My Own Planet

The evil hand of marketing slaps me once again
This morning on NPR, I heard a report that scientists are trying to discover whether there's a link between marketing messages and childhood obesity, the premise being that much of the advertising targeted toward children is of the candy/fast food/sugary cereal genre, and kids aren't savvy enough to take the sales pitches with a grain of salt. I'm not disputing either of these facts, but I do think making the jump to childhood obesity leaves a central component out of the equation: the parents. I mean, aren't parents the ones who should be responsible for whatever's going into their kids' mouths? God knows I would have eaten more than my fair share of Crispy Critters as a child (because I was too young and stupid to realize how freaking creepy that commercial was) if my parents hadn't instituted a ban on sugary cereals.

Then again, I'm probably not the best person to be making a case for resisting the pull of marketing. After one too many viewings of the Smallville season premiere promo, in which Lex and Lana disrobe in glowy lighting to the dulcet tones of Lifehouse's "You and Me," I became overwhelmed by an inexplicable need to possess that song. Why? I've never watched Smallville. I don't like Lifehouse. And yet, I was unable to resist the magnetic pull toward iTunes. I feel so dirty.

Weekend headlines
Terri got drunk.*
Francesca got engaged.**
Kristen got more surgery.***
I got a $100 parking ticket.****

*Which is why she failed to notice when we were standing in a puddle of vomit.
**Ack! Not another wedding! Stop it, people!
***And she's having more today. So keep thinking those good thoughts.
****I hate the District of Columbia.

Pretty much the most awesome thing ever
I say "pretty much" because the honor of THE most awesome thing ever goes, of course, to my own brainchild, The Saved by the Bell Blog. But considering that I haven't updated the site in nearly a year (wow, has it really been that long?), it's possible that this girl, who lends the same sarcastic treatment to another iconic piece of my adolescence, The Baby-Sitters Club, could soon edge out my little side project.

Warning: If you were as obsessed as I was with the BSC as a pre-teen (and if you're a girl in your mid-20s, the odds are pretty good), click on the above link with caution. This hilariously addictive blog is the reason why I got very little work done yesterday, and I've since dragged two others (the similarly BSC-obsessed Kate and Francesca) into the downward spiral of time-wasting. But it's worth it. Oh, it's worth it.

All nuded up
I will admit that I was pretty excited for last night's premiere of America's Next Top Model, one of the few remaining reality-TV threads to which I am still clinging. But after 10 minutes it became pretty clear: That thread is quickly unraveling. After seven seasons of this show (yeah, I can't believe it's been that many, either), everything, from Tyra's constant and somehow condescending overacting to Jay Manuel's omnipresent orangeness, is starting to get a little predictable. It doesn't help that they cast the exact same types of girls every season. There's the bubbly blonde who is sometimes revealed to have an "edge" but is mostly deemed too commercial. The girl with the pixie haircut and the baby face who may or may not be a lesbian. The girl whom everyone thinks is secretly a man. The black bitch. (Tyra's phrase, not mine. But seriously, if you were calling yourself on casting this type back in the third season, why have you not stopped doing it?) The girl of varying Asian descent who is convinced she's not pretty because of her heritage. The "alternative" girl who is later revealed to have no personality. And so on.

The problem with casting the same personality types every season is that you get the same situations every season, too. Someone freaks out over her makeover. Someone sabotages someone else's stuff. Someone cries about never feeling beautiful, living in her sister's shadow, etc. And so on. Last night, we had that oh-so-classic scenario, the Christian girl who freaks out about having to pose nude.

