This weekend I watched a couple of movies:

1.) No Country For Old Men, which reinforced my belief that Javier Bardem is nothing but fucking scary. I've believed that for some time now. He's the scariest man in film at this point - the sound of his voice creeps me out until I want to cry like a little girl who just fell down the stairs and broke two ribs and an ankle. He has de-throned Ted Levine (of Silence of the Lambs and Joy Ride) from his previous standing as the most fucked up serial killer voices in the history of serial killers. "Candy Cane, come on!" and "I would fuck me...I would fuck me so hard" have been replaced by "What business is it of yours, friendo?" And the repeating, always the repeating...

2.) My Man Godfrey. Carole Lombard and William Powell, HAWT and hilarious. I rank this one up there with It Happened One Night, Bringing Up Baby, and The Philadelphia Story. Can't rank them against each other. They're all too fabulous.

I've been thinking and reading and researching about grad school endlessly. I discovered a program today in an in-state school that sounds like it suits my needs and requirements just about perfectly. More on this later. Must call schools and investigate.

Pass the time with this:



Nothin' like some mad squirrel action.

I'm on the couch with wicked stomach pain, so here are a few random thoughts and tidbits that have been flashing through my mind repeatedly.

Read this, not just because it's funny. Not just because it reminds me of the Elle MacPherson incident. And not just because the Fug Girls RAWK. Read it because, frankly, I don't think Biel is all that fantastic to look at.

The little voice in my head keeps coming home drenched in men's cologne. It happens to be Curve, which I happen to like, but a.) cologne is hard on my eyes and b.) it's disconcerting to have a scent that makes my thighs twitch emanating from my daughter. Really. Very. Wrong. Plus, it gives off the impression that there's a man wandering around my house and I don't know where he's hiding. Also disconcerting.

Top Three Tarantino Movies (in my opinion) and Why I Like Them So:

Kill Bill Volume 2: The pregnancy test scene and the convo with Kiddo's would-be assassin that ends with the would-be assassin backing away and offering her congratulations.

Pulp Fiction: The Wolf raises his mug in praise of Jimmy's coffee, and Jimmy's tirade about why he doesn't want to help them clean up the mess in the car.

Death Proof: Zoe Bell and Kim's argument about playing Ship's Mast and Kim's response to Zoe Bell's offer of best-friendship.

I have been thinking a lot about what I'm doing to hold myself back in life, both personally and professionally, and I've pinpointed a couple of things. I make these declarations now, out loud and publicly in order to make a contract with myself to change stuff that needs to be changed.

1.) I have been prideful about celibacy and singlehood. The truth is, those things are a backlash of my childhood and a refusal to make the same mistakes and take the same safety risks as my mother. I will no longer make decisions or refuse to take action based on those fears. I will move forward with the flow of things and open myself up to every opportunity presented to me. I will play more.

2.) I will no longer hide myself behind my responsibilities as a mother. I need to take care of myself too - I deserve to love and be loved. I deserve to let myself do those things. I thought I was good at doing that, but I've been holding back, or getting involved in circumstances that did not allow for me to move forward.

3.) I will trust my instincts.

4.) I will trust my abilities.

5.) I will focus on right now. No more holding onto the past and kicking myself for mistakes. I will think positively about the future without waiting around for it and missing or forgetting what I'm doing. I will be grateful for the past and work for a good future, but live right now.

6.) I will slow down. Listen. And breathe.

7.) I will wear sunblock and sunglasses every day.

No more excuses, or anxiety, or guilt, or indecision. No more holding back because I don't know what's coming.

Our host for the Saturday night out also ended up being very hungry at the end of the night, but when we refused him fast food due to time issues, he promised himself a Hot Pocket when he got home and started riffing on this:



I thought the SSLP was going to choke on herself she was laughing so hard.

There are some leftovers that I need to throw out there from the last post.

More about the night of dancing and pseudo-debauchery:

1.) Our host for the night (he deejays for the new club and we're close personal friends with his wife) swaggered out with the three of us on his arms yelling about going home with his "hot Asian bitches." It took me a moment to realize he was talking about us because between me, his wife, and the SSLP we embody all the characteristics in this world that are NOT Asian. He was pretty drunk and it was pretty hilarious, even when we were walking behind actual Asians. Plus, you'd just have to know this deejay to understand how much he is not a pimp.

