My Own Planet

On significance and others (or, more specifically, the lack of both)
Early Friday evening found me shopping in vain for something suitable to wear to all those weddings (like, when did stores suddenly stop carrying dresses? Do people not wear dresses anymore?) and calling my friends to see what their plans were for the night. One by one, I learned that they all had prior commitments with their significant others. Just when I began to embrace the prospect of shopping the night away (a dangerous proposition, both because I had no money, and because I couldn't find the one thing I needed to buy, thereby ensuring that I would probably spend the money I don't have on things I don't need), I remembered that I had a week's worth of vintage (we're talking Season 1, here, people) Sex & the City episodes on tape at home.

One quick stop at my neighborhood bar/Mexican restaurant later, and I was ready for a relaxing night of Carrie & Co. with a side of shrimp quesadillas. It's not such a bad thing sometimes, this being single.

Next up: Bubble bath, accompanied by Coldplay. Ahhhh.

Call me Andie MacDowell. (Actually, don't.)
Yesterday afternoon I went to a funeral. Next month I've got three weddings, plus one more in December. Hugh Grant had better start showing up soon, is all I'm saying.

Random Model Wannabe's Quote of the Week
"We pull up to this ranch, and I see Jay standing there, and I'm like, 'Are we posing with cloned sheep or something?'"

Yeah, they're still not making any damn sense.

Now that's amazing
You may not believe this, but I think I might be giving up The Amazing Race. I know. I know. But it's true.

It's something I've been thinking about for a couple of weeks, ever since I started seeing previews for Commander in Chief. I sort of wanted to watch this show, mainly because of the preview where Geena Davis goes, "You are sorely mistaken." It's a great line, and she delivers it so well. However, part of me also knew I should boycott the show, mainly because her character's name is MacKenzie. Remember when I said that someday the country would be run by people named M[a]cKenzie? Well, apparently that day has come sooner than we thought, at least on TV.

There was another problem, too, namely that I've been going to pilates class on Tuesdays from 7:30 to 8:30. And so I was faced with the eternal dilemma: To tape or not to tape? And also, what to tape? Taping Commander in Chief was out, as my ABC reception is pretty poor (which is also the reason why you will never find me anywhere but in front of the TV on Wednesdays from 8 to 9, in case you were wondering). The solution should have been simple, then: tape The Amazing Race. But the mere fact of my flirtation with another show led me to wonder if it was symptomatic of my entire relationship with TAR. After all, I've pretty much managed to wean myself off of reality TV, and I really wasn't digging this whole "family edition" thing. Ultimately, I decided I would go to pilates, then watch whatever was left of The Office (which, while not as good as the original, still makes me laugh and is better than half the crap on TV these days) when I got home.

This plan hit a snafu last night, though, when after The Office, I flipped over to CBS just to see what was happening on TAR. And what do you know? It was a two-hour episode, which meant I still got to see lots of great stuff, like a woman getting run over by an Amish buggy, plus my own abject horror upon witnessing the African-American team captioned "Black Family." (I'm pretty sure this was their last name, and not a subersive comment on the number of non-white teams generally present on this show each season.) But is that enough for me to go to the trouble of actually taping the show? I think not. Besides, I really kind of hate that family from New Jersey. And are they just traveling around the U.S. this time? 'Cause that's kinda boring. So it looks like I'm sticking to the pilates/The Office combo, at least for the time being.

I realize that those of you (all three of you? four?) who looked forward to my regular "The most amazing thing..." entries will be sorely disappointed. (Yeah, it's not really the same when I alter the line and don't have Geena Davis to say it.) I would placate you with amazing tales from my pilates class, but the only amazing thing that ever really happens is that sometimes a big bug will wander in, and I'll have to squish it with my flip-flop, because everyone else in the class will just stare at it, whereas I am of the opinion that if you're doing exercises on the floor and a big bug is running across the floor toward you, you should do something about it. But that was really only exciting the first time it happened, and by now it's practically routine.

