My Own Planet

I don't think this is what Cosmo meant when they said that multiples are good
Lately, I've picked up the really bad habit of eating multiple meals. I'm not sure where this came from, but I do know it started on Wednesday when I had three lunches. Yes, three. I know. This evil was clearly borne out of the joint facts that my appointed lunch (a PB&J and a few apple slices) didn't quite fill me up, and that I knew I would be attending my super-grueling kickboxing class that evening, and therefore needed fuel. So when I got back in from my post-(first) lunch walk around the lake, I helped myself to some shrimp and orzo salad from the day before. That was going to be it, but as I came back into the kitchen to put my salad bowl in the dishwasher, I smelled the most delicious smell...one of our food editors had randomly received some barbecue in the mail and was heating it up to share with everyone. What am I supposed to do? I'm leaving the South soon! Who knows when I will again get to have good barbecue? Granted, that excuse doesn't exactly justify the small helping of macaroni and cheese I had along with it, but like I can really be expected to resist macaroni and cheese, too. That's even harder than resisting barbecue.

I consoled myself with the justification that this was a one-off brought on by special circumstances (although after all that, our regular dominatrix-esque kickboxing instructor was out, so I ended up not burning nearly the calories I had anticipated), but it happened again last night. My friends called me shortly after I got home, wanting to know if I wanted to go for a walk and then dinner. I said yes to the walk (still needing to burn off those calories from my three lunches the day before), but, as we weren't going to start walking until 6:30 or 7 and I wasn't feeling their choice of restaurant, I decided to go ahead and eat. Once they arrived, they'd changed their mind on the restaurant, settling on one in my neighborhood, so I agreed to go along and get a beer. But I hate being without food when other people are eating, so I ordered a side of fries. Which, of course, ended up being a giant platter. Which, of course, I ate most of. Ugh.

You know, I was really hoping that Lisa's Magical Moving Diet would work wonders for me, too, but if this trend continues (and the copious snacking I've engaged in today suggests that it might), I'm not so sure that's going to happen.

Re: Britney
And now, for your reading pleasure, I present an e-mail exchange between my friend Elizabeth and me, on one of our favorite subjects--the continuing downward spiral of Britney Spears.

To: Clare
From: Elizabeth
Subject: Britney
Did you see where they're sort of confirming that Britney's pregnant with #2? I can't figure out how I feel about it. I just feel kind of sorry for her now. It's like she's keeps getting buried deeper and deeper underneath a white trash avalanche. Or that she's no longer able to outrun the hillbilly tsunami that's been trailing her since she broke up with Justin. I never thought I'd be rooting for her, but I suspect I'm only rooting for her because there's no way she's never going to be able to respectably stuff herself back into "Ooops I Did It Again" outfit. Ever.

To: Elizabeth
From: Clare
Subject: Re: Britney
I think I just feel sorry for the kids. I mean, those two idiots have nearly killed poor little Sean Preston half a dozen times already, and he's not even a year old. Now they're bringing another poor, defenseless infant into the fray? In my opinion, Britney brought this white trashiness on herself and, while it does seem that it's spiraling out of control, my sympathy lies with the poor children who had the dire misfortune to be born the spawn of Britney Spears and Kevin Federline.

To: Clare
From: Elizabeth
Subject: Re: Britney
Yeah, I tend to forget that these are actually little human beings, not dolls, involved. They've got no chance.

And so, folks, this is how I'm spending my last few precious days at my job--gossiping with my co-workers about Britney Spears. Which, come to think of it, is not all that different from how I've spent the past year and a half at my job, although I suppose I did find time to actually get some work done at some point. Still, not bad.

The saddest good-bye
Since I'm still in Birmingham, I haven't actually said good-bye to any of my friends just yet, and so I realize that that will probably be sadder than the farewell I am about to describe. But only marginally. Because this weekend, I bid a tearful aideu to an item that has been by my side, for better or for worse (and by worse, I mean that time some of Diana's Bath & Body works product spilled on it while we were eating at the Columbia Mall Panera and it never quite came out), for more than five years.

That's right, friends. Yesterday I said good-bye to my Kookai purse.

Those of you who have known me for a while are probably familiar with the Kookai purse. Those of you who lived with me in Europe may be more intimately acquainted with it than others, as that is where I purchased it and proceeded to carry it absolutely everywhere with me while singing its praises to anyone who would listen.

That's because this is not just a purse. This is the perfect purse. Yes, it was special because it came from Kookai (a fact that it proudly advertised), and so I was pretty much assured that I wouldn't walk into a mall in America and see another girl carrying the same purse. And yes, it had the long strap I require in a purse so I can wear it across my chest, because God knows I can't actually be bothered to put in the effort required to carry a purse.

