Gee, THANKS, Netflix

Thank you, Netflix, for delivering just one of the three discs that were supposed to arrive today. Sports Night season 1, disc TWO. Forget for a moment that I expected discs one, two, and three, and that I only watched the show sporadically when it was on ten years ago, thereby ensuring the necessity of watching them in order.

I'm sure you loved the fact that the last three discs I rented sat on top of my DVD player for over two months, saving you money while wasting mine. So what better time to extract a little more cash, right? Right?

Bastards.

(I wouldn't care so much if it weren't for a predicted snow and freezing ice BLIZZARD that is supposed to hit around midnight tonight, kicking the city's ass and leaving me with nothing to watch but my own DVD collection. Life is HARD.)

At Least I Have Running Water

Running water ALL OVER MY BATHROOM.

My fucking shower broke this morning. Fuck. Awakening to four new inches of snow on the ground had already put a nice damper on the morning, so taking a forced bath just pissed me off even more.

I love baths. I love them. But I love them when I decide to take one, not when I am forced to take them.

It doesn't help that this house has horrible insulation and lots of windows. With the temperatures in the low teens most mornings lately, I've taken to running the space heater for several minutes before getting in the shower. It certainly makes getting undressed easier to stomach.

As I started to fill the tub, mentally calculating the time before the hot water runs out, I realized that my plan for a hot bath was not going to work out. This angered me.

I love my morning shower. A hot shower takes my mind away from the fact that I will soon be trudging the two miles to work in the snow. A hot shower helps me forget that the wind chill generally places the temperature at six degrees. Six! A cold shower tricks me into thinking that I am warm and cozy in bed. Well, not really, but at least I'm warm.

With the tub semi-full and the space heater toasting up the room, I took the plunge and climbed into the tub. First in my morning shower routine? Washing my face. But my shower shelfy-thing was hanging from the shower head and I was sitting way down on the floor of the tub. Dilemma. I stood up, shrieked as the cold air hit me, grabbed the cleanser and plopped back down.

I splashed my face with the tub water to rinse off the cleanser (gross), and slowly stared back up at the shelf. Soap. Way up there. Away from the warm water. I had to go through the painful motions again. And then again with the shampoo. Washing my hair posed another question: how do I do this? I couldn't rinse my hair under the faucet - the hot water was gone. In desperation, I dunked my hair backwards into the tub several times.

Gross!

I managed to extricate myself from the tub, which didn't turn out to be that difficult, considering the now tepid, semi-murky water (okay, I wasn't that dirty, but still. It felt... gross), toweled off and grabbed my robe. My teeth were already chattering.

I don't usually take super-long showers (except at Mike's because his hot water supply is never-ending). Ten minutes in the morning is usually all it takes. My stupid bath was borderline painful and did absolutely nothing to warm me up.

I combed leave-in conditioner through my hair and pouted about the situation for a while before leaving for work.

The bus was fourteen minutes late.

Jerks!

Deal of the Fucking Day

Shane just alerted me to what is probably one of the best deals ever to be dealt.

Amazon has a "Deal of the Day" promotion where they pick something from their warehouse of inventory and massively mark it down to unbelievably asinine levels.

Case in point, today's deal is all three seasons of Arrested Development for $28.99. If I didn't already own them all, I'd be buying them now. In fact, I'm almost considering it. Just in case.

And I will now leave you with this:



Buy the DVDs! Buy them now!

Newsprint

With classes done for the semester, the campus (and city) is slowly shrinking. I simply can't hate winters in Ann Arbor, because even though the temperatures are evil and full of snow and freezing rain and douche-tastic drivers who refuse to go above fifty on the expressway, there is a long, blissful period when the students leave for semester break.

For a lovely three weeks or so, they're gone. Gone! All of sudden, finding a parking space is no longer an exercise in futility. I don't have to listen to asinine conversations, the bus is practically my own personal purple limo, and going to lunch doesn't have to be planned out in advance, allowing time for something as annoying as waiting in line behind backpack-clad undergraduates on their cellphones.

