My Own Planet

Another wedding, another tally
No. of weddings attended: 3
No. of weddings left to attend: 1
No. of times seen Hugh Grant at wedding: 0
No. of times had flight attendant who looks like Topher Grace on flight home from wedding, therefore somewhat making up for the complete lack of Hugh Grant: 1

I think it's safe to say that, by this point, I've officially overdosed on weddings. It probably didn't help that the parts of this weekend not spent at an actual wedding were consumed with discussions of Nikki's upcoming wedding. (Even when we made a conscious effort to stop talking about the wedding, the conversation somehow always circled back around. It's like a disease! One that, strangely enough, only seems to afflict women.) Anyway, I like weddings as much as the next person, but I think if I see one more A-line satin strapless gown, I'm going to lapse into a coma. So I'm seriously considering skipping the last wedding on my social calendar. Of course, I will probably find out later that this was the wedding Hugh Grant chose to attend. I realize that the chances of Hugh Grant being at a wedding in western Kentucky are slim to none, but you know, that's just my luck.

Live from my new iBook...
It's another mundane post! But it does bear the distinction of being the first blog entry to be posted from my new computer. Let's all take a moment to savor this momentous and joyful occasion.

All right, that's enough of that.

Is this a sign?
So remember that time I was like, "Should I get my hair cut short?" and you were all like, "No! Absolutely not!" and I was like, "Whatever, I'm doing it anyway!"? Yeah. So today was supposed to be the big haircut day. I was supposed to leave work early and go to the salon so I would have plenty of time to fuss over my hair before meeting some friends for dinner/drinks. (I can't stand sitting at home after I get a haircut.) But this morning, I got a message from my hairstylist's husband, saying that they had been out for sushi last night, and now my hairstylist was deathly ill and would have to reschedule my haircut.

Which made me wonder...it's one thing to ignore the advice of my friends, but when the universe all but tells me not to cut my hair short, maybe I should listen. I mean, I think we all know the universe can be pretty evil sometimes.

But it's just hair, right? It grows back.

So whatever, universe, I'm doing it anyway! (Please don't hurt me.)

Uh-oh
I can't really explain it, but there's something about the combination of cold air, the scent of Organic Bath Company's Honey Chai lotion, and Jeff Buckley's voice singing "Lover, You Should've Come Over" that makes me more than a little nostalgic for the agony and ecstasy of writing a novel in a month.

"More than a little nostalgic" is an understatement. It makes me want to do it again.

But then I realize that we're T-minus five days from the start date, and by this time last year, I not only had a concrete idea, but also pages upon pages of notes and maps and diagrams about where I wanted my story to go (not that I didn't make most of the middle of it up on the fly anyway...shh, don't tell anyone). This year, I don't even have a presidential debate to bless me with the germ of an idea.

And then it hits me that not having an idea is the least of my problems, because I've got two major deadlines next month that I'm not even close to hitting, not to mention a mountain of freelance work that's about to descend upon me (which may or may not be one of the reasons my boss was so eager to buy me a computer).

So it's quite probable that, by the time the end of November rolls around, I will have written close to 50,000 words anyway. I'm just betting there will be more agony than ecstasy involved this time.

"Manic Monday" doesn't even begin to cover it
Oh, Susanna Hoffs, you just have no idea. Between last Monday's crying and screaming of obscenities and today's...well, I don't even want to get into it right now, but suffice it to say that tears were shed and obscenities were, if not screamed, uttered in louder-than-normal tones, Mondays in October really aren't shaping up too well. So is it any wonder that I'm considering staying in the greater northern Illinois/central Wisconsin area an extra day after my big wedding weekend and blaming it on a missed and/or cancelled flight? Of course, given what happened to me the last time I attended a wedding for one of my study-abroad friends, it's highly possible I won't have to make up excuses at all...in which case, I'm not sure that would be any improvement on the current state of my Mondays.

Q: What's black and white and red [sic] all over?
A: My new loot! Yesterday was payday, and I took full advantage of it by doing some much-needed shopping...and I also got an unexpected gift. Read on for descriptions of the loot (or stop reading now if you don't really care).