2.) I happen to be the owner of the camera that took all the blackmail pictures. RELENTLESSLY CAUTIOUS.

More about dating:

I talked about how I don't know how to date "the right, fun way," so I guess I should add here my definition of the right, fun way: flitting lightheartedly from person to person, taking nothing at all seriously and not getting attached in any profound way to the potentials while doing so. Like a queen bee and her drones sort of deal. I either hang out, or I'm a girlfriend. I'm not so good at the in-between, I guess. As well, I don't have the energy or the attention span to date more than one person at a time - too visually confusing, and I know I'd mix up names and call them all the name of the one I was most interested in. Pretty sure that's breaking at least two rules regarding masculine pride.

More about Death Proof:

Foot fetishes and lap dances, my friends. Not to mention the best turnabout I've seen on film in years. It will be mine - oh yes.

I watched Death Proof for the first time. It has to be the best porn I've ever seen. It's fanboy porn, T&A porn, Kurt Russell porn, horror movie porn - it's fantastic.

So, I've been thinking about dating a lot lately. More as an abstract than of me actually engaging in the act of...It's not a fun thing to me, really. Never really has been. Mainly because I think you either know how to do it the right way, the fun way, or you don't. And I don't. Back to the concept. I've been specifically thinking about the climate of dating in this day and age, and specifically in my town.

Frankly, my city sucks for dating. It's too jaded. Too quick and slick to be anything but people looking mainly for immediate gratification. There are times when it works for people here, no doubt - relationships can be developed and succeed (you know who I'm talking about, you). My opinion is definitely a generalization, and there are exceptions to every perception.

Here's a story about some people I know who will remain nameless, though, that I heard, that left me feeling incredibly disappointed and disgusted . They get introduced, they start texting and emailing back and forth (ahhhh, the digital age - intimacy without the necessity of ACTUAL intimacy)and he says to her, Okay, let's do this. I want to get together with you - but here's how it's gonna work. I'm gonna come over, we're gonna fuck, but you're not allowed to talk. Not hello, goodbye, nothing. No talking.

And she agrees to it. And it happened.

This is just amazing to me, and not just because the male individual involved in the transaction is unbelievably not sexy. I have literally thought of him as asexual since the day I met him. I just don't understand how this is it - this is the dating pool that I would be diving into should I choose to do so. People do this.

But there are nice moments sometimes, even when you land directly in the middle of the bullshit that swirls around this town. I was at a new club last night, and it was horrendous, and me and the SSLP were so over it. We walked outside to a poolside area that was actually a breath of fresh air. It was huge and considerately furnished with large round poolside lounge seats. I sat down on one and apologized to a fella laying there. He was awake, not intoxicated, just looking at the sky waiting for his dumb drunk buddy to wander back around from wherever he disappeared to. My feet hurt (the first time back in real shoes since surgery) and he looked quiet and uninvested in all the madness, so I laid down with him. Didn't ask. Just spooned up to him, and he put his arm around me - and we talked. Talked about nursing as a very practical career choice (his) and the massive uselessness of an English degree in this economy (mine) and France and the beach and tattoos, and it was just...nice.

It was random, and surprisingly not skeevy, considering our surroundings and the fact that I laid down with a complete stranger. It kind of reminded me of the plot for this movie coming out called The Girlfriend Experience. The main difference being that we both got an interesting sort of momentary companionship at no cost to either of us. (And two side notes: a.) I was almost completely sobered up from the horror show of trying to get into the place so my actions could not be blamed on alcohol, nor would I want them to be, and b.) it shocked the hell out of my friends who were with me, who bounced over as my committee to grill him for information and also to take pictures to prove that, yes, I co-mingle with boys every once in a while.)

That's it really. I was still relentlessly cautious, didn't give or get a number. And I don't have any deep thoughts about it, other than I don't want to get all jaded too - I don't want to begin believing that everyone's got an angle, that every person I meet is just handing me some sort of line. I want to believe that people mean what they say.

