Holy crap, Liz is a mom!

I know we've had about 8 months to prepare for this, and yes, I have seen Liz looking extremely pregnant and even attended her baby shower, but I'm having one of those "Josh is getting married!" moments.
Wow.

P.S. Welcome to the family, West. You kinda lucked out with this one.

Hail to the Chief's mad reflex skillz.

I know this is my second post in a row about the President, but he just keeps doing noteworthy stuff. In addition to giving me a day off, he's now dodging journalists' shoes in Iraq. At a press conference, a local reporter hurled a couple of size 10s at him, and the Prez ducked out of the way. It's a good thing he has excellent reflexes because you know who apparently doesn't? The Secret Service. I don't know if they were over at the donut table or what, but they certainly didn't respond very quickly.

I find all of this impressive because I have the opposite of good reflexes. Undoubtedly, I would have gotten beaned right in the face by the first shoe, and then the second shoe would have landed on my prostrate body as the Secret Service did NOTHING about it. Clearly I need to stay away from a political career.

Oh, thank you, Mr. President!

President Bush has given me the day after Christmas off. Well, me and several thousand other federal employees, but you get the picture. Oh, this makes me feel so festive! I'm gonna go drink egg nog or decorate something!

I want to be a Slap Bet Commissioner!

I swear, the rate at which How I Met Your Mother increases in funniness is just alarming. The first season made me laugh. I am now nine episodes into the second season and it is making me positively guffaw. I watched the Slap Bet episode last night and I found myself giggling and clapping my hands together like a half-witted little child. It is so shameful. I love it so much.

And where, pray tell, are the many Emmy awards that Neil Patrick Harris deserves? On Jeremy Piven's undeserving bookcase, that's where! Those stupid Entourage boys with their stupid hair. I hate that show. Entourage ruins everything.

This poster is wigging me out for reasons I can barely articulate.

Goodness knows I love me some Vince Vaughn, and I like Reese Witherspoon, too, but this poster is ridiculous. Look at how they have to prop Reese up on four gift boxes and a pair of ankle-breaker stillettos to get her at Vince's height. It makes him look like a monstrous giant and her look like a little girl who was playing with Mommy's shoe collection. How did they even keep them in the same frame while filming?

It's creeping me out. It just is.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I wish everyone a wonderful Thanksgiving! Manderz, I'm thinking of you as you cook today (and being thankful that I'm not cooking). Becky, James, Nicole, and Sarah we miss you terribly. As I sit here, all the aunts are scurrying around the kitchen. Lisa is mashing potatoes, Debby is dressing the salad, Linda is making the carrots and garlic green beans, and my mom is tending to the turkeys. Sherry has actually just escaped to the family room to play with Jules, but that's okay since she's provided so many delicious pies. Kathy will soon be walking through the door with her cheesy cauliflower (and three grandsons in tow) and Kris has gone over to put the rolls in the oven. (Beck, she took your job!) Liz, Zack, Jen, and Emily are sitting in the family room chatting and enjoying the turkey aroma. We can't wait to dig in.

And yes, there's enough stuffing to sell on the street.

I hope you all have fabulous Thanksgivings (or had, in the case of Becky who is half a day ahead of us) and that we'll see you for Christmas.

No, that's one plus two plus one plus one.

So, last night my heavy, glass light fixture in my hallway mysteriously detached itself from my ceiling and crashed ten feet to the floor. I think my house is trying to give me a concussion.

I am car kryptonite!

So, there was the time a branch, no, make that a log, fell from a tree and shattered my windshield. Then there was the other time a log fell from a tree and shattered the back window of the car I was borrowing while my car was in the shop. Then there was the time I had to have my engine replaced after only 62,000 miles. I have my father's luck with cars.

Recently, Uncle Denny moved his parking spot and offered me his old one, in a city garage. I haven't even been parking there two weeks and last night two floors of the building collapsed. Collapsed!

My only surprise is that my car wasn't in there at the time. It could have finished the job the log started.

I despise Randy Moss with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns.

I don't want to get into it; it's a long story. Suffice it to say that man will take any opportunity to screw me over and he's proven it in spades this week. I loathe him from the bottom of his hooves to the top of his pitchfork.

PS...

I think I love Barney.

To Becky, Megs, and Liz...

I just started on the pilot of How I Met Your Mother. I hope you guys are right about this show.

ABC is clearly wicked and evil.

