love it. This is quite possibly because I have discovered the secret. Yes, the secret. Victoria’s secret. This is: Go on the very first day, when the selection is good and the bins are still relatively organized. (Yeah, that’s the secret. No one ever said it was a big secret.) And so, after work today, I shall embark on a quest for the cutest, cheapest undergarments money can buy. Oh, happy day!

Holmes, Holmes on the brain*
How successful has the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes media blitz been? So successful that Ryan Adams is even mentioning it in his concert patter. Of course, he also talked about robotic dolphins (yeah, I don't know), and he seemed to think we were actually at South by Southwest (we weren’t), so this may not count in light of the fact that he didn’t really seem to be all there.

Since I last saw him in concert (four years ago with Leona Naess, who bears an uncanny resemblance, both in appearance and musical style, to his current touring partner, Rachael Yamagata), Ryan Adams seems to have gotten freakishly skinny, let his hair grow rather long, and started wearing glasses. He actually looked a lot like Beck. Given all the talk about robotic dolphins and the like, I began to wonder if maybe he was Beck. But then he smashed his guitar at the end of the concert, so I knew he was Ryan Adams.

While we’re on the subject, Rachael Yamagata? Is awesome. During her set, someone threw her a Montgomery Biscuits T-shirt (the guys standing behind me claimed the shirt was theirs, but I’m not sure if this is true or not, as they were not the actual throwers of the shirt), which she changed into and wore for the rest of her performance. Which was a good thing, because her original outfit consisted of a baby-blue satin tank top accompanied by a strange vest thing that I still do not completely comprehend.

*I've been dying to use this title for about two months now.

Well, so much for that
So far, my eating-healthy-on-the-weekend resolution is getting off to an absolutely abysmal start. In addition to my requisite bowl of cereal, I have already today eaten half of a Panera Cinnamon Crunch bagel with cream cheese, a small slice of chocolate cake, two chocolate chip cookies, a five-piece box of chicken nuggets from Wendy’s, and some fries I pilfered from my dad’s value meal. And it looks as if my nourishment this evening will be composed solely of sushi and, let’s face it, beer. (What am I supposed to do? They go so well together!)

Why is eating healthy on the weekend so hard? Moreover, why is it that I feel the need to eat whatever free food is offered to me, no matter if I want it or not, as if it will be my last chance to ever eat food again?

I’ve also just realized that most of my entries of late have been about what I eat and/or dream (save the occasional car accident). Man, I really need to get a life. Or at least start watching more TV again.

Anywhere but here
Last night, I had a dream that I was on some sort of school trip in New York, and I was really, really excited to go to the Magnolia Bakery and get a cupcake. While a bunch of other people went into some building to do some unspecified thing, my friend Scott and I were waiting on the street, and he mentioned that he had no idea how to read the Tube map, at which point I started jumping up and down and yelling, “I love the Tube map! I used to have it memorized!” (Sadly, this is not too far from what my actual reaction would be if confronted with this situation in real life.) So…I guess New York had morphed into London or something? Or else we were in some sort of New York-London hybrid, which would be really awesome, because it would mean I could eat a Magnolia Bakery cupcake while navigating the Tube.

Anyway, the point is that this dream has left me with an intense longing to be in either one of these cities right now. And also to eat a cupcake.

A lot like love
You know how people (one of them might have been Harry in When Harry Met Sally) say that being in love means that the other person is the last thing you think about before you go to bed and the first thing you think about when you wake up? Well, I realized last night that, if this is true, I may very well be in love. With my cereal.

Every night as I snuggle into bed, I look toward the kitchen and think of the satisfying crunch and wholesome goodness that await me the next morning. And when I wake up, my thought process often goes like this: “Ugh, do I really have to get up? Oooh, cereal.”

Given this new realization, I am now considering marrying my cereal in a PeeWee-Herman-and-the-fruit-salad-esque ceremony. Be checking your mailboxes for invitations.

Yum
This girl knows her fruit. Cinnamon mangoes are fabulous, not that I expected otherwise. I mean, you’ve got cinnamon and you've got mangoes. What more could you want?

Yesterday, I received some ginger lip gloss in the mail. (Actually, it’s called “stimulating lip lube,” but that just sounds dirty.) Now I’m bemoaning the fact that I have no one to kiss, because this stuff is really too good to keep to myself. So I’m accepting applications from anyone willing to help me test out the new ginger lip gloss. Please inquire in person. Special consideration will be given to applicants who are Joshua Jackson.