Black
-A space heater. Before the start of every winter, I am forced to think of some sort of solution to keep the gas bill for my drafty apartment from reaching astronomical levels. Last year, it was those shrink-wrap window coverings, which took me like a week to install and promptly fell down after about a day. Not about to go down that road again, I reasoned that I could just take my keep-cool-in-the-summer strategy (i.e., run the air-conditioning for a few hours each evening, then sleep with a small fan going) and apply it to the winter--hence, the space heater. Now we'll just have to see if it works. Regardless, it's got to be better than spending a week struggling with that shrink-wrap nonsense.

-A new pair of khakis. These aren't actually black; they're gray, but I'm putting them into the "black" category, because otherwise they won't fit with this little theme I've got going here. I've been half-heartedly looking for some new khakis for a while now, because the only pair I have is about two sizes too big, so I was pleased to find a pair in my (correct) size on the Old Navy sale rack. As a bonus, they make my butt look flat, which, if you know my butt, is a good thing. (By the way, if you're sitting at home right now going, "Yeah, I do know Clare's butt," let me just say that I am officially creeped out.)

Red
-Paint for my (sort of) new kitchen table. I bought the table months ago during my big IKEA shopping spree, but I've been waiting to paint it until it cools off (which it has; note to self: you may live in Alabama, but it is almost November, and it is too cold to be wearing flip-flops). Maybe it's just me (although I suspect it's not just me), but I have to like both the color and the name of a paint before I can buy it. Heirloom Red was out for that reason, but I was torn between Radiant Red and Posh Red. Finally, I went with Posh, because it was a little darker (I'm hoping this will translate into fewer coats) and because I figured that, with that name, my kitchen table could function as a sort of homage to Hannah and Ann's former neighbors, David and Victoria Beckham.

White
-A new winter coat. It makes me sadder than it probably should to have to give up my old winter coat, which was red and had a big, dramatic collar. But like the khakis, it had also gotten a little too roomy. So I was comforted when I found a gorgeous winter-white, empire-waist, J.Crew-esque coat at Old Navy for the rock-bottom price of $50. (The cashier, when she rang me up, even remarked what a good deal it was, which seems to be happening to me a lot lately. But no, for those of you who are wondering, I didn't accidentally steal anything this time.)

-An iBook. This, obviously, was the unexpected gift. I had mentioned to my freelance boss a few weeks ago that I was planning to buy one as a Christmas present for myself. She asked if she could help pay for it, but I felt kind of weird about that, so I asked if she would buy me the Office software for it instead (since I'd be using the software primarily for my work for her). We had the whole deal worked out, but yesterday, I had to ask her to send me a presentation at work, since I don't have Power Point at home. She asked when I'd be getting the new computer so she could hook me up with the Power Point software, and I told her not until December. (I had plans to ship it to my parents' house so I could open it on Christmas morning, which frightens me because I am turning into my mother, knowing what my Christmas presents are, yet not allowing myself to have them until Christmas.) She asked if she helped pay for it if I could get it sooner, and I said probably not, and went on to try to explain the intricate logic I had worked out in my head as far as how I was going to purchase the computer. (I won't bore you with it here, because really...it doesn't make much sense.) Anyway, to make a long story short, she asked me what computer I was looking at, I told her the iBook, and she was like, "Let me buy it for you!" We went back and forth on that one for a while ("No, that's too generous!", "No, it's a tax write-off!", etc.) before I agreed to let her do it, and then her husband and I had a big debate over iBook vs. Powerbook (he thought I'd appreciate the extra speed and capability; I thought stuff like that would be wasted on someone who basically uses her computer to surf the Internet and write stuff in Word), but finally, it was official: I am getting a new iBook! For free! All right, technically, the company will own the computer, and I said I'd give it back if I stop freelancing for them within the next two years, but I don't forsee that happening. So I'm getting a new iBook! For free! That's better than the space heater and the khakis and the paint and the coat combined.

What hath Ben Affleck wrought?
All right, people. This celebrity name-combining thing has really gotten out of hand now.

I thought we'd hit the apex with BenGar, but apparently I was wrong. Because now it seems that the gossip-hounds are actually feuding over which nickname--Vincifer or Vaughniston--will reign supreme over the now-apparently-official (though when is any of this ever really official?) coupling of Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn. Autumn alerted me to the debate earlier this week, but it was not until last night, when I saw that it was the top story on Access Hollywood, that I realized just how ridiculous things had gotten.

