My Own Planet

Sympathy for the snake
I have a couple of very simple guidelines that govern my relationship with wild animals and other assorted critters. As long as they stay in their space and respect mine, I leave them alone. If they invade my territory, I reserve the right to declare war, which I will most likely win through annihilation. In other words, I am not the sort of person who scoops the spider up in a cup and sets it free outdoors. I am also not the sort of person who sees a spider running across the sidewalk and steps on it. If I'm going to expect the spider to respect my personal space, I am of the belief that I should show it the same respect in return. Which is why I get a little bit upset when I see people who are clearly not living by this maxim.

I was walking around the lakeside path during lunch when I noticed a group of men clustered ahead of me, staring at what I deduced could only be a snake. I was right--shortly before I came upon them, one of the guys stepped into the woods and picked up a pretty sizeable king snake and brought it back down to the path to show his buddies. They seemed impressed, but I decidedly was not. If the snake had wandered onto the path, then I would have been fine with the guy picking it up and pointing it back in the direction of the woods. In fact, I would applaud such a move, because he'd be preventing the snake from accidentally being stepped on (not to mention, he'd be preventing me from accidentally stepping on a snake, which I have done before and would not recommend). But no--this snake was clearly just minding its own business, hanging out in its own space, and the only reason he picked it up was to play Steve Irwin to this group of guys. I mean, how would he like it if he were hanging out in his backyard, minding his own business, and then all of a sudden someone picked him up and started playing with him? I'd venture to say that he wouldn't like it one bit, which is why I hope someday a giant snake comes along and plucks him right out of his lawn chair.

More ruminations on age
Apparently, Netflix thinks I'm 12. Among the movies it suggested that I might like, based on my past selections, are Herbie: Fully Loaded and Ice Princess. I guess this is what happens when you queue practically a whole season of a prime-time teen soap.

If I'm 12, however, then my little sister is 80. She just left a message on my cell phone but said not to call her back tonight because she and her boyfriend are getting ready to go to bed. It's 7:00. All right, they're in West Virginia, so technically it's 8:00, but still. What kind of 24-year-old goes to bed at 8:00? The kind who doesn't religiously watch Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy, I'm guessing. Most Sundays, I'm lucky if I can make it into bed by midnight. But then, I'm not a grown-up.

There are no grown-ups here
In exactly one week, I will be 26. I am surprisingly OK with this next step on the downward slide to 30. (Other than the fact that it's an even age, that is. I prefer odd ages for some reason.) For a period of several weeks, I've started to think of myself as being 26, which I like to do before every birthday to ease the transition and prevent any embarrassing post-birthday slip-ups of accidentally giving the wrong age. I've gotten so comfortable with the idea of being 26, in fact, that I've already started to envision myself being 27 (it's always good to be prepared, right?), and that's gone pretty well, too.

It's not until 28 that I hit a wall.

It's not that I think 28 is old, because it's not by any means. It's just that 28 was the age that, when I was 14, I identified as being grown up. It was the age of my much-beloved band director, and it was also the age (give or take a year) of Teri Hatcher, who was at that time playing Lois Lane on Lois & Clark. These two women were my role models at that time in my life, and I couldn't wait for the day that my age would double and I would suddenly be a glamorous, successful, together woman. All grown up.

Surely you can see the dilemma here. While I feel at least a little successful, having a job and all, and my fake Chanel sunglasses make me look at least a little glamorous, I certainly am not together by any stretch of the imagination. And I definitely don't feel like a grown-up. Most days I have to remind myself that I'm actually not still 17.

Perhaps in exactly one week and two years, some miraculous change will occur, and I'll suddenly feel like a grown-up. (More likely, I will have decided that 43, which is the age Teri Hatcher will be, is the new grown-up age.) In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy not being a grown-up while I still can.

How this didn't make the cut in Alanis's lyrics is beyond me
Have you ever stopped to ponder the irony of the fact that most scented laundry detergents are based on things that are actually unscented? Think about it. Mountain Spring? That's water. No scent. Clean Breeze? Air. Also no scent. And what's with Original Scent? How do they decide that this particular aromatic combination is classic enough to be termed "original"? It seems to me that the pressure of trying to come up with an "original" scent would be overwhelming, although I guess no more so than trying to assign scents to things that naturally don't have them. I suppose it's a good thing I'm not a professional laundry-detergent fragrance developer.

You can blame Dave for inspiring these scent-illating ruminations on laundry detergent. (I, however, take full responsibility for that horrible pun.)

The O.! C., this show used to be good
Ah, how I've missed the opportunity to employ a punny O.C. headline.The Great Netflix Caper of '06 kicked off this weekend with a viewing of the first half of Season 1 of The O.C. This served to remind me why I used to like this show, so much so that I was known to, on occasion, dance around to the theme music, and blew off my 24th birthday for the sake of watching a new episode. Though you wouldn't know by looking at it now, The O.C. was once really good. Don't believe me? Get your hands on a copy of Season 1, and watch the Thanksgiving episode. It's the perfect blend of comedy and drama. Adam Brody is beyond adorable, Peter Gallagher is hilarious, Kelly Rowan is awesome, Rachel Bilson kicks ass (figuratively), Tate Donovan is...uh, there, and Melinda Clarke is an evil, scheming genius. Of course, Mischa Barton and her horrendous attempts at "acting" are still present, but the rest of the cast is so brilliant that she's kind of easy to ignore.