The other day I realized, not for the first time, how sadly deficient I am in Russian and French lit. So measures are being taken (but I won't say by whom - maybe I'm getting spankins from some hot Russian lit professor!). In real life, no spankins. Just my library card and some late nights with a couple of fellas named Tolstoy and Dostoevsky (is that how you spell it?). I still have a bad taste in my mouth from Madame Bovary, so the French will have to just wait for my good opinion. Plus I have to do some research to uncover which novels are considered the greats in the French canon of literature.

This is a glamorous life, but hey! It all starts when I shake up my reading list! I'm proud of myself for trying new (to-me) writers instead of reading the same books over and over again. Maybe I used to do that...

Oh, also, fuck medical advice! I'm doin' the yoga! I figure since they didn't find a hiatal hernia with the barium swallow, then I don't have one (several medical articles advised that that is the only way to find a hiatal hernia). So there's no reason to continue abstaining. I'm stretching and posing, my friends. The stress relief will only do my alleged ulcers good!

Had a girls' night with the SSLP last night, and we actually got away from our houses and walked around in society like grown people! We ended up shopping a wee bit, which is totally out of character for us. But we preceded the dread shopping with a curbside beer and chocolate eclair. The beer liquored us up and got us all relaxed for the event, and the eclair gave us a realistic size gauge. More for me than for her - she possesses this thing called "self-discipline." She also has one of those fellas around to keep her woman parts satisfied and doesn't rely on sweets to replace that satisfaction because she's a stronger person than I am in that regard. SELF-DISCIPLINE.

Anyhoosies, in honor of the triple-digit temperatures that are settling in, the word of the day is SUNDRESS. The other word of the day is TUBETOP.

Then, after our three-hour tour, we went home with some choice Messican food and watched Pineapple Express.

This was my second try at Pineapple - the first effort failed due to some bedtime distractions. The parts I remembered (albeit out of context) were unsavory so I didn't feel compelled to watch it again. However, the SSLP was not amenable to that because she has a married-woman-love-jones for James Franco.

I have to say I'm glad that she's one of the chosen people who get to tell me what to do, because I laughed my little bubble butt off. Everything was so funny and off-key and unexpected. The men, all of them, were soooo lovably gay. And I mean that they were all indescribably feminine in the way they talked and related to each other, even the villains of the piece (the interesting ones - the assassins hunting down the two main characters). And I liked that they all fought the way peace-loving stoners would when confronted for the first time with life-or-death choices - meaning, they fought really badly. When they won fights it was purely accidental. I think my favorite part was when Seth Rogen threatened Danny McBride with a cactus to get him to spill everything he knew. HYSterical. Oddly, though, a disappointing and unfunny gag reel.

But who cares about gag reels when James Franco is blazin' hot?

I watched a film called Atonement two nights ago. I was mildly interested in this one when it first came out - interested because I like Keira Knightley and Joe Wright, mildly because I'd tried to read the Ian McEwan novel the film was adapted from and failed. Ian McEwan is incredibly difficult for me to read, but the plot of this book was intriguing to me. When I watched the film, though, I only knew the skeleton details of the plot and for that I was glad.

Glad, you say? Oh, but why?

Well I will tell you.

This movie really surprised me. I knew that it was extremely well-reviewed and nominated for all sorts of awards, but that actually turned me off a little, and that's why I'm just now seeing it. I was concerned that it would be a reprisal of The English Patient*, a film that I still consider incredibly overrated and, frankly, kind of boring.

Atonement is no such a thing. Joe Wright is becoming one of my favorite directors because of his handling of setting. Yes, setting - believe it. He captures the beauty of every scene, but in a way that is realistic at the same time it is glowing and ethereal. He's the first director who's ever let us see a Jane Austen character sweat during a vigorous ball, and let the farm be an actual farm where a hog's balls are of great interest to his owner.

Keira Knightley and James McAvoy are amazing in this as well. I'll talk about James first, as he is lesser known than Keira, but carried a love story through with amazing power and depth. My favorite scene with him is when they meet again just before he goes off to war. It is a very awkward moment and he tries to play off indifference, but then she touches him, and he breaks apart, and he makes this sound...I can't describe the sound with a word, because it would undermine his masculinity, which is very much in place. They both really sold the love story in ways that were new and fresh, in my opinion.