In an attempt to put an end to all the madness, I propose a compromise: Since one is a combination of first names and the other of last names, why not just use both? Vincifer Vaughniston! It's perfect! (Well, as long as Jen doesn't expect a new nickname once she inevitably hooks up with Affleck, because really, they've both taken more than their fair share by now.) Maybe, just maybe, having to type and/or say that mouthful over and over will convince celebrity journalists the world over to stop this ridiculous name-combining practice because it is not cute it is just annoying and you all know it.

I'm really just pissed because no one ever used Kennée.

Love is in the blogs
Among the blogs I read on a daily basis, I've started to notice a trend, which is that their authors seem to be falling in love, left and right, like there's no tomorrow. It's almost Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes-esque, only without the creepy Scientology brainwashing/publicity-stunt PDAs/mysterious pregnancy that you know had to be created artificially because everyone knows Tom Cruise is as gay as a box of birds, not to mention a stark-raving lunatic factor. All right, so other than the super-speed at which these courtships seem to be occuring, I guess they're nothing like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes at all, which is a good thing, since most of these people are actually my friends in real life, and I would not want them to be betrothed to/knocked up by crazy gay Scientologists.

First there was Jessica, who is actually not my friend in real life, but rather a friend of Chase's. But you know, any friend of Chase's is a friend of mine. (This particularly applies to Spider-Man hottie James Franco, whose movie Chase apparently has a part in, a fact that he somehow forgot to mention to me. Tsk, tsk.) Anyway. I began reading Jessica's blog this summer, when she had just broken up with her long-term boyfriend. A week later, she went on a date. Another week after that, she and that date had decided they wanted to get married. Her most recent entry finds her trying on wedding dresses with someone I can only assume is actually MY mother, because she's the only person I know who behaves in such a manner while shopping with her daughters.

Next up was Lisa, who moved to South Carolina and within weeks had a super-fabulous boyfriend. (I've been living in the South for three years, mind you, and have been on, like, three dates. One of which may not have even been a date.) After about a month, he dropped the L-word, and Lisa scattered words like "bliss" and "cloud nine" liberally about her blog.

Then there's Danielle, who, after a somewhat checkered dating history in Birmingham (this girl knows what I'm dealing with here), moved to New York, decided to give online dating a whirl, and within, like, a week had met her friggin' soul mate.

Finally, KT joins the fray, with a new blog post so sweet that if it doesn't make your heart pound, too...well, you might want to get that checked out, because there's a large possibility your heart might be made of stone.

I probably wouldn't have ever pegged this as a trend if all four of these ladies' blogs didn't happen to be located right next to each other in the bookmarks folder that I click through when I'm reading blogs at work. Some days, perusing one gushing blog post after another can start to get tiring, but most of the time, I just find it an odd coincidence. It's also worth noting that several of the girls toward the middle of my bookmarks folder (Kristin, Rachel, Kella) are also very much in love, but have been so for a bit longer. So it seems that my bookmarks folder not only controls which of my blogging friends fall in love, but also at what speed they do so.

Given this inexplicable power I now seem to possess, I'm willing to use it to help you, my blogging friends, in your romantic endeavors. Been looking for love in all the wrong places? Put in for a transfer to the bottom of the list. Is your torrid love affair moving a little too fast for your liking? Let me know, and I'll move you up a few places. Now that I've discovered a new magical blog power, I fully intend to use it for good instead of evil. (Not that getting Julia DeMato kicked off American Idol wasn't good. Because it was. But this will be much better. Unless one of you falls in love with Julia DeMato, in which case, watch out.)

The patron saint of travel stories
It’s not often that a trip to cover a story begins with crying and the screaming of obscenities and ends with a smile. But this latest trip to Atlanta did, thanks to the burnt-out “O” on the neon sign of a storage building, which made the name of St. Rage visible for miles.

Not that buying dinner plates for $1.99 at IKEA hadn’t already done wonders to improve my mood, but the knowledge that St. Rage was looking out for us as we finally made our way home caused the smile that had eluded me for most of the trip to creep across my face.

In lieu of an actual review of Elizabethtown
I would just like to say that I would very much enjoy it if Cameron Crowe would be my boyfriend and make me lots and lots of mix tapes. And also maybe occasionally stand outside my window and play some of those mix tapes whilst holding a boom box over his head. That would be swell.