The ABC network, which I am certain stands for Absolutely Beastly and Cruel, has canceled what is easily the most clever and original show on television: Pushing Daisies. I feel betrayed, bewildered, and bereft. It's like Arrested Development all over again. Can no one recognize genius anymore? I'm SO glad ABC will have more room in its lineup for those scintillating episodes of Wife Swap!

Ridiculous!

Conversations from lunch

Today my mom, Melis, Jen, Jules, and I went to lunch at Red Lobster. Melis was looking at the news headlines on the TV in the bar area when this took place:

Melis: Barack Obama is naming Hilary Clinton Secretary of State.
Ali: I think my lobster is going to come back up.

Oliver Stone ruins everything.

You may or may not know this about me, but I loathe Oliver Stone's film work. No, I mean really loathe it. I have this theory that Stone started strong, delivering a one-two punch by bursting onto the scene with two good films, and then people started saying, "That Oliver Stone, man, he's brilliant!" And he got this reputation that has stuck, no matter how many times he has insulted us (at a rate of 24 frames per second) since that time. The Doors? Ridiculous! Natural Born Killers? I literally fell asleep in the movie theater. That film was so terrible I slipped into a coma, as that was my only escape. I could have been kidnapped! Any Given Sunday? That movie will make you hate football and everyone who plays it. Alexander? I was humiliated for everyone involved! Do you know what it takes to be humiliated for Colin Farrell? Do you?

And the length! The average human bladder is no match for the average Oliver Stone film. Don't even get me started on the historical subject films. I had a history professor who sat on a board of advisors to Hollywood directors on historical matters. Stone's response to their advice? "I don't care about historical accuracy. I want to tell my own story." Well fine, but then tell your own story, not a story about real people whose lives you twist in an effort to willfully deceive your audience. Or is original material too difficult for you to come up with, you talentless hack!

Serenity now!

Okay, so, that happened. And with this point of view, you'd hardly expect me to pay money to see W. in a movie theater, but that's exactly what I did Wednesday night. "But Allison, have you gone mad? It's an Oliver Stone film about the life a president that Hollywood largely despises! How can you expect a fair portrayal? Also, it's Oliver Stone!"

I know, I know. But I think it will get several Oscar nominations and I do love to be Oscar ready. I have endured much pain in my quest for Oscar-readiness. (Read: I sat through The Squid and the Whale and paid for the privilege of doing so.)

So, the film. It was... not great. But it wasn't hideous either, although that may be because I knew it was an Oliver Stone film and I lowered my expectations accordingly. It was quite short for a Stone film: just over two hours. That, coupled with its extremely abrupt ending, makes me think he cut it short in order to rush it to theaters so he could premiere it while the subject was still in office. Whatever, it saved my bladder. Richard Dreyfuss played Dick Cheney, so that fact alone will keep Melis out of the theater, and Ioan Gruffudd managed to be a very unattractive Tony Blair, despite that fact that both Gruffudd and Blair are quite handsome, so, nice work there, hair and make-up people. I have no idea what Thandie Newton was doing. She protrayed Condoleeza Rice as a botoxed android who spoke the way an alien might speak if it were guessing what our language sounded like just from reading printed material. I know from other films that she is a capable actress, so I choose to blame Stone for her excruciating performance.

However, Josh Brolin did a really good job in the title role. No, like, really good. I think he'll be nominated for Best Actor. He won't win. That statuette is obviously going home with Sean Penn for his role in Milk, for many reasons, including subject matter, timing of the release (a very fresh-in-Oscar-voters' memories early December), and just the fact that he's Sean Penn and he has created an aura of assumed brilliance that seems to blind moviegoers even if he's not particularly brilliant in a given role. (Hello, The Thin Red Line.) Unfortunately, he has zero sense of humor (Spicoli was a fluke) and will almost certainly give a droning clunker of a speech, but you could just use that time for a much-needed bathroom break, because the Oscars are even longer than an Oliver Stone film. But back to Josh Brolin. He'll get a nomination and he'll deserve one, too, because he managed to rise above Oliver Stone's direction and deliver a fair performance in spite of him.

And when he told his step-mother, Barbra Streisand, about taking the role, she apparently freaked out. Brolin said, "She was furious and would not talk to me. I kind of liked that one." Hee!

I knew I liked him.

Somebody help me, please!

I just spent the last nine hours with George Michael’s “Monkey” running through my head. Who know how many more hours of it I have ahead of me?

I don’t think I can take this. I’m not that strong.

Does my vain spirit ever tell me I am wrong?

