My Own Planet

Even more confused
My shampoo bottle continues to confound. Tonight, I noticed that it has a banner on the front that reads "New: Same Great Smell."

Whaaaaat?

I think I might need some more enlightening reading material for my shower.

Huh.
Somewhere between forcing myself to get up at a semi-reasonable hour so I'll be able to get to sleep at night, putting off my freelance work until the last possible minute, and feeling like I need to straighten up my apartment to start the week off right, Sundays have begun to feel less and less like part of the weekend.

Thank God I still have multiple episodes of Dawson's Creek to remind me that they are.

Totally unrelated: According to my shampoo bottle, my shampoo apparently is going to "embrace [me] like a meadow." I'm not quite sure what that's supposed to mean, but I'm vaguely frightened.

SAD is bad
I've noticed that since I moved to Alabama, my SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder, which, despite what Diana would have you believe, is a real thing) isn't quite as pronounced as it was when I was living in Missouri, or even Kentucky. It's probably because the winters here are milder and only last for a couple of months. But still, there are days when I feel glum for no particular reason. And today is one of those days.

I really shouldn't be feeling blue today. By all accounts, this has been a pretty good week. I got an unexpected e-mail from my 8th grade best friend, Anne hooked me up with an awesome freelance gig at her new magazine, and I figured how to burn CDs on my work computer by burning a copy of the Ben Folds Five CD I accidentally stole from Dave last weekend. So I have only the weather (cold and drizzly) to blame for my mood.

I'm hoping that watching Bend It Like Beckham this afternoon will cheer me up. I'm also hoping it doesn't make me want to go out and play soccer (like it did last time I saw it), because that's not gonna happen today. And not just because I don't have a ball and/or anyone who will play with me.

Something’s not adding up here
Yesterday, I was browsing around on IMDB (one of my favorite time-killing pastimes, although in this case, it was ostensibly work-related), where I discovered that Audrey Tautou has been chosen to play Sophie Neveu in the big-screen adaptation of The DaVinci Code. I found this news only slightly more unsettling than the news that the role of Robert Langdon would be played by Tom Hanks.

It’s pretty obvious what’s going on here. Faced with the arduous task of casting the movie version of so popular a book, the casting people simply decided to choose a really popular American actor and a really popular French actress for the lead roles, thus making it impossible for this movie not to be popular. It’s the prom-queen approach to casting, if you will. And it’s an infallible plan, except for the fact that it goes completely against the logic that you should cast people who are, you know, right for the roles.

Although I’m slowly coming around to the idea of Tom Hanks, I can’t help but wonder why they didn’t cast Harrison Ford, which would have made for a wonderfully meta Colin-Firth-as-Mark-Darcy-esque statement. I guess it’s because this movie isn’t being made by a) the people at Working Title, b) Josh Schwartz or c) me. And then…Audrey Tautou? In an American thriller? Was she like the only French actress you could think of? Not that I could name all that many French actresses off the top of my head, but come on. Even Julie freaking Delpy would have been better suited for the role.

Or here
Why, when I check the weather in Birmingham, does the Weather Channel site give me the “ski comfort index”? I’m not even sure what a “ski comfort index” is, but I’m fairly sure it’s something that’s not applicable in Birmingham. Somewhat unsurprisingly, Birmingham’s ski comfort index for today is listed as “very poor.” Well, yes…when you try to ski where there’s no snow, I’d imagine that would be pretty uncomfortable.

A sort of important query
How long can yogurt sit in a gym bag before it goes bad? Like, is two and a half hours too long? I don't think this is something I really want to find out the hard way.

UPDATE: Despite the always-sage advice of Kate (see below), I decided to eat the yogurt anyway. What can I say? I like to live dangerously. And I also hate to waste yogurt. So far, this decision hasn't seemed to have any adverse affects, but maybe it's still too early to tell. If you don't hear from me for a while, it's probably safe to assume that I should have listened to Kate.

The most amazing thing I saw last night on The Amazing Race
You know, if I were Bolo (and I hope we can all agree that’s a pretty big “if”), and it had been anyone but Kris consoling me like that at the Roadblock, I probably would’ve been pissed and assumed she was just trying to rub it in. But because it was Kris, it seemed completely genuine. They have to win. They just have to. I hope all this “Kris and Jon are our biggest competiton” stuff isn’t setting them up for that excruciating fourth-place finish, because I just don’t know if I could take it.