Keira, as always, is magnificently beautiful. Without hesitation I would rate her as one of the top ten screen faces of our time. Perfection does not play a part in this category: it's character, and something iconical - I don't know. Hard to describe, but I think she has it and Audrey Tautou and George Clooney and Cate Blanchett. They're all beautiful in their own way, but striking, and archetypical.

Anyway, back to Keira. Beautiful, yes, and there is a green gown that has been rated as one of the historical screen gowns (like Audrey Hepburn's dress in Breakfast at Tiffany's, and Marilyn's white dress from The Seven Year Itch, and Scarlett's red gown from Gone with the Wind). But while she was wearing it, I was so distressed by her drastic weight loss that I kept getting distracted by meal planning for a dinner over at my house. Special guest: Keira.

Here's the menu:

1.) We'll start with a creamy, caramel flan. I like to have dessert first every once in a while.

2.) Cobb Salad, with extra eggs and avocado.

3.) Creamy beef stroganoff over egg noodles, with some fluffy fresh bread and butter.

4.) For a vegetable, yams with honey.

5.) We'll end with coconut cream pie. Two desserts, why the hell not? It's my party.

6.) For an after dinner drink, I was thinking about Bailey's and cream. And maybe a chocolate milkshake for during dinner.

I'm not saying this to be catty. I really do worry about these actresses who starve themselves as well as over-exercise. You actresses can eat and still maintain a slender figure, especially if you're as petitely built as Knightley is and have unlimited funds for personal training.

Seriously, Keira, some sandwiches with mayo and extra cheese. It can only help you.


*I am speaking only of the film version. I read the novel after I watched the movie, and it was an amazing book. In fact, it pointed even more emphatically at the flaws in the movie.

(PLEASE READ THE POST FROM EARLIER IN THE EVENING BEFORE READING THIS OR IT WILL NOT MAKE SENSE....)

I just wanted to clarify something: I am drinking real beer. Not my pseudo-beer. ACTUAL BEER. I decided I need to clear out some leftover Labatte Blue before my new roommate moves in and sees them in the fridge and starts to think that maybe I'm some down and out floozy single mother who chain smokes Capris and yells all the time and has strange men over in the middle of the night who wear wife beaters and scratch their chests as they say "call me Uncle CharlieTomPeteKennyDaveHankStevie" and then I have to kick them out of bed early in the mornings 'cause I want to be on time to go pick up my welfare check and then run get my nails done and my roots touched up so's I can start all over again later that night at the local country and western bar. Blech.

So I'm drinking beer to fight stereotypes - power to the people!

Aside from being the host city for the best weekend of personal Olympics EVER (and I mean all weekends in the universe, not just mine), Denver, Colorado also hosts these two other events that make me want to come back for more.

Here's one:



Yup. The city's first ever SNUGGIES PUB CRAWL. When I sent this to Auntie Sister she shit a chicken because she did, in fact, predict that Snuggies would take over the world when it was still just a silly infomercial a year or so back. We mocked her then. We are not mocking her now.

And here's the other one:



Technically, it's Boulder, but geography does not matter when this many people run naked through the streets with jack-o-lanterns on their heads while they freeze their ASSES off.

So I have a new roommate moving in this month. And my resume is polished and going out into the publishing world. I'm still considering grad school, but leaning back towards English because I whole-heartedly ruled out law school. Don't know yet whether I want an M.A. or an M.F.A. or a Ph.d, but there's time. And I'm fine sticking with the research stage at this point, as far as looking at schools and deciding on programs. Plus I have a new writing project on tap that just sort of popped into my head this morning.

Things are moving forward. I'm feeling better. I'm drinking beer!

FOAMMMYYYYYY.

I got the film version of Little Children and it's driving me FUCKING insane. Another story about a man letting his masculine pride and entire selfhood get trampled and destroyed by a woman. Look, I'm no feminist, nor am I necessarily a traditionalist - I'm back and forth about gender roles. However, I'm absolutely black and white about personal freedom, and there's no way in anybody's hell I would ever let a man make me ask permission to get involved in some sort of extracurricular activity. Nor would I expect a man to ask me permission like I'm his mother or something. Yes, it's courteous to let each other know what's going on and where we're going and what time we'll be home and can we set this up so the kids are taken care of, but these women in these stories - it's unbelievable:

The Man: "I'm gonna play football on Tuesday nights. (pause due to a raised eyebrow look from the woman) Is it okay?"
The Woman: "I have to think about it."