Of course, I realize this is probably never going to happen (and not just because I'd be facing some pretty stiff competition from Nikki and possibly about a million other girls our age), so I guess I'll just have to be content with buying the movie's soundtrack.

The wedding tally continues
No. of weddings attended: 2
No. of weddings left to attend: 2
No. of times seen Hugh Grant at wedding: 0

I'm beginning to notice a pattern developing here.

Some things you should know about me, in relation to works of fiction
One: I love it when I come across characters in books, movies, TV shows, etc., who have the same name as me, particularly if it's spelled the same way. While I'd probably still watch Lost even if they did away with Claire (God forbid, because then that poor baby would have to be raised by Charlie), and while I'd still probably think The Time Traveler's Wife was an excellent book even if one of the main characters weren't named Clare, you should know that the presence of Clare Arnold in the later seasons of 90210 had much to do with why I continued to watch that show long after it was cool (or even acceptable) to do so.

Two: I love it when places I have lived or spent extensive amounts of time in are mentioned in songs or used as the settings for books or movies. I probably would've forgotten about The Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Scar Tissue" or John Mellencamp's "I Saw Her First" a long time ago, were it not for their respective lyrics about Kentucky girls. There's also a reason why many of the movies in my personal collection are set in London.

Given these two facts, it's hardly surprising that I’m going to see Elizabethtown (in which Kirsten Dunst plays a Kentucky girl named Claire) when it opens tonight. (It’s not like the Cameron Crowe/Orlando Bloom combo was exactly keeping me away from the theater, though, I must admit.)

However, I do have a slight problem with this movie already, which is that its very title is somewhat inaccurate. People from Elizabethtown (or anywhere in Kentucky, really) don’t actually call it Elizabethtown—they call it E-town. (In fact, most of the instances in which I myself have actually referred to it by its proper name occur in this paragraph.) I didn’t mind it so much in the title of the movie (that technically being the first reference and all), but I’ve also heard characters—supposedly E-town natives—referring to it as Elizabethtown in the previews, and this is an inaccuracy I just cannot tolerate. It would be like setting a movie in Louisville and then having all of your characters refer to it as "Louie-ville." (It's "Lew-a-vuhl," you damn Yankees!)

I am willing to overlook this technicality, though, as long as the movie contains a scene filmed at the White Castle that my friends and I used to sneak out to in the middle of the night on band trips. As far as I know, this is pretty much the only thing to do for entertainment in E-town, so I’m fairly certain it will be included.

Well, it’s official
Everyone I know has better stationery than me.

You’ve already heard about Holly and the mermaid card. Then yesterday, I got the most wonderful little French thank-you note from Kate that was so freaking adorable that I can’t even begin to fathom where she got it, because I didn’t come across anything nearly that cute the entire week I was actually in France. And we’re not even going to talk about Dave, who may or may not have super-swanky stationery (not that there's anything wrong with that), but if, let's say, he did, I certainly would not find that at all intimidating, because it is perfectly natural and normal for boys to have excellent taste in paper products.*

What makes it all the more distressing is that I often interview stationery designers for my job. So if anyone should know where to find good stationery, it’s me. And sure, if you want to, say, announce the birth of your new baby, I can totally hook you up. But if what you need is some fun, cool, everyday stationery, perfect for penning a quick missive to a dear friend in a far-away state, well, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I’ve looked! Believe me, I’ve looked. But apparently this type of stationery is only available at the Super-Cool Secret Stationery Store, the location of which I am not privy to.

In my desperation for a cool-stationery fix, I’ve taken to ripping out the pages of an Anne Taintor journal Nikki gave me a few years ago, rationalizing that the blog pretty much renders journals useless anyway. It’s not quite the same, but there is something satisfying about writing letters on paper that says things like “She refused to let common sense cloud her judgment.”

*Ed. note: This sentence has been altered slightly (or completely overhauled, depending on how you want to look at it) to protect the innocent and/or those ashamed by the fact that they have good stationery.

Pregnant beauty queens
Always an entertaining topic, that.