Of course, there are a good number of people left. We're smack dab in the middle of exams, and the climate on campus is... tense. I remember that feeling. And I don't miss it at all.

I do miss the student paper though. It's published daily, but only when classes are in session. So not only do I not get my daily dose of "feeling like an old, wizened lady" by giggling at their emo-angst in the op-ed column, I miss out on the crossword puzzle.

I was never once for crossword puzzles. They were difficult! But on my first day of class as a freshman, I remember timidly climbing the steps to Angell Hall and watching as person after person paused to pick up a copy of the paper. Then in my first lecture (philosophy at nine in the morning? Yeah, great idea, jackass), as the professor leaped and jumped across the stage screaming about brains in vats, I noticed that every other person was either reading the paper or sleeping.

(I never fell asleep in lecture in all my years of higher education, but I did fight nodding off more than once. The only way I ever got around that was watching other people try to stay awake. It was infinitely entertaining.)

When I left class that morning, I picked up my own copy of the paper. I attempted the crossword. I did not do well. But I kept at it, and I eventually got better. I started to copy the guys in my hall and began taping my completed puzzles to my dorm room door. Then in my apartment, I would put them on the fridge, probably annoying the piss out of my roommate. Yeah, I was full of myself.

When I relocated to Washington, DC, I didn't know what I was going to do without a free paper. I would only be at GWU twice a week for classes, and I didn't want to pay for a copy of the WaPo every day. I know that I could print out as many crosswords as I wanted, but there was something about the smell of the newsprint and the way I folded the paper to have the crossword conveniently located that kept me from wasting my ink cartridges. For weeks, I ignored the people in the yellow vests at the entrance to the metro, because I thought that they were just handing out flyers. I gave in one day and realized that I had been a moron - it was a condensed version of the WaPo. For free!

It then became my goal to try and complete at least half of the crossword before I arrived at school or at my internship. It helped that the WaPo's crossword was significantly easier than whichever one The Michigan Daily carried. With frequent delays and getting stuck under the Potomac between stations, the paper was usually the only way to keep my mind from wandering to thoughts of murder when that one woman just wouldn't. stop. talking. and that one couple would just make out until one of them departed at Rosslyn.

(Oh, did I loathe that couple.)

Now, I use the crossword to wind down at night. I like my little routine, and it helps me to fall asleep. So until classes resume in January, I'll be stuck to my book of Sudoku puzzles. They're almost as good as crosswords.

Oh, Hi There! Where Have You Been?

Okay, maybe it wasn't your fault. Oh my gosh, but where have I been?

I know, it's ridiculous. I don't think that I've ever gone this long without writing. I'm going to blame the weather (obviously, as it's snowed every day for the last six days), the job (there is always something to do! Never a second for myself! Well, except to read TV Guide and TWOP. Because what am I going to do? Read those at home?), and my period.

God.

I never really know when the hormones are going to hit, but I got my answer last night while watching The Girls Next Door. Yes.

They were auditioning girls to be the 55th Anniversary centerfold. It. Was. Riveting. (Also, "Oh, she'll be alright. Silicone is buoyant." Anyone?)

Anyway, Hef, in all his wrinkled glory, narrowed down the field to three, and when he finally made his decision, he summoned the girl to his library to tell her the good news. She was so happy that she cried. And SO DID I.

I mean, I cry at West Side Story and The Princess Bride. I cry at scenes in movies that I've seen twenty times. But The Girls Next Door?

Name That Movie!

"When I was your age, television was called books."

Saying, "No Thank You" to Mayo

For my first Thanksgiving at home in six years, I had one dish to make. One. And wouldn't you know, I managed to screw it up.