Let me just say first of all that I have no beef with people having morals. I think morals are generally a good thing to have. I'd like to think I've got a few myself. But this scenario always bugs the crap out of me for a few reasons, which I have listed here in no particular order:

1. I've never really gotten the connection between nudity and religion. I mean, it's not as if God created the human race and then furnished them with a complete wardrobe from Prada. Adam and Eve ran around naked! Why can't the rest of us? (This is akin to my "Hey, Jesus drank wine!" argument in favor of alcohol consumption, as well as the oft-used childhood justification of "Ass and hell can't be bad words because they're in the Bible.") Anyway, I guess you could make the argument that not posing nude falls under the whole "body as temple" thing, which just seems to cover all manner of really fun and interesting sins. Although if you're going for that blanket statement, wouldn't all modeling kind of be considered objectification of your body? Which brings me to my next point...

2. It's not like you didn't know what you were getting into here. This show has been on for seven seasons, with, as we've already established, very little variation of certain plot points. It's pretty much guaranteed that if you go on the show, you're going to be asked to take off your clothes and strike a pose, and if you refuse to do so, you're going to be kicked off. So why are you even coming on the show in the first place, if you know you're going to be morally opposed to doing something that's required of you? Are you hoping you'll be the one Christian girl to break through the barrier, whom Tyra will grant clemency for sticking up for her beliefs? In seven seasons, this hasn't happened once. It's not gonna happen for you, either.

3. It's not even real nudity! For one thing, all your naughty bits are completely covered up, either by the UPN (oops, The CW!) censors, or by you in the picture. So really, the only people who are actually seeing you naked are the photographer, the video crew and your fellow models. It's like the gym locker room. (Only without the photographer and video crew, I would hope.) Are you morally opposed to locker rooms? In addition, while there's a very fine line between tasteful nudity and objectifying nudity, I think it's safe to say that ANTM shoots fall on the former side of that line. I mean, as an aspiring model, you probably shouldn't drop trou for anyone who promises you a contract, but when the person in question is Tyra Banks, I think you can assume it's legit.

If this situation crops up every season, why is it incensing me so now? Well, I think it was the particular situation of this year's token Christian model, in which she made a huge freaking deal about not doing the nude shoot, then allowed herself to be talked into it, but only for two frames, and instead of removing the towel her damn self, she made someone else do it for her once she was already seated on the platform. And then after it was all over, she said something to the effect of, "I'm just really glad I stuck to my morals." Um, WTF? I realize it's highly possible that the producers nabbed that particular quote before she decided to do the nude shoot and just tacked it on afterward to make her look like an idiot, but seriously. If "Thou shalt not do nude modeling" isn't in the Bible, then I'm pretty sure "Thou shalt only do nude modeling if you take just two frames, and have someone else remove your towel for you, and your ass crack is only part of you that has to be blurred by the censors" isn't, either. I mean, even though they do say "ass" in the Bible, it's not really in that context.

A big day...for other people
This morning, my friend Kristen is having heart surgery, while my friend Jeff is making his national television debut as an audience member on The Price Is Right. So if you're sending out prayers, good vibes or happy thoughts this morning, send them Kristen's way. I guess if you have any left over, you can throw a few to Jeff, but really, as much as I hope he gets to come on down and wins $10,000 playing Plinko and then goes on to win the Showcase Showdown and gets a lovely new bedroom set, a grand piano and A NEW CAR!, there are a few things in life that are more important than Bob Barker, and one of those things is heart surgery. (Although how awesome would it be if Bob Barker showed up in Cleveland for Kristen's surgery? "Kristen, we have something very special for you today behind that door...A NEW HEART!" Hee.)

UPDATE: Just got word from Kristen's hubby that she made it through surgery just fine and appears to be doing well in recovery. As for Jeff...well, you'll have to wait until I get home tonight and watch my tape of The Price Is Right to get the update on him.