Growing up in a small Southern town, I thought I'd seen pretty much everything there is to see in the realm of pregnant beauty queens. First there was the prom queen candidate whose pregnancy news was leaked mere weeks before the big night, setting off a scandal that, in our town, was on par with the biggest and baddest -gates ever to come out of Washington. An emergency community meeting was held to discuss the crisis, and my friend Kim and I went because, it being my 18th birthday, this was the best we could find in the way of entertainment. And entertaining it was, as morally outraged parents fretted over what could be done about the expectant prom-queen-and-mother-to-be whose picture and title had already been printed in that year’s yearbook. Somewhere in the midst of all this hand-wringing, I piped up and said I thought we should just do away with the prom queen thing altogether, as it’s really just a stupid and meaningless popularity contest. This was met with shocked gasps from most of the room, and a look of pure respect and adoration from my father that I will never forget.

A year and a half after that scandal died down, a new one broke, this time personally involving my family. In October, my sister had been named first runner up in the town beauty pageant, losing out to a girl who was a friend of hers, who just happened to be dating one of my friends. Fast-forward to the following summer: I’m home from college, working at the local state park, and one day the news breaks that my friend has knocked up my sister’s friend. This time there was no big meeting allowing me to voice my opinion that beauty pageants are stupid and pointless popularity contests; instead, my former calculus teacher, who was head of the pageant committee, quietly stripped the other girl of her title and crown and transferred them to my sister. Everyone then tried to pretend like nothing had happened, except for me, because I thought the story was funny as hell and took every conceivable opportunity to retell it. (Really. My parents even had to warn me before I went on Millionaire not to tell the story to Regis.)

So as you can see, I thought I had some pretty good pregnant beauty queen stories. But nothing can top the story told to me this morning by my friend Lindsay, who is a freelance beauty pageant judge (no, really) in her spare time. Apparently, during the intermission of the small-town beauty pageant she was judging last night, she and her fellow judges were leaked the information that one of the contestants was seven months pregnant and had taped down her belly so the bulge wouldn’t show.

Needless to say, I told Lindsay she had to take me along to the next small-town beauty pageant she judges. Because, yes, they may be stupid and pointless popularity contests, but you just can’t beat a good pregnant-beauty-queen scandal.

I've got mail!
Today was one of those days, one of those long, stressful, meeting-filled days, when you come home and, after two mail-less days (thanks a lot, Columbus), just really need to find something good in the mailbox.

It's rare that such serendipity actually occurs, but today it did. First on deck was a thinking-of-you card from Holly, which, as a bonus, featured a mermaid. I wasn't aware they made thinking-of-you cards with mermaids on them, but leave it to Holly to find one for me. I also got a birthday greeting for Michael Stipe (my car, not the lead singer of R.E.M.), who will be two on Monday. Actually, the dealership was more accurate on this one--it's really an anniversary rather than a birthday, since it's the date we first met and drove off into the sunset (or cold drizzle, as it happened) together, and not the date that he was birthed from the assembly line. But I prefer birthdays to anniversaries, given the greater chance for cake, so it shall remain a birthday in my mind.

I also got a brand-new Target card, which is not so much good as it is really, really bad and evil. I guess when I cut the old one up (coincidentally, also on the night I first met Michael Stipe) I never thought that they would actually send me a new one when it expired. And really, Target has outdone itself this time in its evil attempts to seduce me--instead of sending me another plain, boring red card, they sent me one that's all shiny and sparkly. It's so pretty that I hate to destroy it. I mean, couldn't I just keep it in my wallet so I can admire it from time to time? No. No! That's exactly what they want. But I still can't bring myself to throw it away, so I'm currently trying to come up with some mosaic-type craft project that I can use it for. But until then, it's just sitting here, intact, taunting me. Damn you, Target card! I don't need this today!

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks
Those of you who are acquainted with my fabulous former roomie, Diana, probably are aware of the fact that she has a tiny obsession with baseball (specifically of the St. Louis Cardinals variety). It was a passion that, combined with her love for Diet Coke, led my father to speculate on more than one occasion that Diana was his actual daughter and had been switched with me at birth. Given her obsession, it should come to no surprise to those who know her that when Diana finally started a blog, it would be all about baseball.

WARNING: I repeat, the blog you are about to read is all about baseball.

Now, I enjoy going to a baseball game as much as the next person, but that admittedly has more to do with the cheap beer and ample opportunities to make fun of people's outfits than it does the actual game itself. In fact, until Diana informed me otherwise, I was under the impression that DL stood for "down low" (which, OK, technically it does, but not so much in this context).