Well, I didn't screw up the dish, but I definitely slept in TWO hours too late, thereby ruining the super special timeline I had created in my head:

8:00 - Wake up, shower, dress
9:00 - Make recipe
11:00 - Leave for Mike's

The most annoying thing? I didn't even stay up that late. On the biggest bar night of the year, I was... cuddled in blankets on the couch. I had made a nice little dinner for myself, and I wasn't budging. Also, I easily fell into the "I am a complete retard" routine by watching an episode of House (which I have never watched before) that had me bawling great, big elephant tears and then rounded out the night with West Side Story on TCM. What the hell is wrong with me?

So I woke up at 10, barely leaving time to shower, let alone make the damn dish. I sheepishly called Mike and explained my (completely expected on his part) lateness, and that I would be there by noon, instead of 11:30...

...knowing full well that I probably wouldn't get there until after noon, because I had all manner of things to chop up, but I was hopeful.

But right, the one dish I agreed to make for Thanksgiving dinner. My dad requested broccoli salad. Fine. I had never tried it, but I had a vague idea of the recipe. I started my search for recipe inspiration on the Food Network's site, and the first dish on the list (and the highest-rated, sweet God) was this one by Paula Deen.

Now. If you watch the Food Network, you know that Paula Deen is not one for counting calories. The woman has simply never met a stick of butter she didn't like. Her broccoli salad recipe called for tubs of mayonnaise and God knows what else (the preliminary ingredients listing read, "vegetables, sugar, broccoli." So... huh?), and there was just no way I was cooking up that bowl of heart disease. My dad was already going to be eating thousands of calories that evening, so I figured I would try to make something a little more healthy and less artery-clogging.

I don't know why I didn't check 101 Cookbooks first, as the recipes I've made from that site have all been amazing. Sure enough, there was a broccoli salad recipe, and it looked fantastic.

Plus, I was taking half of the dish to Mike's parents' house, and while I didn't want to mess with tradition, the recipe looked too good to skip.

I went shopping for food on Tuesday night, anxious to avoid the insanity of Wednesday. I am really glad that I did, and Kroger almost pulled out the win. If it hadn't been for the lack of shallots and almond butter and the three Jonas Brothers wannabe boys following me around the store (seriously, skinny jeans? STOP IT), it would have been a perfect shopping experience.

(I think they wanted to ask me to buy them beer. Look nerds, if I wouldn't buy for my underage brother, what are your chances? Yeah, I was not a cool sister.)

Thursday morning, in a panic, I scrambled to finish each part of the recipe. I'm not a huge broccoli eater in my dad-to-day world, so preparing it is just something I guessed at. I'm sure that I ended up wasting a ton of it, but I got over it pretty quickly at the time.

Check out the recipe at 101 Cookbooks.

Finally, to my friends in DC, I hope that you all had wonderful Thanksgivings! I know that we had an amazing tradition going, and I hope that you all took as much from it as I did. I loved cooking for you guys each year, and I really missed you yesterday. I love my family and Mike's, and while I was over the moon happy that I got to spend the holiday with them, I missed my DC family. From the upside-down turkey to the shots of fat, I will never forget how much fun we had together. Love Actually forever!

I'm Sparkly, You Smell of Freesia, Let's DO This Thing

God bless my boyfriend, I swear.

I know that I am going to be one in a large group of people writing about this ridiculous movie, but I feel that I must. I must because I have been held captive by these STUPID books since September. I must because I have to somehow defend the hold they've had on me. And I must because I made Mike go see this film on Saturday at 11:00 EST, meaning that he missed the only part of the Michigan-Ohio State game in which Michigan actually looked like they knew what a football actually was.

(In my honest defense, I swear - I SWEAR - that I thought the game was at 3:30. The UM-OSU game is almost always at 3:30, but since we've fallen so very far from grace, the network was probably like, "Well, I suppose we have to televise this, given the history of the rivalry, even though it's going to be a clusterfuck of horrible. And also because we kinda have a contract with them. Whatever, where's my scotch? Scotchy scotch scotch.")