But it was more than that. The key to the purse's perfection was that it had all these perfect little compartments for my stuff. There was a wallet-sized pocket for my wallet. A little net to hold ticket stubs and business cards. A zipper pocket in the front for my keys. Another zipper pocket in the back for my passport. In short, this purse kept me organized like no other purse has since.

But there was the aforementioned shower gel stain that never quite came out. And on its final hurrah in Paris last year, I noticed that a few small holes had started to tear along the seams. I bought a far-inferior replacement purse at The Gap two years ago, and so I've slowly been phasing the Kookai purse out. Last night, I finally tossed it on the Goodwill pile. Now I just hope it can find a good home, with an owner who will take the time to mend it and give it another lease on life.


Farewell, friend. We've had a good run.

In Craigslist we trust
Since I began looking for a new job lo these many months ago, I've developed quite a close relationship with Craigslist. Although I checked the job listings in a few select cities (San Francisco, Chicago, D.C.) on a daily basis, I rarely found anything worth applying for. But the apartment listings? Oh, mama. That was a different story. It's probably fair to say that I became a little obsessed.

With each new job prospect, I'd jump on Craigslist and scan the apartment listings in an attempt to determine whether I could afford to live in the city on the salary that was being offered. Of course, once I started searching, it was kind of hard to stop. (Well, at least until said prospect was nipped in the bud. Then there was really no point in looking at apartments in strange cities.)

And so, Craigslist became sort of a hobby of mine. But that's all it was--a fun way to kill time, imagining myself in this high-rise studio in Miami or that loft in Baltimore. But this week, everything has changed. I finally found that right job (on Mediabistro, I should note, not Craigslist). I'm moving to D.C. in less than a month. And now, Craigslist has become a way of life.

Barely an hour goes by without a Craigslist jonesing, when I absolutely have to log on and see if any acceptable (read: cute, not insanely expensive, and a reasonable distance from work) apartments have been posted. I do this even though I know I'm not going to be able to actually procure an apartment until I'm actually in D.C. Sometimes I'll click over to the sublet listings--not because I'm particularly considering subletting anymore (although I did entertain the idea for a while), but because the apartment updates haven't provided me with enough of a fix.

Oh, but there's more--not only am I a Craigslist junkie, I am also a Craigslist...um, enabler, I guess. I've been charged with finding a new tenant for my current apartment so I don't have to pay my landlord a ridiculous sum of money to break my lease. After sending out a flier to a few friends with instructions to disseminate it "far and wide," I turned to (surprise, surprise) Craigslist.

This is where I began to have second thoughts about our relationship. A few times, I've run into someone in my building who's looking for an apartment, and they start asking me questions, and the interaction usually culminates in me giving them a tour of my apartment. I do this mainly because I know how frustrating my landlord can be to pin down, but always in the back of my mind, I'm thinking, "What if this person is really a serial killer? How stupid am I to have just invited them into my apartment?" Obviously, none of them were serial killers, but that doesn't mean it can't happen.

Needless to say, I had similar thoughts coursing through my mind as I prepared my Craigslist posting. Here I was, about to put pictures of my apartment out on the Internet, along with an invitation for all the Internet-reading strangers out there to come on over. The fact that I didn't list my name, actual address, phone number, or real e-mail address (I used the Craigslist-provided one) in the post made me feel a little better. But still--would I be able to weed out potential serial killers over e-mail? I'd like to think so, but again, you never know. Those serial killers can be pretty charming, I hear.

So far, I've gotten three queries about the apartment, and none of the people seem like serial killers. (I mean, one is an Ole Miss student! Serial killers don't go to Ole Miss, do they? I'm not sure what colleges serial killers attend, but something tells me it's not Ole Miss.) Anyway, the stellar response thus far has been enough to almost quell any thoughts of being serial killed. Because really, isn't the prospect of saving several hundred dollars worth the slight risk of being violently murdered? I certainly think so.

Gotta keep 'em separated
Just because two things are wonderful on their own, that doesn't necessarily mean they'll be great together. Take iPods and Cadbury Eggs, for example. My love for both of these things has been documented endlessly, and yet, as I discovered today, they don't really work too well when combined. (All right, I suppose if you were listening to your iPod while eating a Cadbury Egg, that would be pretty awesome, but sadly, this is not the situation in which I found myself today.)

Yesterday, I (perhaps mistakenly) mentioned to my co-worker Marcy, a photographer, that I've been rather bored at work lately, and by this morning, she had enlisted me as her assistant for an all-day, outdoor photo shoot. In truth, I was actually pleased with this turn of events, since the alternative appeared to be sitting at my desk all day, bored and shivering, as the temperature in my office has suddenly become quite similar to a frozen tundra. So I was happy to get out in the sun and make myself useful, although this did cause a shift in some of my other plans for the day.