Yuck
Fresh on the heels of TomKat, Brangelina, and my own personal creation, Kennée, comes the latest in reprehensible celebrity name combinations: Scartnett. I believe MSN actually is responsible for this atrocity, as they took it upon themselves to apologize for it. And yes, for those of you wondering, “Scartnett” is the unhappy union resulting from the blossoming relationship between Scarlett Johansson and Josh Hartnett. (Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Dave. Although I have to say, “Scarlexander” doesn’t really have the same ring to it. But chin up! I have great hope that “Keirave” may one day catch on.)

Again, I am both astounded and frightened by my own apparent prowess in the celebrity name-combining arena. Perhaps I could get a job with MSN.

If you are what you eat…I’m in trouble
During the past few days, I have come to the startling realization that my weekend eating habits are positively atrocious. Now, I’ve always known that they left much to be desired, what with all the pancakes and the eating out and the not going to the grocery store until Sunday and therefore having to either starve or create random meals from the paltry contents of my refrigerator (or, alternately, going to the store on Saturday and eating most of my groceries before the weekend is over). But it wasn’t until this weekend that I suddenly realized how bad they really are, particularly when compared with my semi-healthy (i.e., plenty of water, small portions, and at least some fruits and/or vegetables present each day) diet during the week.

To illustrate just how bad things have gotten (and with the hope that, upon reading this in the future, I will never let things get this bad again), I present a complete list of everything I ingested this weekend. (Note: If you have a weak stomach, I would stop reading now.)

Friday
Breakfast: Cereal
Snack: Reduced Fat Cheez-Its and dried apricots
Lunch: A few bites of frozen Chinese food that was meant for a photo shoot, which I managed to beg off our food editor because I had nothing else to eat
Snack: Beer and some wasabi peas
Dinner: Lots of chips and salsa, two chicken enchiladas with sour cream, plus three (approximate number) margaritas
After dinner: Another beer, a sip of Red Bull, plus too many sips to count of Long Island iced tea

Saturday
Breakfast (at 1 p.m., it is worth noting): Cereal
Lunch: Roadrunner Raspberry lowfat frozen yogurt
Dinner: Shrimp quesadilla (again, with sour cream), two beers, two (again, approximate) glasses of sangria

Sunday
Breakfast: McDonald’s sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit (As I had no milk left for cereal, it was either that or starve. Next time, I think I’ll starve.)
Lunch: Shrimp salad, Wheat Thins with bacon/cheese spread, a cucumber sandwich, a few cherry tomatoes, two chocolate-dipped strawberries, a petit four, and punch (at Sallie’s bridal shower)
Dinner: One-third of a bag of popcorn, some wasabi peas, a bowl of macaroni and cheese, and two glasses of wine

If your stomach lining is still intact after reading this, congratulations. You’re better off than me. I would write more about my horrible weekend eating habits, but I’ve got to go meet my dad at Wendy's for lunch.

Sliding cars
People always wish that their lives could be more like a movie. The thing is, my life often does remind me of a movie--only, sadly, it's more often the crazy, chaotic middle part of the movie than the happy, love and kisses ending.

Yesterday, in particular, I found myself wondering if I'd suddenly stumbled into a scene from Sliding Doors. For those of you who have been living under a rock (or grew up in a bag, as the case may be) and have never seen the movie, it's basically an exploration of how a tiny, seemingly insignificant detail can alter the course of your day, and even your life.

My own Sliding Doors moment started around lunchtime yesterday, when I went out for my usual walk around the lake. It looked like rain, but I was hoping the weather would hold off until I'd finished my two laps, since that would be my only form of exercise for the day. As I was nearing the end of the first lap, the sky had gotten pretty cloudy and the wind was picking up, but still, I decided to go around a second time. When I was on the far side of the lake (at what could very well be the furthest possible point from any office buildings), the sky opened up. I ran to the nearest building, but it was too late--I was drenched.

I waited for the rain to let up a bit, then trudged back to my own building. Not wanting to spend the remainder of the day in wet clothes, I attempted to cobble together a makeshift outfit from whatever dry clothes I could find. I briefly considered wearing a trenchcoat one of my co-workers had left at her desk as a dress, but I figured that wouldn't go over so well with the uber-religious conservatives in my office. I had a pair of flip-flops in my desk that were left over from a photo shoot, and I managed to find an abandoned top in one of the lockers in our bathroom (which I normally wouldn't have worn, but I was desperate). However, I wasn't able to find any alternate pants, so I was forced to suffer in my wet jeans.