What time is it?
Why, it’s Burger Time! My sister just instant messaged me to let me know that Burger Time, my favorite old-school Atari game (actually, the console of my uncle’s that we always played it on isn’t even a real Atari—it’s the generic, low-rent version), can now be downloaded to your cell phone.

Well, in theory. It can’t be downloaded to my cell phone because, much like the original generic Atari, my cell phone is both old-school and low-rent. But I’m due for a phone upgrade in January, and you better believe I’m dreaming of a burger-filled Christmas.

A matter of coincidence
Last night while watching Desperate Housewives, I found myself both admiring the black suit that Bree wore to her husband’s funeral and feeling conflicted over Susan’s daring (or maybe just misguided?) choice to accessorize her black dress with a cheery yellow scarf. This led me to wonder if I currently had anything in my closet that would be appropriate to wear to a funeral, as the last one I attended was my grandmother’s, almost four years ago.

Today, for no particular reason other than that I wanted to wear my knee-high boots because it’s rainy outside, I came to work dressed in all black. This morning, I learned that a woman in my office drowned at the beach over the weekend. That’s the kind of coincidence I don’t particularly care for, I’ve got to say.

Also last night, Ashton Kutcher made an appearance in my dream, and this morning I heard the news that he and Demi Moore had married over the weekend. This is a much better coincidence. I can handle this sort of coincidence. Let’s keep them in this vein from now on, shall we?

Shameless self-promotion
Hey, remember that time I wrote a novel? (How can you possibly forget, when I take great pains to remind you so often?) Well, have you ever been at the airport, say, or in line at the DMV, and thought to yourself, "Man, I really wish I had a copy of Clare's novel to read right now?" Who among us hasn't, right?

Which is why I'm pleased to announce that you can now procure your very own paperback copy of the novel right here, for the rock-bottom price of around $8. Of course, you can still read it online as many times as you want for free, but I don't think I have to tell you that's going to be pretty damn hard to do while waiting in line at the DMV. Besides, believe me when I say that there is no greater thrill than reading my novel while sitting in the airport. All right, that's probably a lot more of a thrill for me than it would be for any of you. So how about this? The paperback version has a super-swell cover designed by the very talented Kristen, with some help from her very talented photographer husband, Jason. And there's a back-cover quote from Holly! What more could you want?

Hurry, while supplies last! (Man, I should really have my own infomercial.)

Sorry, [Mr.] Jackson
Despite the billing, Joshua Jackson was not present at the premiere, although a gratuitous shot of his naked butt most definitely was, which almost made up for the cost of admission. (The remainder of the cost was defrayed by gorgeous shots of the Spanish countryside.)

And at the bar afterward, we had a waiter named Collin Farrell (a fact verified by his driver's license), which was worth...something.

Tonight's forecast
My friend Stacey (a fellow Aries) has just informed me that our horoscope for today predicts "an evening filled with the sweet nectar of love." (I may be misquoting slightly. But there was definitely a "nectar of love" in there somewhere.)

My plans for the evening include the opening-night premiere of our local film festival, which will also be attended by the star of the movie himself, Joshua Jackson.

Coincidence? Probably so. But I'm taking my ginger lip gloss just in case.

Down the hatch
So last night, we finally learned what's in the hatch on Lost: an IKEA! No, really. How else do you think Mysterious And Possibly Evil Yet Also Sort Of Hot Scottish (Scottish? Irish? I need an expert opinion here) Guy managed to outfit that bachelor pad he has deep, deep down in the hatch so stylishly? It's gotta be IKEA, although from the looks of things, they might also have an Urban Outfitters and possibly a Crate & Barrel down there somewhere.

I, for one, am incensed. How completely unfair that the secret underground hatch on an unnamed deserted island would get an IKEA, an Urban Outfitters, and a Crate & Barrel before we would! Although judging by the old-school electronics that MAPEYASOHSG (my, that's an unweildy acronym!) is using, they haven't gotten an Apple store just yet. So that gives me some solace.

Random Model Wannabe's Quote of the Week
"I'm the jam! How could anybody not want to butter their bread with me?"