Fuck off.

The only thing that's keeping me going on this thing is Kate Winslet being fucking amazing as always.

This weekend I bought myself a Belgian wafflemaker because in my dream about Garbo, la femme schnauzer, she ran away from me in the work cafeteria which happened to be serving breakfast which happened to be fresh Belgian waffles, dripping with butter and syrup with bacon on the side...it was better than my sex dreams.

So I get this magic-maker and I epiphanied that I can make each waffle individually however I want it. The little voice in my head and I suffer from a difference of opinion regarding chocolate chip waffles vs. cinnamon pecan waffles. But I can sprinkle each waffle however I want to without making the whole bowl of batter one way or another.

It's a dream come true.

Dude. It's shiz like this that makes me glad I live in such a gloriously uncensored decade. And dude, how lucky would JT be to actually get la Sarandon? Seriously. She would break him.

I'm so happy to be alive!

Check it: Picasso!



I just finished watching the film Juno for the first time, and it didn't hit me until the second trimester the happy coincidence of watching this particular movie on Mothers' Day. It suits, really.

Now, I know I'm waaaaaay behind on the bandwagon as usual. This is a two-years-ago hit and Oscar-nominated film. So everybody else in the world (possibly the universe) knows how great it is, but I'm still going to share my feelings about it, because it's going down on my running list of "Movies I MUST Have."

There are moments in this film that blew the top of my head off, mainly to do with the interactions between Juno and her parents. J.K. Simmons as her father was irreplaceable by any other actor. His talk with her in the kitchen about happily-ever-after and the little smile on his face as he leaves the conversation still believing that he is and will always be the number one guy in her life. And the moment in the hospital when he strokes her hair and tells her that one day, she will be back in this place in this position, but on her terms. SERIOUSLY. As a daddy's girl, and a woman, that scene is permanently burned on my retinas as one of the best in cinematic history.

Then, my goodness. Young Michael Cera. That sweet thing had me at hello with his skinny legs, gold track wristbands and Hot Pocket fresh out of the micro. I loved him from the start. He did not have as much screen time as the rest, but I think that worked well for his character, as someone being pushed aside as less consequential to the events, but who shows his stuff as the events begin to unroll. Do not mistake his gentleness or uncertainty of his role in the proceedings for weakness. Watch him as he realizes Juno missed his big track meet for a reason, and watch him run away toward her regardless of his meet, his mother, or what anyone thinks. Then watch him hold her as she cries because the mother of their child is taking him away while they lay together. And props to Diablo Cody for making Paulie Bleeker one of the first male characters to say "What should we do?" in the face of the unexpected news.

Ellen Page and the screenplay and everyone in the film is so good it goes without saying. I was pleased with the adoption resolution. I think that it was the best answer from the very start. Allison Janney, as usual, fries up gold everytime she speaks. I loved the scene where she tells off the judgmental radiology tech. Jason Bateman, for someone so vibrant, did an awesome job playing someone downtrodden who long ago pushed aside any ability to sac up and tell his wife that his opinions matter too. And Jennifer Garner, though I was irritated by her character's control freakiness, was heart-breaking as someone who just wants to have a baby. I thought it was cool that they didn't try to tie up the marital issues in a prettier way. This woman was way better off just her and her baby. She would have alienated even a happier marriage by giving all her focus to that purpose.

One of the things about Juno that I thought was so beautiful is that she doesn't want to be a mother and gives her to someone else who is ready, but she is a mother the minute she starts making those kinds of decisions for her child.

It all reminded me that I loved being pregnant and I love being a mother, and that nothing worth having is ever easy and that being a parent is rarely, if ever, glamorous. I have a picture of myself toward the very last month of my "confinement," and I was sooo hot and soooo fat and sooo happy. I don't have much to say that's sentimental today because to me, it's all about making decisions every single day. And the decisions that are, pre-natal, all about you, never can be again because everything you do affects and includes your child. But, at the end of the day and regardless of how brain-wracking those decision can get, I love looking at that picture, and talking to the little voice in my head about how it has felt from the moment I knew that I was going to be able to have my baby.