By around 3:30, the wet jeans/air conditioner combo was beginning to get to me, and I couldn't concentrate on anything other than how soon it would be before I could get myself into a warm bath. Since I nearly worked myself to death a few weeks ago, I thought my boss might have mercy on me and agree to let me leave a little bit early, which she did. After wrapping up a few loose ends, I was on my way out the door by 4:00.

I was surprised to see how much traffic was already on the highway, but considering that on Fridays, Birmingham rush hour starts at around 3:00, it wasn't too shocking. Right as I approached my exit, the car in front of me stopped short. I stop short to keep from hitting him. The guy behind me on a motorcycle stops...not so short, and ends up careening into the back of my car and flying off his bike.

I throw my car into park, turn my flashers on, and jump out to see if he's OK. His face is covered in blood, but he's up walking around and assures me that his injuries look a lot worse than they are. I ask if he needs me to call an ambulance, and he says he doesn't. I figure we should at least get a policeman on the scene, so I dial 911 (all the while wondering if I will ever again be able to make it through a year without having to dial 911) to report the accident. They say someone has already called, and the police are on their way.

As we're waiting, I want to do something to help the poor motorcycle guy, but the only thing I have in my car that can be of any service is my rain-soaked sweater, which I have to admit I wasn't too crazy about him bleeding all over. Besides, the woman behind us (who had stopped to offer her services as a witness) had already given him plenty of napkins and kleenex. So I'm basically useless. If this were Lost, I would be Shannon. OK, maybe not Shannon, but definitely not Kate. (Look at me making Lost references, as if I'd actually seen more than one episode of the show.)

Anyway. During the course of the waiting, motorcycle guy reveals that he's just taken the bike out of storage, and so the insurance on it has lapsed. Ouch. He asks if we can forego the filing of a police report. Remembering my last accident, in which the stoplight-running chippie tried to change her story after the fact, I tell him I'm a little wary of doing that. However, since he claims to take full responsibility for the accident, and since there is very little damage to me or my car, and since we have a witness, I agree to just exchange information.

Finally, a squad car pulls up, and out of it steps one of the hottest men I have ever seen in real life. Let me remind you that at this point, my hair is a giant frizzball from having been exposed to the rain, any makeup I had been wearing had been washed off by the earlier downpour, and I was dressed in a skanky hot-pink JC Penney's shirt that was a size too small, plus cheap-ass pink flip flops. Basically, I looked trashier than Britney Spears in all her Cheeto-eating, Red-Bull-drinking splendor. And this is when I get super-hot, young, single cop guy. Perfect.

Anyway, we tell him we don't want to file a report, and he calls a tow truck to come get the guy's motorcycle. We all exchange information (again, I was ill-prepared, and we had to rely on the witness lady for paper and a pen), and then the guy from the DPS who has been trying to manage the traffic everywhere tells witness lady and me that we really should get going while traffic is still slowed down. Witness lady leaves, and motorcycle guy and I say our good-byes and apologies. It is then that I wonder what the appropriate gesture is in this situation. Do you shake hands? That seemed too formal and business-like. He looked so pathetic, all bloody and everything, that I really just wanted to give him a hug, but I felt that would be too intimate. Finally, I settled on a little wave, but that felt wrong, too. I don't recall facing this conundrum during my last wreck, but that's probably because I was trying too hard to keep myself from hauling off and punching the stoplight-running chippie.

As I drove away, I couldn't help but wonder how things would have turned out if I'd decided to only walk one lap around the lake that afternoon. Or if, when walking out the door, I hadn't remembered that I needed to tell the mailroom guy something and gone back into the office. Would the accident still have happened? The point of Sliding Doors is that there are certain things that are meant to happen and therefore will happen, no matter what paths lead you there. So I guess it's possible that this motorcycle guy and I, for whatever reason, were meant to collide yesterday. But we'll never know for sure. My life, after all, isn't really a movie.

Be cool
Last night, I was editing a story for my freelance job on how Birmingham has formed a task force in order to learn how it can be cooler. No, really. Is it just me, or is forming a task force on how to be cool really freaking uncool?

