My Own Planet

I vote we bring enunciation back next
Somewhere in the midst of his quest to bring sexy back, Justin Timberlake seems to have managed to lose his ability to enunciate properly. For weeks--nay, months!--I have been trying to figure out what the heck he's saying over and over in the refrain of "SexyBack." I had finally managed to narrow it down to two top contenders:

Contender #1: "Go, heppy, go"
Much like the jimuffays of yore, the word "heppy" is a creation of my own imagination, complete with an intricate tale to accompany its inception. You see, "heppy" is slang for "cool (possibly hot) girl," and represents Justin's attempt to revive the language of the '40s and '50s (in this case, "hep") while putting a modern spin on it.

Yeah, it makes even less sense now than it did when I made it up. Which is why I much preferred the second theory I came up with:

Contender #2: "Go ahead, B, go"
This would be Justin Timberlake's plea to Britney Spears ("B") to get the hell away from Kevin Federline. I like to think it was the final little push she needed to kick his sorry ass to the curb once and for all.

Sadly, when I finally got around to looking the lyrics up online this morning, I discovered that this was not the case. The actual lyric is, "Go ahead, be gone with it." Which seems to have way more syllables than I'm actually hearing him sing, not to mention doesn't make a whole lot of sense in the context of the song. (Be gone with what? Sexy? But I thought we were bringing it back! I'm so confused!)

Anyway, this is why I'm sticking with the Britney Spears explanation. Sure, it doesn't make much sense either, but I think we can all agree that it's way more fun.

More wacky celebrity dreams; plus, the return of George!
I've often thought that the reason I have so many weird dreams about celebrities is because I'm constantly numbing my brain with celebrity news and gossip. But most of last week was relatively celeb-free, although I couldn't ignore the news emitting from that most unholy of unions, the Tom Cruise-Katie Holmes nuptials. (And by "couldn't ignore," I of course mean "picked up In Touch and read the 'Tom and Katie's Wedding Album' cover story while waiting in line at the supermarket, only to find that I already knew most of the story by following Entertainment Tonight's on-the-scene coverage and reading post-wedding tidbits on The Superficial.)

But still, immersing myself in the latest Cruise-Holmes media blitz doesn't really explain why I had a dream the other night that Luke Perry and I broke into Lindsay Lohan's house. It was completely trashed, so I suggested that Luke pose as her boyfriend (What? The girl dated Jared Leto; Luke Perry is totally believable) and call her housekeeper to come over and tidy the place up. We scrolled through her phone to find the number, and Luke was just rehearsing what he was going to say when we heard Lindsay walk in the front door. We ran out the back, but she managed to catch up with me and started screaming because she thought we were trying to hack the information in her phone. I started to defend myself, saying that we were just trying to do something nice for her, but soon we were surrounded by paparazzi, and LiLo suddenly started acting like my best friend, because she should know better than anyone what happens when you badmouth someone to the paparazzi.

Now, back to reality: Remember George, the mouse that terrorized me a few months ago? I never saw him again after that fateful night, so I figured either a) he'd managed to escape under the cover of night (or while I was out buying mousetraps), or b) I'd hallucinated the whole thing. Although the second option doesn't speak too highly of my mental state, I think I would have preferred either one to what actually happened, which is that George somehow became trapped under and subsequently smooshed by the box holding my Christmas tree. Fortunately, it was Dave who discovered him last night when we were putting up the tree, and it was Dave who had the unlucky task of peeling him off the floor. Of course, I still have to go back and somehow scrape what's left of George off the floor, which is bound to be unpleasant. In the meantime, though, I'm still trying to figure out exactly what transpired with George and the Christmas tree box, not to mention how I managed to have a dead mouse in my house for almost three months without realizing it. R.I.P., George. And also, eeeewwwwww.