A new BBC adapatation of Emma will soon be underway! Whee! I love BBC adaptations of anything, but especially Jane Austen novels. If I had my way, there would be a constant revolving production of Austen adaptations going on at the BBC. At the very least, I'd like them to give the same care, consideration, and length of running time to all the novels as they've shown to Pride and Prejudice.

No word on casting yet (please cast Richard Armitage as Mr. Knightley, please cast Richard Armitage as Mr. Knightley, please cast Richard Armitage as Mr. Knightley), but the script will be adapted by Sandy Welch. This is excellent news as she is the writer who scripted the productions of Dickens' Our Mutual Friend and Gaskell's North and South, two classic literature adapatations that I own and totally love and watch far too often. Some may have preferred Andrew Davies to script it, but honestly, the way he's been going, I'd expect him to slip in a scene where Emma makes out with Frank Churchill. I don't think the man can be trusted.

The Fickle Finger of Fantasy Football

You know, I could use this space to say something really snarky about Linda or Becky, because I know they didn't even make it past the title of the post. I won't do that, but it's nice to have the freedom.

Instead, I will save my snark for my wretched FF team and the way it is undergoing a very public, Mariah Carey-esque meltdown. This week I painfully surrendered the Division lead to Jamie, and if her brothers-in-law don't cut me some slack in the next two weeks, I may not even make the play-offs. Randy Moss doesn't catch much and apparently Lee Evans doesn't catch anything at all. It's disheartening to know that I could have donned a Buffalo Bills uniform and took to the field in his place and the outcome would have been the same.

Gentlemen, please stop sucking.

"We should just be thankful for being together. I think that's what they mean by 'Thanksgiving,' Charlie Brown."

Not to be a downer, but this has easily been the worst year of my life. I will always look back on 2008 with sadness. However, it’s November, so I feel like I have to take stock of all the lovely things in my life that make me thankful. And you know what? The list is quite long. What are you thankful for? Here, in no particular order (so I can't be accused of valuing peanut butter above my family), are some of mine:

The smell of my parents' house when my mom is making a big pot of spaghetti sauce.

Living in a place with gorgeous autumn foliage.

Not being born into a small family.

D'Arc's pizza and homemade rolls.

My beautiful niece who makes me so happy.

Living near the Westwood Plaza movie theater.

That Jane Austen decided to pick up a pen and write.

That Ethan and Joel Coen decided to make movies.

That Joss Whedon decided to make TV shows.

My D40.

An apartment with big windows, high ceilings, and hardwood floors.

Friendships dating back to junior high and elementary school.

Picking out a Christmas tree with my dad.

God's sovereignty and mercy.

Messing up the peanut butter.

The plethora of food delivery people within a 3-mile radius of my apartment.

My iPod, a constant companion.

Conzatti's almond biscotti.

Challenge Sodoku on Facebook.

Ending up in a family with people I'd want to be around even if we weren't related.

Ikea shelves that let me indulge my need for uber-organization.

Pushing Daisies. (Please don't cancel it, ABC!)

Martha Stewart craft supplies.

A brand new Burt's Bees peppermint chapstick with a nice, smooth top.

Survey question: Tipping at carside pick-up

Hey all, give me your opinion (I know you're dying to). I, the Take-out Queen, sometimes order things at Applebee's and pick it up at the Carside To Go spot. If you're not familiar with it, here's how it works: You call, you order your Caesar salad and side of mashed potatoes (which you plan to mix together when you get home - yum), you tell them the make and color of your car, you pull into one of the designated parking spots, and your food is brought out to you like at a '50s diner, sans the roller skates.

So far, I have not been tipping the person who brings me my food. I figure they didn't wait on me during my meal, and they didn't use gas and time to drive to my house with the food. I don't tip the person who hands me my burger at a drive-thru or even the person who brings me my cherry limeade at a Sonic, yet I'm wondering if I am expected to tip the Carside To Go person. What do you think?

Oscar readiness begins!

"Don't distract me. I'm sucking in my cheeks."

I have officially begun to get Oscar ready. The nominations won't be out until February, but you can usually tell which films have Oscar bait written all over them. BBC period pieces starring Kiera Knightley and Ralph Fiennes are practically tattooed with statuettes, so I went to see The Duchess at Westwood yesterday. It was very good, one of those decadent costume dramas with amazing corsetted gowns and lots of melodrama.