Also, elephant polo? Awesome. Not the most, uh, fast-paced game in the world, but awesome nonetheless.

Adrian is dead
OK, not really. But in the past couple of days, both Justin and I have used the phrase "rolling in [his] grave" to describe what we imagined to be the inevitable Adrian freak-out over a Beatles cover (or, in my case, the inevitable Adrian freak-out over my fondness for a Beatles cover, i.e., Sarah McLachlan's version of "Blackbird"). The problem is, even though Adrian's obviously not dead, there's really no other term that accurately describes this concept. Still, and perhaps this was because I said it shortly after my near-death experience on the snowy highways of New Jersey, I felt that even implying that Adrian was dead was kind of morbid. So I amended my statement to, "Somewhere, Adrian is going, 'WHAAAAT?!'" (complete with flailing hand gestures). The problem with this amendment, however, is that it really only applies to Adrian and is not likely to catch on in general discourse. So I guess everyone else will just have to be presumed dead.

Highlights from the Rhode
-Perfect music moments, whether spontaneous (“Under Pressure” while driving through the Bronx) or scripted (Buckley’s “Hallelujah” on the way into Providence at sunset)

-Falling in love with the son of the woman who ran the B&B through the pictures of him (from sometime in the late ‘70s or early ‘80s, it seemed) in our room, one in which he was making the greatest funny face ever, and one in which he was wearing a T-shirt that said, “The Trend Is Your Friend.”

-Existential questions raised by A Very Long Engagement (and, to some degree, Muppets Take Manhattan)

-Finally admitting that Delaware does exist, upon purchasing a University of Delaware T-shirt in Newark (the first one). Concurrently, seeing the look on Dave’s face when he realized that the stalemate we’ve been locked in for the past year could have been avoided with just a T-shirt.

-Being the only non-Turkish people at a Turkish restaurant in Connecticut

-Finding my cell phone lying face down in the snow on the Brown campus after tempting fate by saying, “As a veteran of these situations, I’ve found that they usually work out for the best.”

-Making snow angels in Newark (the second one)

-Creating the fabulous game Break the Bucket (formerly named I Can’t Believe Throwing Cards in a Bucket Can Be So Entertaining), possibly the first-ever “collaborative game with a clear winner.”

-Pondering state mottoes (Does “Small Wonder” give Delaware a Napoleon complex? When Maryland says “You Are Beautiful,” is it being arrogant, or is it calling me beautiful? And if it’s the latter, does that mean I’m only beautiful in Maryland?) and coming up with new ones (my personal favorite, for Delaware: “Clare, stop telling people we don’t exist.”)

-The moment of cheesy revelations

Can I just say…
-How much I love the fact that Southwest lets you check in online for flights? I mean, I’m kind of flabbergasted that they’re allowed to do this when we’re supposedly living in an era of heightened airport security, but it certainly makes my life easier. (Sidebar: How come, when you check in at the gate, they no longer ask you all those questions about whether you packed your own bags? I never really found those questions to be all that insightful, because it always seemed like it would be pretty easy to just lie if you wanted to, but I still wonder why they did away with them.)

-To Ryan Seacrest: I’m really proud of the fact that my running commentary has helped you learn how to dress like a normal person. However, I realize that, in your case, behavior modification can often take a long time. So I’m going to keep saying this until you get it through that overprocessed-hair-adorned head of yours: STOP FREAKING SAYING “SEACREST, OUT!” I mean it. Don’t make me sic The Alliance on you.

The most amazing thing I saw last night on The Amazing Race
As if you don't know what it is. I have to say, I was probably more relieved by Jonathan and Victoria's elimination than I have been by any other elimination on this show. Or ever in the history of reality television, for that matter.

On the path to self-destruction, it appears that Jonathan left many of his clothes behind in Ethiopia. Because what Ethiopia really needs is a bunch of Jonathan doppelgangers running around. Still, for some reason, the Ethiopians really seemed to take to him. In light of this fact, and in light of the fact that most Americans hate him violently, can we please arrange for his deportation? (Just kidding. That country has already suffered enough. They are, after all, now in posession of THE HAT.)

What's going on here?
It seems that, in the interim between American Idol seasons, Ryan Seacrest actually learned how to dress himself. With the exception of a brown V-neck t-shirt that appeared to feature some sort of space-age toaster, his outfits ranged from boring to (dare I say it?) fashionable. Great! Who the hell am I supposed to make fun of now? Eh, I guess there's still Paula.