That's awesome. Or it would be if it made any modicum of sense, which it does not. I miss Janice already. Sigh.

Ode to the guy in the striped shirt on the bike
Commuting by bike may be all fine and dandy in a city like D.C., where apparently they have trails for that sort of thing, but it’s a different story entirely in Birmingham. In fact, on my daily commute, which takes place on what is generally regarded as one of the busiest and most dangerous highways in the city, it’s tantamount to a death wish.

Which is why, yesterday, I was surprised to see a bike commuter riding alongside me on the way to work. As I watched him cruise along, his striped shirt billowing in the cool morning breeze, I thought to myself that maybe I should abandon my plans to design a pigeon-propelled harness thingy and invest in a bike instead. After all, if this guy can bike to work, why can’t I?

But then I saw him again on my ride home. This time there was no cool breeze to waft through the folds of his shirt—there was only increasing weariness as he struggled up an incline in 90-degree heat while trying to cross a lane of traffic as cars whizzed by on either side of him, likely at speeds well over the 55-mph limit. I wanted to give him some encouragement, but I was stymied by the fact that the primary method of communication one can employ in the car is the horn, which generally is interpreted to mean “Get out of my way, asshole!” rather than “Yay! Keep going, biker guy!” He looked so exhausted that I really just wanted to stop and offer him a ride, but I didn’t think his bike would fit in my car—and you never know, he could be a serial rapist biker guy. Besides, stopping on a busy and dangerous highway in the middle of rush hour? Talk about a death wish.

And so his encouragement is limited to this blog post, which he probably will never see. But maybe, just maybe, a Google search for other striped-shirt-wearing bike commuters in Birmingham will lead him here, and my kind words (well, kind except for the part where I called him a serial rapist) will inspire him to keep biking in the face of danger. I didn’t see him on the road again today, though, so maybe I’m already too late with my encouragement.

Sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll, etc.
The other night, as we scarfed down homemade mashed potatoes that took, like, four hours to assemble (that may be a slight exaggeration) and prepared to watch the latest episode of The O.C., my friend Chris said to me, "Most people don't actually have a life, right? They just pretend to?" To which I felt compelled to respond honestly, "Well, I think most people have more of a life than we do." He thought for a moment, then said, "Do people make fun of us because we play Clue all the time?" To which I again felt compelled to respond honestly, "Um, yeah."

The point of this sad little anecdote is that sometimes I fear that I'm frittering away the fragile bloom of my youth (which is why "act my age" is on my list of goals, obviously yet to be accomplished). Of course, other times I wonder why I should go to all the trouble of living a crazy life when I can just live vicariously through the free-wheeling antics of fellow bloggers like Danielle and Christa. (When we're all, like, 40, they can live vicariously through my pristine, youthful-looking skin, preserved by all the nights I spent not out on the town, boozing it up in smoke-filled bars. Ah, who am I kidding? At that point, I'll be out on the town, boozing it up in smoke-filled bars in an attempt to make up for the utter lameness of my 20s.) But until then, because I just can't get enough of these vicarious blog thrills, I've found a new one: Alligator Cowboy Boots.

The site's author, KT (an alias that is both her initials and her first name spelled phonetically--it works on so many levels), was one of my fringe friends in college. I designate her so because she happened to be good friends with several people who also happened to be my good friends, yet our paths never seem to cross that often. The last time I hung out with KT, I was wearing a bridesmaid's dress, we had just done shots of Jaegermeister, and we were singing "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" in a white-trash karaoke bar in Indiana. Good times with this girl, let me tell ya.

After that weekend two years ago, KT told one of those mutual friends of ours that she wished she and I had hung out more in college. After I spent most of yesterday afternoon reading her blog, I have to say I wholeheartedly concur.