Clearly, this is not a blog for me.

But I realize there are some of you who might enjoy baseball for more than just the beer and bad fashion sense (neither of which, I'm assuming, will be discussed on Diana's blog), and therefore I have added Birds-on-Bat Girl to my list o' links. If you're like me, and your favorite sport is making fun of people's outfits...well, we've got a blog for that here, too.

Whirlwind
Last night: Attended bachelorette party for my friend Robyn, who is getting married next weekend. Rode a mechanical bull in between shots of tequila. Said to a man probably twice my age, "Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?" (Disclaimer: This was done as part of the official bachelorette party scavenger hunt--item: "Use a cheesy pick-up line on a stranger"--and I unfortunately couldn't remember any of Brian's great lines, so I had to go with the tried-and-true classic. But given that the shoes in question were actual jazz shoes, he was quite probably gay.)

Today: Drove to Florida and back in the same day to watch my friend Sallie get married to her high-school sweetheart. Sang along with my CDs at the top of my lungs all the way there and most of the way back. Have a sore throat now as a result. (But you should hear my version of Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain." It. Is. Awesome.)

Tomorrow: Seeing one of the two Indigo Girls perform live for a mere $4. Dinner and Desperate Housewives with friends.

If every weekend were like this one, I'd die of exhaustion after about a month. But it's not a bad thing to have one every now and then.

For those of you keeping score at home
No. of weddings attended: 1
No. of weddings left to attend: 3
No. of times seen Hugh Grant at wedding: 0

Very bad start.

I’m sorry, what decade is this again?
Yesterday, I overheard our editorial assistant telling someone that she hopes she won’t have to work once she gets married, because she’d really just like to be able to sleep in, go to the gym, and maybe run an errand or two every day. They were having this conversation while standing right next to my desk, and I had to turn my head so she wouldn’t notice the look of abject horror plainly plastered on my face.

It’s not like I blame her for wanting to sleep late, because God knows I don’t relish waking up at 7:00 every morning. I’ve often thought that I might someday like to get to the point in my career where I can work from home, although I’ve worked from home before, and I’m here to tell you it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And I’m trying not to judge her, because I realize that everyone has their own priorities in life, and those priorities might often be different than my own.

But oh my God, I can't stand that shit.

I’m not even going to get into the issue of depending on another person as your sole means of survival—that’s not something I could ever do (which may have something to do with the way I was raised, as my mother has worked part- or full-time her entire life, as have both of my grandmothers), but it doesn’t seem to bother some people, and that’s their choice. The idea that the work that I take such pride in, that I pour my heart and soul into, is just someone else’s idea of killing time until she’s able to find herself a rich man is more than a little frustrating. But what really gets me is that she’s basically admitted that her life’s ambition is to do nothing. Doing nothing has it perks, don’t get me wrong, but to base your entire life around it is a concept so mind-numbing that I can’t even begin to comprehend it. I know that you can’t (or shouldn’t) make your work the sole purpose of your life, and I know that I’m the type of person who sometimes has to remind herself of that. There are many other things in life that make it fulfilling, purposeful, worth living. I just can’t imagine that picking up the dry cleaning is one of those things. No wonder the Housewives are so desperate.

Oh, yeah
So I'm sure you were all riveted by the story of my perpetually clogged drain (and for those who actually were riveted, let me just say that the whole "sticking a coat hanger down there and hoping for the best" thing totally didn't work), but I thought you might also like to know the outcome of that little experiment I had going where I let you all make semi-important life decisions for me. With 95 percent of precincts reporting (and I'm assuming the other 5 percent don't really care), the results are as follows:

8 votes for not cutting my hair
0 votes for cutting my hair
2 undecided

7 votes for moving to Maine
0 votes for not moving to Maine
2 undecided

Also, because some of you out there just have to be renegades when it comes to this sort of thing, I also got the following write-in votes:

2 votes for me moving to New York (but one of these is being thrown out, as they were both from Danielle)
2 votes for me moving to Wisconsin
1 vote for me moving to Minneapolis
1 vote for me moving to Ohio
2 votes for "OK, fine, if you're not going to move to the exact city I live in, then at least move to somewhere in the Midwest"
1 vote for Dave cutting his hair and moving to Maine

After carefully analyzing the results, I have made a decision, which is (drumroll, please)...