It's that time again
Time for my annual Golden Globes love-fest, that is. Have I mentioned how much I love the Golden Globes? Oh, yeah. I thought so.

I'm not going to go on and on this year about why I love the Golden Globes. One, because I've done that enough already. And two, because I think Robin Williams summed it up better than I ever could:

"I'd like to thank the Hollywood Foreign Press for getting William Shatner, Prince, P. Diddy and Mick Jagger on the same stage. That's a sign of the apocalypse, you know."

So, on to the highlights (and lowlights):

-No Jude Law?! I feel cheated.

-Natalie Portman appeared to have woken up from a nap, thrown on a sequined belt over her nightgown and gone directly to the ceremony. For Natalie Portman, and anyone else who might be wondering, this is not a good look. Thankfully, someone realized this halfway through the ceremony and covered her up with their jacket.

-Charlize Theron should sue whoever did that to her beautiful hair.

-I'd just like to let the Hollywood Foreign Press know that it is possible to have an awards ceremony without nominating Renee Zellweger and Nicole Kidman. So when they don't deserve it, can we please refrain?

-Hey, Mariska Hargitay: It's called a bra. Look into it.

-Apparently, shortly before the show, Teri Hatcher waged an epic battle with a bottle of self-tanner. And lost.

-Is it just me, or does Diane Keaton wear the same outfit to every function she attends? Look, Diane Keaton, I love you and I know you started the whole menswear fashion revolution with Annie Hall and I think that's great. But that was 28 years ago. It might be time to consider a new look.

-Jamie Foxx is soooo getting an Oscar.

-Can someone please tell me why Johnny Depp was sitting at the Kill Bill table? And while you're at it, maybe you could explain why Kevin Spacey was sitting at the same table as Usher. Nah, never mind. I don't want to know. This is why I love the Golden Globes.

Good buy
I knew that the cash I forked over yesterday for the Saved by the Bell Seasons 3 & 4 DVD was money well spent within a mere minute of listening to the audio commentary, when I heard the following quote from executive producer Peter Engel:

"'Jessie's Song' was the episode where she took No-Doz and, as Dustin said, it was like she was taking heroin."

This was immediately followed by Dustin Diamond doing his version (which was only slightly less melodramatic than mine) of the now-infamous "I'm so excited! I'm so excited! I'm so...so...scared!" line. Awesome.

Although I have previously denounced DVD audio commentary, I completely retract these sentiments when it comes to Saved by the Bell. Because on the SBTB DVD (or at least on the one episode I've watched so far), the audio commentary is exactly what it should be.

First, it provides interesting behind-the-scenes insight into the show. In just this one episode, I learned tons of fun trivia, such as:

-The pictures on the wall in Mr. Belding's office are actually pictures of Dennis Haskins (or "Den," as the rest of the cast calls him).

-In the episode where Zack has a crush on the school nurse, the nurse was originally supposed to be played by Kathy Ireland.

-The wall of "outside" scenery behind the door to the Max is where the cast members--particularly Mark-Paul Gosselaar--would put their used gum.

Not only is the audio commentary insightful, it's also freaking hilarious. The commentators make fun of the show as if they were...well, writing for the SBTB Blog. Like, when Lisa says she danced with "Storm Sutherland," Dustin Diamond is all, "Storm Sutherland? Is that Keifer's little-known brother?"

Is it wrong that, after listening to the audio commentary, I kind of want Dustin Diamond to be my boyfriend? Probably so, but you know, if that's the case, I don't think I want to be right.

Bastards!
This just in: Apparently, Panera has discontinued the Tuscan chicken sandwich. I am outraged! Outraged, I tell you. I fact, I am so outraged that I am considering a boycott. Not that I eat there that much these days anyway, but still. Not cool, Panera. Not cool.

Also, apparently my current future husband was not as enraptured by the ending of last night's O.C. as I was, leading me to believe that he may not honor my request for a Lyle Lovett cover on our 20th anniversary. Also, given his predilection for all things Panera, I'm guessing he won't be joining me on my (possible) boycott, either. God, Scott! What kind of fake fiancé are you, anyway?

And just like that...
The O.C. redeems itself, by having Peter Gallagher get up on a stage and sing Lyle Lovett's "She's No Lady, She's My Wife" to his television spouse for their 20th wedding anniversary.