Cut to this season, where Adam Brody is mostly annoying, Peter Gallagher is kind of an ass, Kelly Rowan just sort of hovers around wanly (and has far less fabulous hair, I might add), Rachel Bilson kicks ass (literally...the girl is always beating on people), Tate Donovan is not there (who knew it was possible to miss Tate Donovan?), and Melinda Clarke lives in a trailer park and acts like she's in junior high. Only Mischa Barton retains any semblance of consistency by being just as bad an actress now as she was then, although it's really not like wooden objects to be inconsistent. Oh, O.C., how did you fall so far so fast?

Here's something that occurred to me during this weekend's marathon O.C. viewing: What rule is it that dictates that at least one character on a prime-time teen ensemble drama must have a family member in jail? Think about it: Ryan had his brother Trey on The O.C.; Dylan's dad was locked up on 90210, as was Joey's on Dawson's Creek. Did the creators of these shows, in a desperate attempt to come up with plots, just decide to rip off Cameron Crowe movies (in this case, Say Anything)? Or did one show spring for a prison-yard set, and it was so expensive to construct that other shows were also required to use it to justify the investment? Discuss amongst yourselves.

Finishing what I started
I'm not one of those people who participates in free trial offers. I figure that either I'll forget to cancel whatever it is after the free trial offer ends and wind up with something I both don't need and can't afford, or that it just won't be worth the hassle if I do remember. My friend Francesca, however, is just the opposite. She is the undisputed Queen of Milking Free Trial Offers or, as she puts it, "working the system." Seriously, this girl got Entertainment Weekly for free for like three years by subscribing and canceling every time it was offered at Best Buy. She's a pro.

Under her tutelage, I, too, have begun to embrace the joys of "working the system." Her mentoring has been quite helpful, really, because Francesca will attempt the free trial offer first and then pass on the tip to me if it's worth the effort. My first experience was with eMusic's 50 free downloads offer, through which I got four whole albums (Cat Power's You Are Free, Ryan Adams' Heartbreaker, Neko Case's Blacklisted, and Iron & Wine and Calexico's In the Reins) without paying a cent. Now we've moved on to the Netflix two-week trial, which is one I'd considered before but chickened out on when it came time to input my credit card information. However, with Francesca's encouragement, I felt brave enough to take the plunge.

Here's the thing: I think Netflix is a fabulous concept. I will most likely fully join Netflix eventually, but right now, when I have a conveniently located library that stocks plenty of good mainstream and independent movies that I can check out for free, it just doesn't seem worth it. In fact, the only reason I had considered the Netflix trial in the past was for the opportunity to catch up on TV shows that I had missed crucial seasons or episodes of, either because I joined the party a little too late (The O.C., Lost) or because I no longer get the channels they're on (Sex & the City, Coupling, the British Office). When I backed out of the trial last year, I reasoned I'd just do my catching up later, when I was ready to actually join Netflix. But that was a year ago, and here I am, still behind. Clearly, it was time for action.

I realize this is a lofty ambition. I have, by my estimation, approximately 33 hours of television to watch in just two weeks (in addition, mind you, to the spate of current TV shows I watch each week). And ideally, I'd like to accomplish this without neglecting my jobs and relationships and sacrificing things such as sleeping, eating, and bathing. Which is why I spent part of this afternoon working out a schedule for my DVD viewing. (I'll pause momentarily so you can all contemplate what a complete and utter dork I am.) It's not going to be easy. I may have to let a few things slide, and I may have to set my sights just a little bit lower (possibly foregoing my three remaining episodes of first-season Lost). But with God as my witness, I am going to try valiantly to get it all in. Wish me luck, friends. Wish me luck.

3.14
I was super-excited to hear on NPR this morning that today is World Pie Day. Not that I ever need an excuse to eat pie, but you know, it can't hurt to have one. However, as the story promo continued, it soon dawned on me that today is not World Pie Day, but rather World Pi Day--in other words, a celebration of the number 3.14. How boring. I was crushed.

That is, until the actual story about World Pi Day came on, and I learned that math departments around the country will be eating pie to celebrate the number pi. It was probably the only time I'll ever be jealous of my sister's career choice to become a math teacher. I've got to say, I'm all for this trend of mixing mathematics with dessert. Perhaps if there had been pie present, I would have actually paid attention in calculus class.

Hi, I'm a hypocrite
You know, after all the years I've spent making fun of my friend Jeff for buying designer sunglasses, I realize how much of a hypocrite it makes me that I spent part of my morning buying a pair of knock-off Chanel vodka mommies (my friend Elizabeth's term for the oversized sunglasses favored by anorexic starlets the world over) from a guy in a van in the parking lot of my office.