I do not care for any of the four principle actors, so it's quite a feat that I enjoyed the film so much. Kiera Knightley, while very talented, has always gotten on my nerves. I think it's the fact that she always looks like she's concentrating too hard on holding her cheekbones so high and making her lips so pouty. Dominic Cooper annoys me for reasons I cannot even verbalize. It is what it is. Hayley Atwell played a very tiresome character in Brideshead Revisited, and I think I just attributed that to Hayley herself, as is my wont. And speaking of actor baggage, I have never been able to see Ralph Fiennes as anything but deeply creepy. Perhaps it's the cold, ice-blue eyes, or the serpent-like gaze he has, but I suspect it's mostly to do with the fact that the first thing I saw him in, he played a Nazi. There's no digging yourself out of that hole.

Anyway, I thought the film was very good, so imagine how much more you'd enjoy it if you actually like these actors. I suspect Knightley will pull out a Best Actress nom (and deservedly so - the entire film rests on her slender, anorexic shoulders, and she owns it), and the film may also grab a Best Pic nom.

The best part of it all? Only two other people were in the theater and they didn't talk at all. Oh joy, rapture!

Now you see that evil will always triumph because good is dumb.

Tim Hightower's projected Fantasy score: 20

Tim Hightower's actual Fantasy score: 4

Thank you for your evil support.

(Sorry, Scott.)

It has come to my attention that I may, in fact, be a horrible person.

I hesitate to talk about Fantasy Football because apparently I have made myself odious to some of my family members in doing so. To quote Becky, "When you talk about Fantasy Football, all I hear is 'blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.'" To further quote Aunt Linda, "It's not just that I'm hearing 'blah, blah, blah.' It's that I'm thinking, 'She's usually interesting, and now why doesn't she just shut up?'" But I cannot shut up! I am here to make an impassioned plea to my readership. All four of you. (Minus Aunt Linda, who stopped reading this seven words into the post). I need us all to pull together and put the hex on Arizona Cardinals running back Tim Hightower, the last remaining player on Scott's team and the only one who can push Scott's score over mine. Hightower is projected to get 20 points tonight, but I can't afford for him to get more than 13.

Scott has already won the Survivor competition. (Congrats, Scott.) He doesn't need to win the weekly match-up as well. Perhaps if we all send enough bad thoughts Hightower's way, he'll trip over his own feet and be out in the first quarter.

You know, I never claimed to be a decent person.

Not my best day

I hate needles. This is no secret. My dad used to have to surprise me with my annual flu shot. He'd lie in wait and when I walked in the front door and he'd pounce and say, "Get in the car," and I'd spend the five minute ride to the doctor's office trying not to hyperventilate. As soon as I was in college, I celebrated my newfound freedom by chucking the flu shot tradition and I've never looked back. Ah, glorious liberty!

Well, this year Jen has stipulated that I must get a flu shot or risk being denied the opportunity to hold my niece. (Vaccination Nazi!) And my mother has been acting as Grand Inquisitor in this whole charade, haranguing me daily about the shot because... I don't know, she thinks I'm going to not get it and then lie and say I did? I... don't know. It's a lot of pressure!

So, today was flu shot day at work. Horrid. Horrid. The conference room had the stench of a hospital ward, I can only assume from the off-gassing of the syringes and gauze. People were standing around, chatting merrily, as if we weren't all waiting around to get a piece of metal jabbed into our flesh. I stood in line, trying not to feel woozy, as my co-worker made ill-conceived blood-spatter jokes involving the show CSI. I wanted to make a few ill-conceived jokes of my own involving his receding hairline, but I am a lady.

So Mom, the deed is done. You can stop asking me about it. But I think I should at least get some extra baby-holding time for my ordeal.

Happy Election Day!

Oh yeah? Well, I’m not scared either!

So, this past weekend was Halloween weekend. Normally I would be dressing up as a flapper or as a goth girl or as Miss Hannigan in a sadly misguided outfit that ended up looking more like a prostitute dressed as a secretary (don't ask), and then heading to Harrisburg for another of my friend Melissa's legendary costume parties. But, alas, Melissa took herself and her party-planning skills to Arizona, so I decided to just watch a terrifying movie instead.

My first choice was Alfred Hitchcock's 1944 classic Jack The Ripper tale, "The Lodger." It arrived from Netflix just in time for my Halloween fright fest. Unfortunately, what arrived was actually the much tamer, much lamer 1927 silent movie version of The Lodger. Ooh, witness in terror how the wicked man wearing way too much eyeliner and rouge creeps up on the young girl as obnoxious nickelodeon music floods the speakers! Maybe he's eerily whispering to her that she has no escape, but we won't know that until the dialogue card flashes up. Whatever!