Attention, my future husband: If, by any chance, you happen to be reading this, make a note--this is what I want you to do for our 20th anniversary. And if you can't sing...well, you've got 20-plus years to learn.

Loose ends
A random sampling of things I have been meaning to blog about all week, yet have not been able to work in for some reason or another:

-Can someone please explain to me how, nine years after the release of Swingers, that scene where Jon Favreau calls the girl from the bar and leaves a bunch of messages on her machine suddenly became a Mastercard commercial? Because I would really like to know.

-I first read the news of the big Brad and Jen breakup on Holly’s blog on Monday. By the time I got to the grocery store that night, there was already a tabloid by the checkout with a headline reading, “Brad and Jen back on!” Good God. I know there have been lots of theories floating around as to why these two split up (one of my favorites, from a TWoP poll: “Us Weekly kept saying they were, so they felt like they kind of had to”), but I think we all know the real reason: Their differing opinions about toilet paper finally became too much to bear.

-Yesterday I finally figured out what the odd goose out does with his spare time: He watches the other geese have sex. Seriously. This is the scene of goose pornography that greeted me during my midday stroll yesterday. One goose stood guard while the other two engaged in what can only be described as goose sadomasochism. (According to my friend Tracy, who witnessed the entire exchange, their “foreplay” amounted to biting and slapping each other with their wings.) I feel even sorrier for the lone goose now that I know that his job is to function as the goose equivalent of a “Do not disturb” sign. That’s gotta suck.

-Finally, due to popular demand (although it must be said that one of the people doing the demanding has already heard this), I bring you the infamous dead duck story. So, as most of you know (because you’ve either seen or heard about the Outdoor Channel documentary of which he was the star), my father is an avid hunter. When my sister and I were little (probably around ages four [me] and two [her]), my dad came home one Saturday morning from duck hunting, having managed to get two ducks. For some reason, maybe because it was cold, because I can’t recall him ever doing this again, he brought the ducks into the kitchen to show them to my sister and me before he went back outside to clean them. He laid them down on the doormat, and my sister and I proceeded to pick them up by the necks and walk them around our house, describing points of interest along the way. (“This is the living room,” “This is our bedroom,” etc.) Apparently, my parents didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with this, as they let us do it. (It should be noted here, for those of you who have no hunting experience, that birds that have been shot do not really bleed all that much; otherwise, I doubt my mother would have even let them in the house, let alone past the kitchen.) Anyway, I never really realized how odd this was until I went to college and was relating the story to some of my friends, all of whom regarded me with expressions of abject horror during the entire tale. The next time I went home, I told my dad about their reactions to the story. His response: “Your friends obviously have no culture!”

The most amazing thing I saw last night on The Amazing Race
I have to say, I was most amazed to discover that this is not really a race anymore at all. Other people have already complained about the numerous incidents of bunching and how they're destroying the fundamental "race" concept, but for some reason, it never really bothered me until this episode. But suddenly, I found myself wondering if I was watching an episode of The Amazing Race or one of those cruise commercials. You know: Somewhere between the rock wall and the grape-stomping, it hits you--this is no ordinary cruise!

Speaking of grapes and the stomping thereof, this marks the second I Love Lucy-inspired task of the season. What's next--the contestants have to correctly pronounce "Vitameatavegamin" before they can get their next clue? Considering the relative ease of some of the tasks this season (seriously, those water polo players last week? I was starting to wonder if any of them were alive, much less actual water polo players), it seems within the realm of possibility.

This has already been the subject of complaint as well, but again, for some reason, it didn't really seem to bother me until this episode. But I swear to God, if one more person refers to his or her partner as "baby," I. Am going. To scream. I could tell I'd reached my limit on the "baby"ing when, upon hearing Hayden (whom I've steadily grown to hate) refer to Aaron as "sweetie," I wanted to hug her. Of course, this impulse vanished almost immediately, as within seconds she had reverted back to "baby."

While we're on the subject, when did "baby" suddenly become the choice term of endearment for one's significant other? Whatever happened to "honey" and "sugar" and "sweetie"? How did they all fall by the wayside? Personally, I've always wanted to see "darling" make a comeback. Hell, I'd even take "pookie" or "cupcake" over all of this "baby" nonsense.