But they make me feel like a movie star (an anorexic starlet, granted, but a movie star nonetheless), so I really don't care.

Here's the story of a lovely lady (who has strange dreams and mishears song lyrics)
While not quite as unusual as the dream in which I accompanied Mischa Barton to the gynecologist, last night's dream in which I was driving around my hometown with three Brady Bunch cast members definitely ranks right up there on the list of strange celebrity dreams. Greg (who had gotten considerably fat and also had a beard) was driving, Jan (who looked very sophisticated and polished) was in the passenger seat, and Marcia (who, for some reason, had not really aged at all) was sitting in the back with me, where she was offering me a job at the magazine where they all worked. I accepted immediately, of course, because who wouldn't want to work at a magazine with three members of the Brady Bunch? Of course, I soon started to have second thoughts, as I had not ever been to the magazine's office or to the city where it was located (Baltimore, if I remember correctly). As I was trying to think of a way to politely rescind my acceptance, a Partridge Family song came on the radio, and Greg turned up the volume. "The Partridge Family?" Marcia sniffed. "What losers."

The combination of this dream and Brian's recent foray into misheard lyrics (which I prefer to think of as "jimuffays" rather than "mondegreens") led me to remember an instance dating back to my childhood and involving the Brady Bunch theme song.

Actual lyric: They were four men living all together
Lyric heard by me: They were form and living all together

And now, the obligatory elaborate story to explain the incorrect lyric. For the longest time (seriously, I didn't figure out this lyric for years), I couldn't possibly imagine what "They were form" meant. Finally, I decided that it meant Mike Brady was really strict before he had a womanly influence in his life. I think I arrived at this decision through the logic that, since "form" vaguely resembled both "firm" and "conform," it could only be referring to Mike's totalitarian rule over the Brady boys. Actually, I was a little disappointed when I realized the correct lyric, as I usually am when one of my over-the-top lyric-explaining stories falls flat. I rather liked the idea that Carol had played Maria to Mike's Captain Von Trapp and had freed Greg, Peter, and Bobby to enjoy a life of throwing footballs at Marcia's face, inventing a new personality every hour, and trying to break the world record for see-sawing.

There will be no Oscar recap here today
Somewhere along the line, it seems that people have gotten the erroneous impression that I am to be relied upon for a detailed Oscar fashion recap, but this is simply not true. Golden Globes? I'm your girl. Oscars? I really don't care. The Academy Awards take themselves far too seriously for my taste (unlike their wilder, less buttoned-up, champagne-swilling cousin, the Golden Globes), and fashion generally seems to follow suit. (Witness Jana's observation that most of the actresses in attendance last night seemed to be wearing black.) So if you were expecting a juicy bit of sarcasm on The Bow That Ate Charlize Theron (Seriously, why is it necessary for her clothing to attack her? And according to MSN, the fabric of the dress was "leather silk satin," which I'm pretty sure is actually three fabrics, not just one), you've...well, I guess you've just gotten it, haven't you? All right, but when someone wears a ridiculous bow like that, I can't be expected to let it pass without at least one cutting remark. So thus ends my non-Oscar non-recap.

Et tu, Cadbury?
Something is seriously wrong here. I don't want to alarm anyone, but...well, I think I have to. After all, if this isn't cause for alarm, I don't know what is. I am afraid that America is experiencing a shortage of Cadbury Eggs. I know. I know! It's disastrous. But I fear it's true.

I went to Target on Friday afternoon to look for a new pot for my plant, and I thought that while I was there, I'd pick up a four-pack of Eggs to enjoy over the weekend. I headed for the section where six whole shelves of Valentine's candy had sat weeks before, expecting to be greeted by the lovely pastels of Easter candy, only to find...nothing. Nothing! (All right, not exactly nothing. They had some dishwashing liquid or something on display, but that is blatantly not Easter candy.) There were no Cadbury Eggs, no Reese's Eggs, not even a stray Peep to be found. What was going on?

I was disappointed and a little mystified, but I was not deterred. After a stop at the bank and the library yesterday morning, I headed to Piggly Wiggly to pick up a few items, thinking I'd just grab my Cadburys there. I managed to locate the one small display dedicated to Easter candy and was shocked to find that it was also Cadbury Egg-less. (As if to add insult to injury, they had an entire shelf devoted to Peeps. Oh, the humanity!) That's when it hit me that something was very, very wrong. Could I be facing the prospect of a Cadbury-less Easter? Disappointment quickly turned to despair.

As I was on the way home, my friend Lee called to see if I wanted to go for a walk. Unfortunately, I happened to be in the middle of my Cadbury-less rage at the moment, and all I could manage to communicate were a few incoherent sentences about creamy milk chocolate goodness. I think he got the message, though, because he showed up at my door a few minutes later with a CVS bag containing four Cadbury Eggs. Hallelujah! Easter has been saved...for now.