The article was accompanied by a sidebar listing the top 10 coolest cities in the U.S. I wasn't too surprised to find that I have friends who currently live in six of these 10 cities. Often, when I go to visit friends in other cities, I am struck by the thought that the places they live are so much cooler than the place where I live. However, I always thought this was simply because these cities were unfamiliar to me, and were therefore primarily cool because of their newness. But no, apparently there is actual semi-scientific evidence to back this up.

So Scott, Kate, Dave, Diana, Kella (temporarily), Heather, Amber, Adrian, and Nikki--congratulations, you all live in certifiably cool cities. As for the rest of us--I think it might be time to move. Actually, if this whole cool task force thing doesn't pan out and my city doesn't get its act together soon, I'm seriously considering it. And it just so happens that one of my top destinations (San Francisco) is actually the number-one cool city in the U.S. I guess that means I'm cool.

Things you should not do before bed
-Think about a comment you meant to leave on Kristin’s blog
-Read part of Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood

Otherwise, you may have a dream in which you and Kristin plot to rob an IKEA. (Of what, I’m not sure. But since we didn’t leave carrying any cheap, ready-to-assemble Swedish furniture, I assume it was money.) Your plan will go off swimmingly, thanks in part to your ingenious costumes—Kristin dresses as Mickey Mouse, and you dress as something you can’t remember (Mighty Mouse, maybe? Or Modest Mouse? They were on The O.C., which is where this whole mouse leitmotif may have come from), and then you shed your costumes in the ladies’ room after the robbery, allowing you to waltz right by the security guards on your way out. Everything is going great—you’re speeding away as the guards continue to search for you inside the store—except that Kristin has developed an unnatural attachment to her Mickey Mouse costume and wants to go back to get it. You tell her repeatedly that it is not a good idea to go back to the scene of the crime when you’ve made such a clean exit, but she argues that the guards will not have caught on yet, and she can just run in, stuff the costume in her backpack, and run back out. This seems to go fine, except that you run into a previously unencountered security checkpoint on the way to the parking garage. As you near the front of the line, you realize they are looking inside all purses and backpacks, and you turn around to whisper this frantically to Kristin. She tries to play dumb and walk past the security guard with her backpack, but it is to no avail. He looks inside and sees the Mickey Mouse costume, and the jig is up. Suddenly, the two of you are awaiting interrogation, facing the possibility of hard time, and wondering which one of you is going to be the other’s prison bitch…but fortunately, you wake up before such a question has to be resolved.

I’m just glad Katie Holmes wasn’t there.

Memo to the me of five minutes ago
Do not eat that chocolate. You will regret it. I know you think you want it now, and you’ll probably still think that even as you take the first bite, but somewhere between that first bite and the last, you’ll realize it was a mistake. And then what will it be? Too late. Eat an apple instead, because that’s what you really want. Trust me, I know.

Also, for future reference (because I know that in the future, you will likely disregard the advice laid out above), if you are going to eat chocolate, there’s no rule that says you have to eat the biggest piece you can find.

Thanks for your cooperation in this matter.

Sincerely,
You, five minutes later

What would summer be without Brian McFayden?
First of all, let me just say that I did not turn on the television tonight with the intention of becoming addicted to another reality show. In fact, my goal was quite the opposite--I was hoping to bolster my reality-heavy TV diet with a good scripted drama, namely Lost, which I figured I could catch up on through reruns this summer, thereby perfectly poising myself to devour every scintillating moment once the new season starts in the fall.

However, despite what ABC's online schedule told me last week, the second half of the season premiere was not being run tonight, but rather Supernanny and Trista Rehn's latest excuse to whore herself for fame (or, as they prefer to call it, Dancing With the Stars). (Update: As I was typing this, I realized that Lost actually was on, only at 9. Oops.) Anyway. Not about to subject myself to one more minute of Trista's grating baby talk, I was forced to flip the channel.

Which is how I landed on Beauty & the Geek, where I immediately heard the narration of a familiar voice. Why, it was Brian McFayden, my favorite MTV-News-anchor-turned-reality-TV-host! (Not that there are any other MTV-News-anchors-turned-reality-TV-hosts, but you know what I mean.) Suddenly, I was struck with wonder over what Brian McFayden's life must be like: Does he sit around all year, waiting for some random summer reality show that will never make it to a second season to call him and offer him a job? It's certainly starting to look that way.