Namely, it caused me to forget all about the Cadbury Egg I had tucked into my purse for a mid-afternoon snack, which I recalled again only when I reached for my keys at the end of the day and was met with goo. Apparently, the Cadbury Egg would have preferred sitting in the frozen-tundra office all day rather than in a warm vehicle. Most of the contents of my purse remained untouched by the goo, save my iPod, the top of which was covered with creamy milk chocolate and sugary fondant. I don't think I have to tell you that the top of your iPod is not exactly where you want your creamy milk chocolate and sugary fondant to go.

I rushed the iPod into the bathroom and performed an emergency cleaning. It was a successful effort on the whole--only the little indentation next to the headphone jack has a bit of yellow goo still stuck in it. I guess this will serve as a permanent reminder that, no matter how much I love them separately, iPods and Cadbury Eggs just don't mix.

Did you know there's such a thing as religious confetti?
I didn't, until a trip to Party City illuminated me yesterday. Sadly, "religious confetti" appears to consist mostly of doves, crosses, and the like, rather than tiny, glittery confetti Jesuses. Which is a damn shame, if you ask me.

Ouch.
Whenever someone sees my building's garage--which is old and scary and full of incredibly inconvenient concrete columns-- for the first time, they invariably marvel at how I am able to park there on a regular basis without incident. As I execute the precision maneuver required to exit the garage, they usually say something in the vein of, "I don't know how you do this." Upon which I smile beatifically and bask in the glow of my superior, well-honed parking skills.

But not any more. Now when people enter my garage for the first time, they will probably glance at the side of my car, then mutter, "Yeah, I can see how you did that." Upon which I will hang my head in shame, as "that" will refer to the giant gash in Michael Stipe's side, suffered yesterday when I took a turn around one of the concrete columns just a little too tight and was met with a scraping sound so unpleasant that it may have caused my blood to stop running in my veins for a few seconds. As soon as I pulled into the parking space, I jumped out of the car and discovered that the damage was just as bad as I'd feared. Not only was there a huge dent over the rear wheel, but I'd also managed to acquire a good deal of the column's red paint, which is not a good look for my grey car. While I should be able to cover up most of the scratches with a little bit of touch-up paint, I'm afraid the dent is going to have to serve as a permanent, glaring reminder of my parking hubris.

Jumping on the Carrie Bradshaw bandwagon
At the end of last week, through no apparent act of coordination on the part of their authors, three of the blogs I read regularly mentioned Carrie Bradshaw. And so I decided that, better late than never, it was time for me to mention Carrie Bradshaw, too.

Now, before you think that I'm just mentioning Carrie Bradshaw for the sake of mentioning Carrie Bradshaw (and also for the sake of saying Carrie Bradshaw over and over again) (Carrie Bradshaw), I had actually been thinking a great deal about Carrie Bradshaw before the coincidental mention of her name on so many blogs. As part of my Netflix free trial, I've gotten to watch the final season of Sex and the City, and during this sometimes painful journey, I have stumbled upon a theory: That the degree to which Carrie Bradshaw annoys me is directly proportional to the degree to which I am annoyed by her outfit.

Let's examine this: It's a fact that I did not always hate Carrie Bradshaw. During the first two seasons of the show, I found her perfectly tolerable, and actually even likable. I was even on her side for most of the third season, although careful scrutiny will reveal that this is where things started to unravel for Carrie and me. This is also when she seems to have picked up the habit of wearing black and brightly colored bras under sheer tops. Coincidence? I think not. She continued to wear on my nerves through most of the fourth season, and by season five and the first half of the sixth, I was ready to take a gun and put us both out of our misery.

For a long time, I didn't realize what was going on. I thought my hatred might have been brought on by the bad puns. The relentless high-pitched screaming. Her insistence on making everyone's problems somehow about her. But no--the real culprit here was her outfits. Oh, the outfits. My mind has mercifully blocked most of the hideousness (and, tellingly enough, HBO doesn't publicize photos of the really ugly outfits), but I can tell you that there were many occasions during the first half of season six on which I felt compelled to yell at my TV, "What the eff is Carrie wearing?!" (And yes, I did censor my language in my own home. No, I do not know why.)

But suddenly, during the last few episodes of the show, Carrie starts wearing clothes that are not only normal, but actually gorgeous. I mean, look at that dress. How can you be annoyed by anyone who's wearing that dress? It's not possible, I tell you! And so Carrie and I made amends, and she went out with style, and in my good graces. Well, almost. In the very last scene of the show, she turned up in some neon-and-fur monstrosity, and I had to start hating her again. So close, Carrie Bradshaw. So close.