Last night I dreamed I was taking care of a female mini-Schnauzer named Garbo who kept dashing away from me, and out of desperation I kept looking around for bacon to tempt her back to me.



A few dreams before that I dreamed that Russell Crowe was my boyfriend and he was going to turn into a werewolf in a matter of minutes, so he and I were rushing around my parents' home gathering our things into our knapsacks so we could drive out into the wild to keep everyone else safe.



Hm.

I'm trying to stay still to let my feet heal, and it's just not going well.

My passion for Simon Pegg was almost diminished a bit when I heard him say (about "Spaced"), "Writing it was such an organic experience." I hate that phrase. It's such a gay Hollywood cliche. And not gay in the good way.

But then he saved himself. I went back to the outtakes, and there's this thing that happens with him and Nick Frost, this kind of telepathy where Nick will do a take that makes Simon laugh, but Simon tries to power through by holding his breath or going completely silent, but Nick senses the pause and starts laughing and reprimanding Simon for breaking.

Additionally, Simon is just so vulnerable to laughter - it's awesome.

So, I'm thinking about getting a taser. I had a run-in at my house with some very persistent carpet cleaners who would not leave after I asked them several times politely and then told them to leave several times in my schoolteacher-about-to-crack-some-skulls voice and the whole experience freaked me out. I don't freak out easily.

A guy at work who comes into my office every once in a while to make sure I'm not sitting in the dark (it's a long story having to do with some feisty dimmer switches and a verrrry damselish phone call to the engineering department) also has a side business selling guns and such. After I told him that story, he said I should have something in the house for defense, and if I don't trust the little voice in my head around guns, that I should consider a taser. So I'm thinking about it. A taser's a nice alternative, because it doesn't kill anyone but knocks out the rascally intruder long enough for me to call 911 and then kick him in the Balzac repeatedly until the police arrive.

Plus the guy at work's another hot one. I wouldn't mind shopping his weaponry (although he's had a vasectomy and two ex-wives, so I'm not sure I'd ever buy into his big guns). Actually, he scares me just a little and he's way shorter than me. I think I'd offend his masculine pride. And I don't date people from the workplace.

I realized today just how much workplace romances turn me off. This guy in my department is dating someone from finance, and I walked into his office to bring him a file or something, and he was eating lunch with his girlfriend's legs between his legs. Blech. So inappropriate. Plus, what happens when she gets a spine and breaks up with him because he's a cheating, sexist prick? Or he breaks up with her because he's tired of a spineless, weeping girl-slave? Messy, whether you cook it up with Crisco or canola.

Today at work, a laborer whom we all admire in our own special ways swung by today to grace us with his flattery and flirtation. He's about my height, and with the looks, tattoos and build of an X-Men character - if only I could tell which side he was on. He always tells me how pretty I look and that I don't need make-up because I'm a natural beauty. Sighhhh. Today he told me I looked cute like a schoolteacher (I had my glasses on because the wind's still wreaking havoc on my contact lenses). I enjoy the attention a little bit, but I know that men of his build (he's a bodyguard on the weekends, so he works out 6 days a week) are notorious for having small penises and premature ejaculations. Plus he's been married 6 BILLION times and I would constantly feel like the future ex-Mrs. X-Man. So really, I just don't think he's for me.

I read a book this weekend during several moments when I was trying to rest my frankentoes -

Doh! Time for a song: Frankentoes, Frankentoes, does whatever a frankentoe does....

Okay, back to the book.