Another advertising campaign I just don't understand
Much as I was bothered by the ass-kicking sports drinks of yore, I have lately become perplexed by Altoids' advertising campaign. And by "lately," I mean today, when Altoids is running a series of themed banner ads on Television Without Pity. For example, the ads on the America's Next Top Model recaps say things like "Pain is the new black," while the ones on the Grey's Anatomy pages say "Dr. McScreamy." (All right, fine. As tired as I am of this "Mc" business, that was funny.) While these ads are certainly no exception to the cheeky cleverness and stunning design that perpetually characterize Altoids' advertising campaign, their message never fails to give me pause. I mean, pain? That's really your selling point? "Buy our mints; they'll hurt you!" What kind of pitch is that? I get that the idea here is that the stronger the mint, the fresher your breath will be. But, particularly with these ads, that connection doesn't seem to be readily apparent, especially for someone who's never tried an Altoid before. And when it comes right down to it, are Altoids really that painful? I don't think so. So if someone's really gung-ho about the whole Altoids = pain concept, don't you think they're going to be a little disappointed when they try that first mint?

Crimes against fashion
Why, I ask you, is it so hard to find full-length wool pants these days? Just as last season was marked by the lack of any sort of winter-appropriate dress, this season will go down in history as The Season Without Full-Length Wool Pants. This is the depressing realization that hit me on Saturday as I spent fruitless hours searching for just that thing. You can, however, find as many cropped wool coverings for the lower half of your body as your heart desires. The stores are filled with just-above-the-ankle cropped wool pants (when will this trend, which doesn't look good on anyone, finally blessedly die?), wool knickers that button just below the knee (I'll concede that, with the right pair of tall boots, this look is quite cute on some people; however, I am not one of those people), wool bermuda shorts and, as if that atrocity weren't enough to make you want to gouge your eyes out, wool short-shorts. Honestly, people. Wool short-shorts? Are you kidding me with this crap? The only other utterly ridiculous piece of clothing that has enraged me more than wool short-shorts were the wool flip-flops that I spotted while shopping with Holly a few years ago. (I still feel bad for her that she was then subjected to my rants about wool flip-flops for the rest of the evening. But I defy anyone to name an occasion on which they could conceivably wear wool flip-flops. It can't be done. Either it's too hot for wool, or it's too cold for flip-flops; ergo, in a logical universe, wool flip-flops cannot exist. Thankfully, I think the powers that be at the Gap quickly realized this, as I have seen nary a wool flip-flop there since.)

So my message to the fashion community (along with, "Don't think I've forgiven you yet for reviving leggings") is this: Please, for the love of God, stop appropriating winter fabrics for summer fashions. It's just stupid. You don't see us walking around in linen parkas and seersucker ski caps, do you?

Oh, crap. I think I've just given them a new idea.

Better than a sticker?
It seems that I've moved from a state where my vote really didn't count for much (where, as one clever marketing campaign put it, I was merely "a bright blue dot in a really red state") to a state where my vote could determine control of the entire United States Senate.

Not to dis the sticker or anything, but this might be the best part of voting.

Who's with me?
The freedom to participate in a democratic process, the sense of pride that comes with doing one's civic duty, the chance to help shape the future of our country: these are all good things about voting. But come on. We all know that the best thing about voting is the free sticker. (Or apparently, if you're Brian, the kisses. Clearly I should have voted in Norfolk, because my "I Voted in Arlington" sticker didn't say anything about kissing.)

Still, I'm pretty happy with any type of voting sticker--it's like we're all transported back to elementary school for the day (some of us more literally than others--my polling place was actually an elementary-school gym) and are being rewarded for getting an A on a test. The only thing better would've been if I'd gotten a little smiley face drawn on my ballot, too, although I'm not sure that would have been possible with the electronic voting machine I used.

A fun fact about me
When cleaning the bathtub, more often than not I will sing the song "Kids" from Bye Bye Birdie to myself while performing this chore. Why? Because cleaning the bathtub always reminds me of how, when I first heard that song, I had no idea what the lyric about "a ring around the bathtub" meant, and I had to ask my mom to explain it to me.

OK, perhaps "fun" was an overstatement. Let's just consider this a fact of dubious amusement about me.

Vowed out
Last weekend in Birmingham marked the final journey of Vowsapalooza 2006. And now that I've spent more time uploading my pictures and writing titles and captions for each one than I did at all of the weddings combined, I'm pleased to say that they are finally available for viewing.