Why do Mondays always have to start like this?
Last night, I had a very vivid dream in which I had kissed one of the (married) coaches at my high school (and he wasn't even one of the cute ones…ugh), and I guess I told too many people about it, because the whole town found out, and I tried to deny it, but then I had to appear in front of this disciplinary committee that included my military uncle and my crazy freelance boss, and I confessed everything, and then our photo stylist called me and said she didn’t want me going on photo shoots for the magazine because my new reputation as a home-wrecker had people saying that maybe they should rename the magazine Southern Whore, and my mother wouldn’t let me, like, breathe without checking with her first to make sure I wasn’t doing something bad again, and then I woke up and I guess I was so distraught by the dream that I totally forgot that I had to drop something off at my freelance job until I was nearly halfway to my regular job, and I had to double back and was 15 minutes late to work this morning as a result.

Gah! How soon until Friday?

The constant nausea
If you just really enjoy feeling sick to your stomach (not sure why you would, but if that's your thing, I'm not going to judge), I highly recommend seeing The Constant Gardener. Not since The Blair Witch Project (a movie I'm glad I didn't see in the theater for more reasons than one) has a film's shaky camera work made me that physically ill. I'd love to be able to evaluate the movie on its narrative and artistic merits, but unfortunately, I had to keep my hands over my eyes for pretty much the last half of it to keep from puking in the aisle.

Just before the movie started, my friends and I had been discussing Ocean's Twelve, which they complained had a similar effect on them. My reaction was something along the lines of, "God, you guys are a bunch of babies." Oh, karma. You are a cruel mistress, aren't you?

The O. wait, haven’t I C.-een this before?
I’m thisclose to joining Anne in putting The O.C. on probation. While the reinvention of Ryan and Marissa as the nouveau Mickey and Mallory Knox is certainly grating (although not as grating as Marissa’s ill-advised sartorial choices, like what the hell was that slip-over-leggings combo?), the plotline that’s really working my last nerve is Jimmy and Julie’s. Is it just me, or did we already cover this at the beginning of the first season? Let’s see: Jimmy’s in dire straits financially, but rather than admit this fact to his money-grubbing wife, he lies, cheats, and steals to make her think they’re still loaded, ultimately resulting in him getting his ass kicked at his daughter’s cotillion and his wife leaving him. Yep, done that already. (Although I have a feeling that Jimmy could be in for more than just a fistfight this time—there has to be a reason why they’re still only billing Tate Donovan as a guest star.) Are we really supposed to believe that Jimmy has learned nothing from his previous transgressions? I mean, I know he’s supposed to be a doofus and everything, but isn’t he supposed to skew toward lovable doofus? I’m finding it really hard to love him right now.

Pretty much the only reason I’m still watching this show (other than the fact that I fear going through Peter-Gallagher-eyebrow withdrawal) is because Chris and I have a little bet going about what Jeri Ryan’s character’s intentions are toward Kirsten. Chris’s money is on lesbian love affair (even after I pointed out that they already went down that road with Marissa last season, but maybe plot re-treading is going to be sort of a theme this season, in which case God help us all). I’m going for identity theft/attempted murder, à la Season 6 of 90210, in which Kelly becomes a coke addict and goes to rehab, where she meets that annoying girl who befriends her and then starts to dress like her, even though that was really not a good look on this girl, and then the girl, like, kills Kelly’s fish and keys “Die Val” on Valerie’s car, and finally tries to kill herself and Kelly in Kelly’s BMW on this cliff overlooking the ocean.

God, I miss 90210.

Let this be a lesson to you, O.C. If you have to steal plotlines (which it appears that you do), at least continue to take them from other shows, rather than pilfering from your own damn show. God. How lazy are you?

Mama said there'd be days like this
And on days like this, I often think back to a few words of wisdom uttered by The Divine Miss Jen (I'm paraphrasing slightly here, as said utterance took place, like, three years ago): "It's not like we're doing brain surgery here. If we make a mistake, no one's going to die."

When you're trying to get two magazines out the door on the same day, all you can say is, "Thank God for that."