Zzzzzz...
Better than Ambien: It's The Bachelorette! Seriously, just 30 minutes into last night's premiere, and I was nearly sound asleep. That's 8:30, folks. Not good.

Through my sleepy haze, I did manage to notice that two of the initial 25 guys were virgins. For a group of men in their late 20s to early 30s, that seems a bit of a statistical improbability. I also noticed that there were two ski instructors, which also seems somewhat statistically improbable. However, the ski instructors and virgins were not one in the same, so at least that seems in keeping with...well, if not statistics, at least stereotypes.

I also saw two guys who vaguely reminded me of Doug, one who reminded me of TAR's Jonathan and one who reminded me of Napoleon Dynamite. It remains to be seen whether these resemblances were merely a result of my lethargic state--and if the rest of the season continues in this manner, I may never be lucid enough to know for sure. No wonder that guy keeled over at the rose ceremony.

Herbert and Judy’s House Party
So, as many of you already know, I do not particularly like birds. I mean, I like them all right in theory, I guess (except for pigeons, which are resolutely disgusting in both theory and practice), but I just feel that birds have their place and I have mine, and those two places should not be even remotely close to one another. I’m not exactly sure what inspired this fear and loathing, although I suspect it might have had something to do with the strange bird-related experiences I had during my formative years (and yes, I would be referring here to the incident where my sister and I gave the dead ducks a tour of our house).

Anyway. After pigeons, the number-two bird on my list of most hated/feared birds is the Canada goose. My reasons for hating the Canada goose are pretty similar to my reasons for hating the pigeon: a) they have no qualms about coming right up to you, and b) they poop copiously and indiscriminately. I give Canada geese leeway only because their babies are really cute, whereas pigeons, as Mr. Erik Petersen once pointed out, don’t actually seem to have babies. (I tend to think that this is because they’ve already mastered the science of cloning themselves.)

At my old office park, there was a lake with a trail around it where my friend Robyn and I would go to walk in the afternoons when the weather was warm. Unfortunately, this lake happened to be a breeding ground for the geese, and they were none too happy about us invading their territory. Some of them would actually stand in the middle of the path and hiss at us when we tried to walk past. Naturally, this caused me a great deal of alarm, but my terror was a considerable source of amusement for Robyn, who has so great a love for all animals that I began to wonder if she was actually the model for Snow White. Needless to say, all the geese made my daily workout quite stressful indeed.

That’s why I was so thrilled to discover that the lake (and trail) at my new office park were goose-free. At least they were until a couple of weeks ago, when I suddenly noticed the arrival of two geese. I was initially wary of them, but they soon proved themselves to be pretty docile and not at all prone to invading my personal space. To further my acceptance of the geese, I decided to give them names: Herbert and Judy. I have no idea how I came up with these names, but they seemed to fit. Eventually, I got to the point where I was not only no longer afraid of Herbert and Judy, but actually came to (gasp!) enjoy seeing them on my daily stroll.

But apparently Herbert and Judy have gotten pretty comfortable in their new environment, too, evidenced by the fact that they have invited several of their friends down to check it out. Seemingly overnight, the goose population of the lake has more than quadrupled, which is not a good thing. It’s highly unlikely that all of these geese are as good-natured and unassuming as Herbert and Judy. And there’s no way I can name all of the geese in an attempt to humanize them—I can barely tell Herbert from Judy, let alone which ones Herbert and Judy are in this new sea of geese. So I guess it’s back to being traumatized while exercising, at least until the geese decide to fly back north. And considering it’s only January, that’s probably not going to happen any time soon.

I really hate this city sometimes
Here's the thing about Birmingham: While it's not a small town by any means (there are more than a million people in the "metro area"), it often feels like one, as it is nearly impossible to go anywhere and not run into someone you know. And while I think this is really cool about 90 percent of the time, as it allows me to stay in touch with various acquaintances and former colleagues that I would likely not stay in touch with otherwise, about 10 percent of the time, it really sucks. Like, for instance, when I run into the AFG, as I did again today at the grocery store.

I was innocently pushing my cart down the soup aisle when I noticed someone looking at me like, "Hey, didn't I once agree to go out for a drink with that girl, ostensibly just to be polite, since it was clear I had no interest in her whatsoever, even though the first time we met, I made it seem like I did?" At first I didn't recognize him because he was wearing a baseball cap, but I soon realized that there could be but one person in the entire city of Birmingham who could be looking at me in such a manner. So I did what any normal person would do: I averted my eyes, pretending to be engrossed in an end-of-aisle display of paper plates or similar, before the spark of recognition had the chance to cross his face, then finished my grocery shopping as quickly as I could and got the hell out of there.