Little Children by Tom Perotta. I give him props for being such a good writer, because usually I can't get through this type of story. The moment I closed the covers I thought, "hunh. reminds me of john cheever or raymond carver." But I don't like Cheever or Carver. They were forced upon me by my favorite professor. John Cheever and Raymond Carver specialize in the dark lower-to-middle-class suburban marriage stories. The American Dream, descaled. Unpleasant. And I always hope that these stories are not a true reflection of our society. Especially since Perotta's writing several decades after Cheever and Carver. I don't want to believe that in all these years, it's all still the same - marrying because it's expected, because it's politically strategic in one vein or another, because you just really don't know what else to do. And the gender relations issues as well - I mean, have we really just been running in circles? Yes, women can work now - WOOHOO! Now women are expected to carry the same houseload we always maintained with the addition of a full-time job! Congratulations, ladies, this is what we've fought for. But good luck climbing the ladder, because guess who's gonna stay home with the sick children that you're expected to have because you're married and that's what married people do? Yup, you guessed it - because it's highly probable that the male counterpart will always make more money than you do, making your time at work more expendable. And children get sick ALL THE TIME. These stories, they're so - I don't know what the word is. Not just dark. Deflated. As though there really is no such thing as love or romance. And I just don't believe that. See? I'm not TOTALLY Carrie Bradshaw. I believe that marriage is a contract, but one that should be entered due to a state of mutual love and commitment to each other.

Christ. I need to stop reading.

My question after all of this is, why is unhappiness so much more interesting for writers to delve than happiness?

I was up until almost 2 a.m. watching "Spaced." I haven't been up that late in ages. I found so many more reasons to love it since my initial avowal.

1.) Tim Bisley, Simon Pegg's character, is an avid "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" fan. He's got an SMG poster in his room and during one episode, wakes up suddenly from sleep crying out, "BUFFY?"

2.) The team who created this show (Edgar Wright directed, Simon Pegg and Jessica Stevenson wrote every episode) are fanatical film geeks, and in the last episode pull off a fabulously choreographed reference to Say Anything.... I still believe that it could happen to me.

3.) Tim Bisley grows so attached to the adopted mini Schnauzer that he is seen (at least twice) carrying it on his back in a little doggie backpack.

4.) Simon Pegg and Nick Frost always give good outtake.

5.) This is an unrelated point, but Nick Frost and Simon Pegg are real-life SSLPs! Read this!

6.) Shaun of the Dead was conceptualized during an episode when Tim gets all jacked up on cheap speed and plays Resident Evil for 24 hours, then hallucinates at a bar that all the other patrons are zombies attacking him and his friends.

7.) Simon Pegg in his navy blue and white tee-shirt that says "tenderloin" SLAYS ME. Why, why couldn't he have married me? Why didn't he love me? He could have been my little pork chop, and I would be his lemon pie. Ahh, to all the things that might have been.

I must have this for my own. It is a MORAL IMPERATIVE. And if you get that reference, you will get a prize. Something like my eternal film geek respect.

I just had a very delicious and heavily-poured Kahlua and milk, and it was fantastic I tell you. I would do it again but I'm almost out of Kahlua. Got to savor it.

So I finally got off my sweet little yet womanly bum and got "Spaced" from the library, and I tell you - I adore it. Like a new friend that I talk about constantly and want to take with me everywhere to see it in every possible light. It's fantastic. And not just because Simon Pegg is one of my standby tasty treats.

But he is funny and adorable. Combined with his flair for facial expressions, I fall for him every time. It always feels brand new.

This series is magical. And because of it, I've added a miniature Schnauzer to my future collection of things I will get when I have my own house. And he will have a beard, and his name will be Heinrich. Or maybe Heimlich.

Ok, so I just watched the film version of Gone Baby Gone - the fourth installment in the Kenzie-Gennaro series and the only film version of any of the novels. I would say it is a good movie, but for one thing.

I've read the fucking books. The first couple anyway. And what the fuck did Ben Affleck do to Angie Gennaro?

In the novels, she's a bombshell Italian granddaughter of a mafioso on her mother's side, who never uses the family name because she doesn't need to because she kicks ASSSSSS. She doesn't take shit from any man, is a dead shot with a gun, and is an equal, if not superior, partner to Patrick Kenzie.

In Ben's movie, she's a pretty girlfriend who barely opens her mouth to speak.

What the fuck, Ben? Didn't you marry the Alias chick? Now you got her all knocked up you can't let a woman be a badass anymore?

Fucked UP, dude. What fucking year is this, anyway? 1955?

Christ. And here I am with no apron. I need to find my place again before I fuck up and grow a fucking spine or something. Then I might talk out of turn, and you can't have that.

I do not endorse this movie.