The report from Assateague Island
Number of wild ponies seen: 12, although I strongly suspect some of these may have been the same pony
Number of wild ponies attacked by: 0
Number of mosquitoes seen: 12 million, and that was just in the general vicinity of our campsite
Number of mosquitoes attacked by: 12 million, and that was just when we first got out of the car
Number of campfires successfully started, even with help/cooking gas from guy from neighboring campsite: 0
Number of hot dogs cooked via tiny fire of mostly kindling then consumed even though they were only "passably warm": 6
Number of s'mores prepared/eaten in same manner: 4
Number of times successfully ventured past the breaking point so I could jump waves: 2
Number of times screamed "Oh, shit!" when large wave was heading my way: 4
Number of times, in aforementioned situation, I swallowed my fear and dove into the wave like you're supposed to: 1
Number of times, in aforementioned situation, I tried to outrun/outswim/body surf said wave instead and was rewarded by being dashed on the ocean floor: 3
Pieces of bathing suit intact after being repeatedly dashed on the ocean floor: 2
Overall prognosis: Quite a good trip

My Thai (plan)
I have made a decision. And that decision is: Next year, I am going to Thailand. I'm not quite sure who I'm going to go with, or what I'm going to do when I get there, or even really how I'm going to pay for it, but I am going to Thailand. Lest you think that this decision has something to do with my ongoing craving for panang curry, I assure you it does not (well, mostly not). The fact is, whenever I hear of someone else going to Thailand, I automatically feel a huge pang of jealousy. First it was Bridget Jones. Then The Tyrant. Then the girls on America's Next Top Model. And now Daimon. I just can't take it anymore! I am sick of all these people going to Thailand without me! (Even though all the people I just mentioned either a) are fictional, b) do not actually know me, c) are contestants on a reality show, and d) haven't seen me in many, many years, meaning none of them are really predisposed to take me to Thailand. But you know what I mean.)

I feel like my travel/vacation plans have been wildly unfocused in the past year or so. Ever since my somewhat-impromptu birthday trip to Paris last year, I've felt like anything is possible. Which is a good thing...but also a really, really bad thing. Because when your options are "anything," it's kind of hard to narrow it down. So I end up planning and dreaming and not actually doing much of anything. (Of course, it didn't help that this year, my vacation plans were derailed by my decision to move halfway across the country, but I don't regret that for a minute.) Adding to the mayhem is my oft-spoken goal to visit all 50 states by the time I'm 30. Nine states to go in less than four years doesn't leave much time for anything else, particularly when those states are quite large (Wyoming, Montana) or very far apart (Alaska, Hawaii). However, I've recently realized that this is a somewhat stupid goal. For one thing, the whole 50/30 dichotomy was always somewhat confusing, causing me to often say things like, "I want to visit all 30 states by the time I'm 30!" For another thing, I figure I'll have plenty of time to travel domestically once I'm older and have things like "a husband" and "kids." Now, when I'm still in my young and carefree 20s, is the time for international travel.

The one thing I do (sort of) know about my Thailand trip is when. I'm aiming for mid- to late October. Since that's more than a year away, this means I'll have plenty of time to figure out all those other little details. Of course, that also means that my friends have to stop getting married in October. In the past two years, I have had a grand total of five (six if you count Kristin and Justin, who are just making it under the wire with their September 30 wedding date) friends get married in October. That's a lot. And so, to my friends in serious relationships who may be pondering marriage, I say: Stop it! No more getting married in October! Unless you plan to get married in Thailand. Then it's fine.

Until then, I'll be trying to concentrate on trips in my immediate future, such as this weekend's camping adventure on Assateague Island. Will the weather finally freaking clear up (please) for my one and only sojurn to the shore this year? Will Dave and I be attacked by wild ponies? And most importantly, barring bad weather and wild-pony attacks, will I be able to keep all pieces of my bathing suit on when venturing into the Atlantic? Stay tuned!