Hell, I still love you, New York
It took me a while to remember why I heart NY. Almost 48 hours, to be exact. Although I'd done my favorite walk, from the Christopher Street subway station down Bleecker Street in the West Village, almost immediately after I arrived, it didn't hit me until I retraced the same steps again, two days later, on a picture-perfect Sunday morning. As I strolled down the tree-lined streets, I came to the realization that I've come to many times before on the walk to my beloved Magnolia Bakery: that I could only love living in New York if I lived in this neighborhood. Which means I won't be living in New York until I'm a great deal richer, which could be very far in the future, or very soon indeed, depending on how quickly I am able to rocket to fame as an internationally renowned hand model. Until then, I'll just have to be content with visiting.

The thing with visiting, though, is that it's almost impossible to avoid the Times Square area, as authentic New Yorkers such as Anne and Danielle do, because that's where most of the hotels are concentrated.



See all those little dots down on the sidewalk? Yeah, now imagine me, as another little dot, trying to navigate my suitcase through the rest of the million little dots. It was exactly as fun as it sounds.

Of course, Times Square is not so bad when your friend's company hooks you up with the pimp suite on the 41st floor with an entire wall of wrap-around windows. It is a truth universally acknowledged that Times Square is much nicer when you are perched high above it.



Here, Lee, Danielle, Chris, and I party like P. Diddy in our sweet suite. If P. Diddy partied by eating a pint of raspberry sorbet, drinking one beer, and falling asleep, this caption would totally be accurate.

The next morning, I got a grand tour of the outer boroughs as I helped Danielle move from her semi-crappy apartment in Queens to her really cute new apartment in Brooklyn.



As you can tell from this picture, Danielle was super-excited about her cute new apartment, particularly the yellow chair behind her. She was also excited about her cool new hipster roommates, although they are not pictured.

While Danielle got settled, I took the opportunity to climb out onto her roof to see if she had any sort of view. You kind of have to be in the extreme corner of the roof to see it (and maybe leaning slightly over the edge), but the Manhattan skyline is totally visible.

See? There's the Empire State Building! And the Chrysler Building! OK, you kind of have to squint to see that one.

After a slice and some shopping in Danielle's new neighborhood (Williamsburg), we met the boys back at the hotel and headed to a charming little organic Italian bistro in Nolita.



There, I attempted to take a picture of Chris in which he did not look retarded. I considered this a pretty stellar effort.

After dinner, Danielle and I headed to the Upper East Side for a mini Mizzou reunion, at which we drank way too much beer and wine and ate way too much seven-layer dip. (The latter indulgence was not appreciated by Chris and Lee later that night when we drunkenly pounced on them while they were trying to sleep.)

Why is it that hung-over Laguna Beach-watching marathons seem so much more cool when you're in a room with a view like this?

After watching a few episodes of Laguna Beach the next morning, I dragged everyone down to the Magnolia Bakery. ("These cupcakes had better be laced with crack" was Danielle's comment upon seeing the crowd inside.) On the way there, I spotted Dan from The Real World: Miami also strolling around the neighborhood, causing me to bemoan the fact that the only "celebrities" that I ever seem to run into are former Real World/Road Rules cast members. (Seriously. I've also seen Sarah from the Miami season at Lilith Fair, Rachel from the second New York season at a college party, and Piggy from Road Rules Australia while shopping in London.) Of course, none of my friends believed me and chastized me for not saying anything to him ("But he's not a real celebrity!" was my defense), until Chris and Lee saw him poke his head into the bakery while Danielle and I were waiting in line to buy our cupcakes.



Danielle prepares to take her very first bite of a non-crack-laced-but-still-very-tasty Magnolia Bakery cupcake.

After feasting on the cupcakes (and lunch from the Whole Foods in the new Time Warner Center), we spent some time chillin' in the park, alternately watching the gay male sunbathers and the skywriting advertisements overhead.



Sorry, I didn't get any pictures of the gay male sunbathers. Try to contain your disappointment.

Finally, as we left the park to head back to the hotel, I was able to achieve the one goal I had set for myself for my weekend in New York: Hear and/or say something worthy of submission to Overheard in New York. As a family walked by us, we heard the dad scream at his kid, "It's Sunday in the park! It's beautiful! Cut it out!"