I am cutting my hair and not moving to Maine!

I know, I know. First I solicit your advice, and then I go and ignore...well, pretty much all of it. But here's the way I see it: Hair grows back relatively quickly, whereas cross-country moves are kind of hard to undo if it turns out they don't suit you. Actually, I'm not totally sold on the hair thing, but I figured if I didn't at least do one of the two things, I'd be pretty lame. As I read back over all the comments, though, I'm starting to second-guess my decision on Maine, too. Crap. Is this where democracy has gotten us?

Still clogged after all these...um, hours
So you call yourself a plumber, do you, Liquid Plumr? Actually, it appears that you call yourself a "plumr," and I'm beginning to think the key to your ineptitude lies in the omission of those two small but important letters. How else am I to explain the fact that my bathtub drain seems to be working worse after I used you than it was before? Satisfaction guaranteed, my ass.

Then again, maybe this is my fault. I mean, I know there's probably enough hair down there to outfit Cher with a few new wigs, so it can't be an easy job for you. I'm willing to give you one more chance, this time in gel form, but I'm warning you--if you don't get your act together, I'm going Drano so fast you won't know what hit you.

(I realize at this point, I should probably just give up on the home remedies and call my landlord, but he specifically told me when I signed my lease that he hates getting calls about clogged bathtub drains. He followed this with an explanation of how to keep the drains from getting clogged, but I had already tuned out by that point, which, in retrospect, was maybe not the smartest decision. Hmm, maybe I should move to Maine just so I don't have to deal with this.)

Choose [my] own adventure
Earlier today, I was in a quandary about what to buy at the store to make for dinner this week. None of my usual options (read: the approximately three things I can actually cook) sounded appetizing. That's when I remembered Amber and her vegetarian corndogs--and just like that, dinner was saved!

Then it hit me: Perhaps my fellow bloggers do know best. In light of this realization, I shall present, for a vote amongst my readership, a few other decisions I am currently struggling with. Whichever option receives the most votes will be the one I choose!*

*Disclaimer: This is pretty much a total lie. I'm probably going to end up doing whatever I want to anyway, but I thought this might be a neat little experiment.

Item #1: New Haircut
Ever since seeing Selma Blair's cute short haircut yesterday in A Guy Thing (a movie that wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be when I rented it, which still begs the question of why I rented it in the first place if I thought it was going to be so bad), I've been toying with the idea of chopping a good portion of my hair off.

Exhibit A: The haircut that launched a thousand misguided ideas about chopping one's hair off.

This cut is pretty similar to Gwyneth Paltrow's in Sliding Doors, which is the other haircut that has inspired me the past few times I've gotten most of my hair hacked off.

Exhibit B: The other haircut that launched a thousand misguided ideas about...well, you know the rest.

The thing is, this haircut is really only good for girls like Selma and Gwyneth, who have very dainty features--in other words, not me. I mean, I've had this haircut. I know it's not the best one for me. But at this point, my hair is driving me so freaking crazy that I almost don't care. Notice the almost. That's why I'm putting the fate of my hair in the hands of you, my faithful readers. Vote below! (But not before you read Item 2 on tonight's ballot.)

Item #2: New Job
OK, so. I actually don't want a new job. I love my job! But lately (and by "lately," I mean for the past year and a half or so), I've been craving a change of scenery. Short of requesting that my entire office pick up and move somewhere with me (which I don't think is going to go over too well), this means looking for a new job. I've been halfheartedly browsing around here and there, and today I came across a job at my level that sounded really awesome...and it's in Maine.

I went to Maine with my family when I was small, and it's one of the most gorgeous places I've ever laid eyes on. But to go from a relatively urban city in the South to a small town in super-northern New England might be a more drastic scenery change than I'd anticipated. Which is why I'm also putting this decision in your capable hands, dear readers. I mean, you've already chosen my dinner! Surely that entitles you to make a life-changing decision or two as well!

So vote now, and please make sure you mark your ballots accurately and completely, as I don't particularly want this decision to end up in the hands of the Supreme Court. I think they've got enough to deal with over there. Plus, I bet they don't know anything about vegetarian corndogs.