But first, I feel the need to cap off this flurry of weddings with a few awards, if only so, in looking back upon the past month in the future, my brain will still be able to distinguish the weddings from one another.

Most inventive ceremony: Kristin and Justin. In addition to all of the traditional vows-y type stuff, Kristin and Justin had members of their wedding party read snippets of their letters to and journal entries about each other, and those of us in attendance got to see their love develop through their eyes. Plus, have you ever been to a wedding where the phrase "He's so damn hot" was part of the ceremony? I didn't think so. But it was awesome.

Most advantageous spin on the unfortunate leggings revival: Nikki and Jon. In what was the first (and will likely be the only) time I have expressed gratitude in regard to Sienna Miller and the havoc she hath wrought, Nikki and her friend Jessie and I ventured to Target the morning of the wedding to purchase leggings for us to wear under our bridesmaid's dresses to help ease the effects of Milwaukee's balmy 45-degree temperatures. Unfortunately, we forgot to account for the static cling that results when you mix cable-knit leggings with chiffon bridesmaid's dresses, but Dave came to the rescue with a last-minute run to Walgreen's for dryer sheets. And there was rejoicing in all the land as the bridesmaids lived to bridesmaid another day!

Most incongruous-yet-yummy food choice: Terri and Alex. How Terri, a vegetarian, came to have such delicious meatballs at her wedding reception, I will never know. But I do know that they were awesome. In fact, I'm still a little pissed at Chris for filching my last meatball, which I was reserving to savor after I'd eaten everything on my plate. You still owe me a meatball, Christopher Ingram!

Best musical choice: It's a three-way tie.

Kristin and Justin get a nod for making Bright Eyes' "The First Day of My Life" their walking-down-the-aisle song. I'd never understood what the fuss was behind that song until that moment. Now I get it.

Nikki and Jon get props for introducing me to the coolest love song ever, "Four Color Love Story" by the Metasciences. It's a love song all about comic books! (So when I said "cool," I clearly meant "in a supremely dorky way.")

Finally, Terri and Alex get a mention for their choice to have a brass quintet as their ceremony music. I had never seen that before, and it was pretty awesome. In case you were wondering (you probably weren't), "Trumpet Voluntary" sounds way cooler when played by an actual trumpet.

Now that these housekeeping matters are out of the way, see pictures of all this stuff (and more!) right here.

Adventures in food

Yesterday's experiment: Is it possible to subsist for an entire day on little more than bite-sized candy bars?
The verdict: Yes, but I would strongly advise against it, only because you may be tempted to eat large quantities of pasta when you finally do have the chance to purchase and/or prepare a meal, and you will experience the very strange sensation of being very full and not full at all at the same time. Which is not as fun as it sounds.

Monday's experiment: Is it possible to subsist for an entire day on little more than a calzone from Leonardo's for lunch?
The verdict: Yes, and in fact, this is highly recommended, as the calzones at Leonardo's are approximately the size of footballs. You may think this description is an exaggeration, as I did when Francesca warned me about them, but I can assure you it is not. Sadly, I can't be more explicit, as Matt, Francesca's fianchizzle, did not weigh in as requested on whether the calzones were in fact Nerf or regulation size. (My guess? Regulation, since it didn't occur to me until 11:00 that night, nearly 12 hours after consuming three-quarters of the calzone, that I hadn't eaten dinner.)

Sunday's experiment: Is it possible to subsist for an entire day on little more than finger foods?
The verdict: Yes, but only if you start drinking before noon* and are first fortified by a hearty brunch/lunch from Rojo.
*I couldn't resist the Sangria Sundays deal, and therefore it was technically around 11:55 when I had my first sip. It was still a little too early for wine, though. I should've gone with the mimosas. It's never too early for champagne.

I think it's safe to say that, in the past year and a half, I have gained absolutely no ground on my resolution to eat better on the weekends.

(In non-food-related news, Nikki and Reuben have both pulled the plug on their blogs. But Amber, Kella and Elizabeth are all back [at least one of those revivals is thanks in part to me--remember, kids, peer pressure works!], so I guess we've ended up on the plus side. And Matt and Kim's baby is still more adorable than should strictly be allowed.)