Priceless.

Monday morning realizations
There really is very little difference between instant oatmeal and glue. Gross. I am in desperate need of a trip to the grocery store.

Extra! Extra!
Pictures from D.C. are now up! See me perform death-defying stunts, such as holding up the Washington Monument with one hand (again)! See Nikki transform herself into a vodka mommy with the help of some large sunglasses and a bottle of water! See Dave get chewed up and spit out by the ocean! See me make friends with a duck! (No, really! And not even a dead one!)

You can find all this excitement (and more) right here.

Other stuff
My parents sent me a card in the mail yesterday that said, "You are a daughter who has never done anything to cause us worry and stress...(open card)...Have you?!" Oh, Lord. They're onto me.

This morning, I woke up to U2's "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For." That sounds about right.

Lost in...mangoes
Ever since this lovely lass turned me on to cinnamon mangoes and I turned myself on to Lost, the combination of the two has been my favorite mid-week summer treat. The sudden chill in the air had already indicated such, but tonight as I peeled back the skin of the mango and the juice ran down my fingers, it hit me even harder that summer is almost over. Mangoes will soon be out of season, and Lost is starting a new season. I only have one week left before I have to bid my favorite summer ritual good-bye, but until then, I'm holding on to the summer for as long as I can.

“Used, but in a good way”
When I was growing up, I hated Labor Day, mostly because my parents, citing horrible traffic, never let us go anywhere. Consequently, I spent most of the Labor Days of my youth sitting around the house, bemoaning the lack of anything watchable on TV. Perhaps this is why, now that I’m an adult, I feel the need to pack as much activity and excitement as possible into my Labor Day weekends. I have to say, I think I’m making up for lost time pretty well.

Most of the weekend was Reunion Redux with Diana, Kristen, and Nikki, moved a few states east and with a soundtrack provided by The Killers and The Scissor Sisters rather than Prince. Much like last time, there was the obligatory game of “I’ve Never,” along with its subsequent reminder that we were far more outrageous in college, the forcing of an unsuspecting and easygoing male to participate in all the girly bonding, and the constant monitoring of Diana to make sure she was on the correct escalator (really never going to live that one down, D). But this time, we spent most of the weekend talking about weddings and babies, which just proves how old we’ve gotten. (The hangovers we were all blessed with on Sunday morning after consuming far less alcohol than we used to on any given night in college also proved this point quite nicely.)

After bidding the girls farewell, I headed with Dave to the shore, where the state of Delaware proceeded to punish me quite harshly for all those times I told people it didn’t exist, first by knocking me over several times with large waves (and nearly stealing half of my swimsuit, which I guess is pretty fitting karmic retribution, considering I only paid for half of the swimsuit to begin with), and then by serving up some pretty horrible traffic on the drive home. Although I correctly pointed out to Dave that much of the time we’ve spent together has resulted in one near-death experience or another (whether by waves, snow, or Tilt-a-Whirl), I’ve come to discover that peril is not always such a bad thing, particularly when it’s synonymous with adventure.

Next weekend: Lather, rinse, repeat (well, not exactly) in New York. I’m looking forward to the end of September, when I’ll get to sleep again. But lack of sleep is not always a bad thing either, you know.

This week has been way too long
The following things, both of which have happened in the past hour, should provide you with some idea of my mental clarity at the moment:

First: I was listening to iTunes, which I’d earlier set to shuffle my entire music library. I was quite pleased (although somewhat mystified) that it seemed to be playing all of my favorite songs, one right after the other, and it took me approximately seven songs to realize that this was because I’d since clicked over to my Top 25 list (not set on shuffle).

Second: I was proofing a story I’d written, and I kept finding all these things wrong with it—little nitpicky things like misplaced commas or word choices that sounded strange. Since I'd already been over changes with my editor, I wondered who could have made these changes without my knowledge. So I checked the original document—turns out I actually wrote all of those things in the first place.

Thank God tomorrow is the beginning of a long weekend.