Be that as it may, I can't willingly distance myself from the adorableness that is Brian McFayden (who, in my opinion, is even more adorable with his new anti-Seacrest shaggy hair), so I decided to watch. And what do you know? It was actually kind of awesome. I mean, I'm pretty much burnt out on reality TV, but there's a girl on there whose caption says she's a life-size Barbie model. A life-size Barbie model! I don't even know what that means, but it sounds very intriguing. Unfortunately, she was eliminated in this episode, so there goes one of my two reasons to tune in next week. But hey, there's still Brian McFayden.

I swear, I am not secretly in love with Tom Cruise
But really, I think the Cruise/Holmes (I refuse to refer to them as “TomKat”) publicity blitz is getting to me. Last night, for the second time in a matter of weeks, I had a dream that Katie Holmes and I were fighting over the same guy. The first time, it was just some random guy, and I didn’t want anyone to find out that I liked him, because honestly, the idea of me trying to compete against Katie freaking Holmes for a guy is pretty ludicrous. However, last night, the guy in question was Joshua Jackson (mmm), and, by some act of God, I seemed to have the advantage. Josh and I were sharing a seat in my parents’ old minivan (which, trust me, was way sexier than it sounds) while Katie looked on jealously. Ha! Take that, Katie!

I only worry that this series of dreams may be leading to one in which Katie and I come to blows over The Cruise. And that has me very frightened.

Recipe for a perfect Sunday
Waking up in the sunlight. Cinnamon-sugar pancakes. Dawson's Creek. Good friends. Long hike. Sweat. Doing handstands in the pool. Making taco salad. Warm clothes straight out of the dryer. Good movie. Cool evening. Windows down. Iron & Wine on the car stereo. Ice cream.

Mix well. Mmmm.

I am not the hellion my father would have you believe I am
Yesterday, I received in the mail a copy of our church's monthly newsletter. In his column, my dad was talking about how sometimes he has to do things he doesn't want to do, like painting. And parenting.

Gee...thanks, Dad.

Upon further reading, I realized he actually meant that, as a parent, he often has to do things he doesn't like to do, like discipline us. But come on, it's not like he had to do that much disciplining. I know that I, for one, was a perfect little angel. What? I was!

Anyway. This weekend, having already missed the mark on spring cleaning, I'm embarking on an official "summer cleaning" of my apartment. Do you realize that the last time I cleaned my apartment thoroughly (i.e., more than the occasional tidying) was in January? Yeah, when you have to actually clean your Swiffer before you can even use it...that's not a good thing.

Interesting
I just spent part of my lunch hour sitting in the backseat of a convertible next to a bloody and dying turtle that was wrapped up in a beach towel.

I would say today can't get much stranger, but that just seems like an invitation to disaster.

And the mystery remains…
Here are some things I should not do when I don’t want to spend money:

1. Go to the Mall of America
2. Go to IKEA

Unfortunately, these things are pretty much impossible to avoid when one is visiting Minnesota for the first time. I mean, how can you go to Minneapolis and not go to the Mall of America? It’s the biggest mall in the world, a simultaneous reminder of what’s great and what’s horrible about America. It’s one of those quintessentially American things you have to see just to say you’ve seen it, like Las Vegas or the Grand Canyon.

And then they put an IKEA right next door! Really, how am I supposed to resist? Even the fact that I already have a trip tentatively planned to visit the new Atlanta IKEA when it opens at the end of this month could not stop me. So now my bank account is about $75 lighter than it should be, and I have several new things, only one of which (a picture frame) I actually needed.

Here are some other things I did while in Minnesota:

Watched (and quoted excessively) Napoleon Dynamite; went rollerblading for the first time since I was 9 (and only fell once!); made plans to live in a beach house with Heather, Hannah, and Ann when we are old, à la the Golden Girls; learned that maybe you’re just not that into me; hiked from Wisconsin to Minnesota and then back again; had my first taste of Chipotle (which was tempered somewhat by the fact that Heather and I had watched Super Size Me the night before); ate part of the largest piece of chocolate cake I have ever seen; fell off a barstool.

Here are some things I did not do while in Minnesota:

Learn the truth behind “Duck, Duck, Gray Duck.” This is perhaps due to the fact that I did not actually stop random people on the street to ask them about it. I did ask one of Heather’s friends, but he, like all Minnesotans, didn’t seem to think there was anything odd about the fact that they are the only state in the country that plays “Duck, Duck, Gray Duck.” (He did inform me, though, that there is supposedly another state that rejects “Duck, Duck, Goose,” although he couldn’t tell me which one. I have a hunch that it might be Delaware.)

Here are some pictures of things I did while in Minnesota.