On Saturday morning, I woke up excited - like a little girl on Christmas morning (well, Mike likens me to a terrier in the mornings, but I hold that I am extremely pleasant, shut UP), except instead of Mall Madness and Play Doh to look forward to, I had a glittery, fwoopy-haired vampire to see.

Twilight!

I really lowered my expectations for this one. The source material was far from stellar, so why on earth should I expect fireworks from the movie? And Mike was marginally excited, mostly because I was excited, but also because once I started reading the damn series, he did his own search of the internets for information about why I was so obsessed and found this:



So, yeah, he was excited.

I realize that besides this gem, I've never written an actual review of the book, and as the movie is one of the most faithful book-to-screen adaptations I've experienced, I will do that now, lumping them together. So for the uninitiated - and therefore still sane - ready.... GO.

Bella Swan (I KNOW), lives in Phoenix with her hair-brained mother, Renee, and Renee's new husband, Phil. He plays minor league ball, and as Renee wants to travel with him, Bella decides to send herself to teensy eensy, rainy, boring Forks, Washington to live with her dad, Charlie, for a while.

Get it? Bella is SELFLESS. She's also super-clumsy and it gets really tiresome in the book, but those mannerisms are downplayed in the film - THANK GOD.

So Bella arrives in the rainiest, overcast-iest place in the continental United States and immediately begins attracting attention by being bitchy, bad at sports, and falling down a lot. The boys like her and the girls tolerate her. Some are genuinely friendly, while some are... well, teenage girls. (Read: bitchy and fake). Bella soon notices a group of teens that hang out on their own. They don't seem to interact with other people and they are all drop dead gorgeous. Especially the one she discovers to be called... EDWARD. Her classmates/frenemies explain that the Cullen family is packed to the brim with adoptees and they are all super weird.

When Bella arrives in her biology class, the only available seat is next to EDWARD. And he immediately gets this ridiculous look of rage/constipation on his face. Bella can't figure out why he seems to be so disgusted. Every other boy in the damn school has fallen over themselves to flirt with her - why not EDWARD?

Oh EDWARD, thee of the perfect fwoopy hair, why do you hate Bella so?

Turns out, Edward and the Cullens are vampires. But they drink animal blood instead of that of humans. Yes. But they still crave it, don't get me wrong. And Bella's scent? Is the best, most fragrant, most freesia-smelling lovely blood that EDWARD has smelled in his hundred-odd years. Well isn't that an inconvenience?

Oh, right. Also, he's like 107 years old or something.

So who does Bella fall for? Mr. EDWARD Cullen, of course. She's upset when he's not in school and mad when he never gives her straight answers. Thing is? He falls for her, too. It's pretty awesome.

The book, it rambles on and on (and on and on and on) about their love! It is so pure! And so true! Bella wants action, but EDWARD cannot give her the business, as even though they are both delicate virgins and want each other so very much, he is walking a very fine line between wanting her body in the carnal sense and wanting her body in the dinnertime sense. So, no relations as yet.

Right, so about three-quarters of the way through the book/movie, a plot emerges. Welcome, plot! Do you like the smell of freesia? Because Bella apparently reeks of it.

(Really, though, there is a plot for the first part of the book/movie - a plot of forbidden love and the discovery of many secrets. But nothing that really gets the ball rolling. Or the blood flowing, YOU MIGHT SAY.)

The novels are written, um... Well, they're not fine literature, that's for sure. They're written exactly the way a tween would want to read them. Easy, not too many long sentences, and there's absolutely nothing to read into. Everything is spelled out in black and white. You don't have to use your imagination too much, except to picture EDWARD'S perfection. And there are over one hundred allusions to EDWARD'S beauty and perfection and loveliness. It gets to be a bit much, yes, but didn't we all feel that way when we were teenagers and we were in LOVE after two weeks of "dating" which really meant maybe seeing your boyfriend at the mall and maybe holding his hand and maybe kissing, but not frenching because in your mind that would mean that the next step was sex and you were only thirteen and just starting shaving your legs a year ago. I mean, I don't know.