I realized after I left that perhaps I should have said something to him back at the gallery opening, which might have eliminated any awkwardness during the inevitable subsequent surprise meetings. But then I wondered...would that just have made things more awkward, seeing as we would then be forced to stand and make insipid small talk in the soup aisle? Not that it matters much now, because, after two occasions of ignoring him (on one of which I am absolutely certain he saw me), I can't exactly start not ignoring him. So, as I see it, I have only one choice left: I have to move. Or, at the very least, start shopping at a different grocery store.

The most amazing thing I saw last night on The Amazing Race
OK. I know I missed the first two seasons of this show, so I have not had the privilege of seeing the full range of country-specific greeters; however, I feel safe in saying that last night’s greeter was the most amazing one ever. (And I think the Amazing Editors agree with me, given that they showed his greeting several times instead of just the usual one.) First, there was the big whip crack after Phil announced the impending elimination. Then there was the boisterous greeting itself: “Welcome to Budapest! HUN-gary!” It made me really want to go to Budapest, just so I can walk around going, “Welcome to Budapest! HUN-gary!” It would be like when Bri and I went to the Grand Canyon and we walked around going, “Billions of years ago!” from that episode of Friends were Ross took Rachel to the planetarium to sleep with her for the first time. Come to think of it, I should probably take Bri with me to Hungary, because it seems like she would get a kick out of walking around going, “Welcome to Budapest! HUN-gary!” even if she had not seen this episode of The Amazing Race.

Also, I didn’t think it was possible for Kris to get any more adorable, but she proved me wrong when, on the rail car, she turned to Jon and exclaimed, “Ooh, it’s all vibrate-y!” with this cute little smile. Hee!

Oh, and memo to Freddy: If Jonathan’s telling you to calm down…well, that’s just not a good sign. But I did end up feeling sorry for the guy by the end of the episode. I mean, he ate his own vomit, which makes me want to vomit just thinking about it. Like, seriously. Ew. There are probably only a few things I wouldn’t do for a chance at a million dollars, but that would definitely be one of them.

New year, clean start
Well, sort of. I had grand plans to thoroughly clean my entire apartment yesterday, but this task proved to be a bit more time-consuming than I had anticipated, and therefore I was only able to finish the bedroom and the living room. I guess I’ll have to leave the kitchen and bathroom for next week…or next year. (Just kidding. I’m really not that disgusting. Really.)

In the midst of this cleaning spree, I had to bid a tearful good-bye to the Sinatra table. The Sinatra table, for those of you who never had the distinct pleasure of seeing it in person, was a cheap-o particleboard TV table that I bought at the Goodwill for $10 and decoupaged with black-and-white pictures of Frank Sinatra during my period of unemployment (the first one). I was inordinately proud of this creation; however, there were a few things wrong with it.

First, I neglected to cover my masterpiece with some sort of protective shellac (other than the decoupage), which meant things—like dust, dirt, and the base to a set of coasters Kate gave me—would stick to it. Oops. Also, due to the cheap nature of the table, it was extremely wobbly, a flaw that was all too evident when I got a bigger, heavier TV. Plus, it didn’t really have enough storage space, especially in light of the new DVDs I accumulated over Christmas to go with my new DVD player.

So when my friend Sallie told me she was selling her (substantially more sturdy) TV table at a rock-bottom price in preparation for her move to L.A., I simply couldn’t resist. I picked up my new TV table yesterday, which meant I had to say farewell to the old TV table. As I heaved it over into the dumpster, I couldn’t help but feeling a little sad. But I was also a little happy that, now that Sallie will be 2,000 miles away and not just down the block, I have a little piece of her in my home. Of course, that doesn’t mean I haven’t already seriously considered the possibility of decoupaging my new TV table with pictures of Frank Sinatra, too.

You know you had a good New Year's Eve when...
You wake up the next morning with bruises all over your arms and legs, and you have no idea how they got there (but you think they may have been incurred by drunkenly falling into the hot tub one too many times).

Also: no throwing up this year! All in all, I'd say 2005 is starting off much better than 2004 did. (Or, to be more accurate, 2004 ended much better than 2003 did.) Those bruises do kind of hurt, though.