Please don't take my sunshine away
Unlike some of my fellow bloggers, I am not currently falling for fall. This is not exactly what I had in mind back when I was wishing for this time of year. Don't get me wrong--I appreciate the cooler weather, and along with it, the chance to ditch my increasingly tired summer wardrobe. But this (at least not here in D.C.) isn't clear, crisp, sunshiny days. This is cloudy, drizzly, dreary gray nastiness with a side of permeating chill. This is the kind of weather that makes me want to play depressing music, which in turn makes me actually depressed when I have no real reason to be. (On the bright side, I think I've just answered Nick Hornby's eternal question of whether we listen to sad music because we're sad or if it's the music itself that makes us sad.) Plus, it's not cold enough yet to wear my new empire-waist corduroy jacket from H&M or the Isaac Mizrahi black cashmere turtleneck that I bought on sale last year. I think that's the real problem here.

The hardest button to button
In honor of my awesome friend Elizabeth, whose blog I just discovered, and who wrote therein about fat jeans vs. skinny jeans, I bring you a little tale of the jeans I am wearing today. These jeans are what some may be tempted to call my "skinny jeans," due to the fact that they routinely leave a red welt of too-tight-ness around my midsection. However, "skinny jeans" is a misnomer. Their correct name would be "jeans that should fit but don't."

Here's the fact: I have several other pairs of pants this size, and they all fit me just fine. Some of them are even bordering on "too loose." And yet I have to suck in just to button the jeans on most days. Why? Because they are crappy Old Navy jeans. I have long been a wearer of crappy Old Navy jeans, reasoning that it would be silly to pay $60 or $70 somewhere else for a basic wardrobe staple when you can get the exact same thing there for $24.99. Now I'm starting to realize what those extra 40 bucks are so are paying for: correct button placement.

Yes, it seems that on my crappy Old Navy jeans, someone on the assembly line (man, I really wish I had that little "inspected by" number right now so I knew who to blame!) situated the button just a little bit too far to the right. How else can you explain the fact that the jeans fit perfectly everywhere else, yet threaten to cut off the circulation in my waist every time I button them? Unfortunately, I did not make this connection until after I had worn them several times (all the while consoling myself with thoughts of "I just need to break them in!" or "If only I lost that last 5 pounds!"), and so it is too late to take them back and demand a more functional pair.

If only these were a regular pair of pants, I could perform a button removal with no problem, but I am fairly certain I do not possess an implement that would allow me to dismantle (and then...uh, mantle? remantle?) the metal jeans button. Sure, I suppose I could just leave the button unbuttoned, since no one would probably notice if I were wearing a long enough shirt, but that just seems like an open invitation for the zipper to just slide right down, too. No, it looks as if I will have to admit defeat at the hands of Old Navy. Could this be my karmic retribution?

No time! There's never! Any! Time! I don't have time to study! I'll never get into Stanford! I'll let everyone down!
Before you say it, no, I haven't been popping caffeine pills. But it's true that this week, I have increasingly felt more on edge than Jessie Spano the night before a geometry midterm. Despite having preciously little to do at work, I feel like there's never any time to do the things I want to do. I have e-mails to friends that percolate in my mind for days before they actually get sent, potential mix CDs that are swimming around in my head instead of being formed into iTunes playlists, and a sink full of dirty dishes that aren't going to wash themselves. (Admittedly, perhaps if I hadn't decided to cram in five episodes of Veronica Mars last night in my fervor to get to the Season 1 finale, I might have had time to do some of these other things.) I had begun a great blog post about Heather's and my recent night out on the town, but alas, I even had to give up the ghost on that one. That moment's passed, and another one is quickly speeding our way. Is it the shorter work week that's making me feel this way? The knowledge that this is but the beginning of my crazy, action-packed fall? All I know is, I don't have time to sit around and analyze it.

We hold these truths to be self-evident...
...that doing work at the end of a holiday weekend is so much more fun if you're pretending to be Veronica Mars. Sure, I may only be researching ideas for potential freelance articles, but with just the right cynical, eyes-half-shut stare as I peer at the Google search on my laptop, I might as well be thisclose to tracking down who really killed Lilly Kane. The running voice-over in my head kinda helps, too.