The thing is...

Reading this book and seeing the film were both somehow powerful experiences. Take away the drivel, the high school antics, and the whole vampire thing, and it's a simple love story. And as you read the book or view the film, it takes you back. Remembering the beginnings of that one relationship. The only one that matters. Finally, the person you've been waiting for. This was made all the more powerful for me, now that I have found that person.

(I'll give you all a moment to vomit, of course.)

The film, though? It was good. It really was. Even Mike liked it. He'll never read the books, but as soon as we left the theater, he wanted to know the plots of the remaining novels. I had to pause before getting into the "plot" of the fourth book, because... well, you know. If you've read it, you'll recognize the reason for my hesitation. Explaining the plot of Breaking Dawn probably made me look like an escaped mental patient. I half expected him to counter with, "And you liked this book?" Well, no, not liked, per se. Couldn't put it down because of the utter ridiculousness of the story, but also because I cared about these characters. Not reading them reminded me of each and every time I gave up pop for Lent. Withdrawal.

So now that I've seen this film twice in less than thirty-six hours, all I can say is that I want to see it again. And I can't really explain why. I loved the changes that the director and screenwriter made, especially the amazing long shots of the Pacific Northwest as Edward and Bella hung out in trees, just chatting. I think that the film made good use of the material and upped the ante, so to say. Of course, there were many things that the film was unable to fully stress - their love for one another, mainly. The film was too rushed and didn't take the time to show how they got to know each other.

Of course, none of this matters. Work on the second film has been greenlit, and while I think that it has the potential to be even more depressing than Atonement, it will definitely be exciting with all of the angst, rampant fursploding, and daring suicide attempts!

(Mike just sent me the following text, "Hi love... Edward is Cedric Diggory... I didn't realize that right away." I responded something like, "Yeah, that's why I was so excited to see the movie!" His response? "Too bad he wasn't impossibly fast when faced with Voldemort."

And that, my friends, is just one of the many reasons that I love my boyfriend.)

"I Can't Put My Arms Down!"

It is cold. COLD.

Upon dragging my unwilling ass out of bed this morning, I checked the weather. It is a testament to my will-power that I didn't crawl back into bed immediately. 16 degrees, but "feels like" 6. Six. SIX. Boo-urns!

As it is, I ran the space heater in the bathroom while I showered. I didn't care if it was hazardous. If I died somehow, at least I'd be warm.

Getting dressed also presented a problem. My heat is programmed to seventy degrees at 6:00, but an hour was not long enough to warm anything. The floors were icy and I got dressed in the bathroom after my shower. With the space heater.

Friday is slightly casual, in my head at least, and I found heavier jeans that I deemed appropriate. (Hell, the exhibits department guys wear twenty year-old jeans and ripped tee shirts every day - I'm sure my jeans aren't all that scandalous.) Two pair of socks, a tank top, a long sleeved tee, and a thick sweater were only the beginning. I pulled on my Thinsulate-lined knee high boots, my wool hat, and a scarf before topping it all with my wool coat.

And then? I was Randy.

I mean, I could put my arms down, but when it came time to cross the street, I had to turn my entire body to make sure there were no cars hurtling at me.

I don't know why it's so cold now, though I suppose it's always been this cold in Michigan in mid-November and maybe it's because I haven't been here for Thanksgiving in six years, but I am a massive loser wuss. Why is it sunny and snowing at the same time? Why is there snow on my deck that just. won't. melt? Why do I have to scrape my windshield every time I want to go somewhere?

And He Had a Cute Little Lisp, Too!

As one of the docents was emptying the change from the wishing well:

"Why are you stealing people's wishes?"
-a four-year-old museum visitor