No problem, I thought. I'll move on to my back-up choice: the Italian thriller, "I'm Not Scared." Take a gander at Netflix's plot summary for this:

Michele, a 10-year-old boy growing up in a southern Italian village, discovers another youngster, Filippo, chained up inside a small hole dug in the yard of an abandoned house. Michele soon learns from watching the news that the boy has been kidnapped... and things take an even darker turn when a mysterious couple shows up claiming to be the boy's parents.

Creepy, no?

No. No, it was not creepy at all. There was no mysterious couple claiming to be the child's parents. I don't know if the people at Netflix were watching this movie and then accidentally switched to "Annie" and just didn't realize it or what. Yeah, there's a kidnapped boy and yeah, the other boy finds him, but they spend most of the film playing in wheat fields. The movie was billed as a thriller, but the title is apt: They're not scared and you won't be either.

In the end, the creepiest thing about my Halloween was the spooky music and fake fog at my neighbors’ house as they handed out candy. Maybe next year.

Good evening

The author of my terror

Have you checked out the Hulu website? It's fabulous. You can watch tons of old (and new) TV shows and movies. I recently discovered that they have the first two season of Alfred Hitchcock Presents, and the first three seasons of The Alfred Hitchcock Hour. In season three of the latter, I found the episode "An Unlocked Window"! My cousins will surely remember any one of the aunts telling the tale of watching that episode when they were children. They literally shake with fear every time it's mentioned. So, of course, I had to watch it tonight. Alone. By myself. Completely alone. Ack!

The episode tells the story of two private-duty nurses, looking after a sick man in a huge old house on a dark and stormy night. They're quite terrified because there's a homicidal maniac on the loose who has been murdering nurses, and the latest murder has occurred very nearby. They lock up the house tight, but there's this one window in the basement...

Oh, man. Even though I knew the how the story ends, I still nearly vomited from the suspense. Mom, Linda, Debby, Sherry, Lisa, I now know what you suffered and, like you, I shall be scarred for life.

Two corpses, everything's fine.

"Flames! Flames... on the side of my face..."

So, I'm sitting here watching the movie Clue, and I haven't seen this movie for, literally, more than a decade. Probably a good fifteen years. But as I watch it, I am saying every line along with every character. Every. Single. Line. And I'm doing it in perfect cadence and with the same inflection as the actors. I'm even doing the sighs and the gasps of horror and, of course, the soup slurping. This is ludicrous.

Pretty soon my brain will stop accepting new information because it obviously doesn't purge any of the old stuff. Now if you'll excuse me, Colonel Mustard is about to suggest that they split up and search the house. Because, "This is war, Peacock! Casualties are inevitable. You cannot make an omelet without breaking eggs. Every cook'll tell you that!"

I've got Barack Obama in a box in my dining room. That got your attention, didn't it?

Now I know what you’re going to say, and really, it’s not that I have too much time on my hands. It’s that I mismanage it. The most recent example of such is the time I spent assembling a small army of paper doll political candidates and their various posse members.


Check out Fold US Candidate, a website that lets you create your own paper political brigade. Simply print the doll blueprint, cut along the lines, glue it together, and play to your heart’s content.

I chose to make the complete set, and now they all live happily in a pink and brown box in my craft room.

First of all, I haven’t used a glue stick since junior high, so that was awesome. Second of all, I don’t care what your politics are, this Governor Palin doll is adorable:

Sarah is holding a tube of lipstick because of her hockey mom/pitbull comment:

Hillary is wearing boxing gloves, presumably because she was fighting hard for the nomination.

When I put them together, in my mind, Palin is saying to Clinton, “Hill, sweetie, would you like some lipstick? You could really use a stylist.” And my imaginary Hillary replies, “Would you like to taste my gloves of pain, beauty queen?”

It looks like Michelle Obama is trying to make Hillary be more civil, while Cindy McCain is just hoping to enjoy a good bloodbath. Look at her eyes! Scary!


Look at how much wider McCain is than Obama:

I can’t decide if this is a Republican ploy to make him look more imposing than Obama, or a Democrat ploy to make him look portly. But I do like how Barack’s ears stick out:

Fun! And we can’t forget Senator Biden:

But I don’t know why he looks like he’s hitchhiking. Won't someone give him a ride?

This is most certainly going to end badly for me.

Not such a good week in Fantasy Football for me. Drew Brees finally self-destructed and Ronnie Brown got a karmic slap in the face for the 41 points he gained in week three. And my kicker? Got me ZERO. I could have just FORGOTTEN to put a kicker on my roster and I'd be in the same boat.

If all of this means nothing to you, just know this: Tonight, I am putting my head-to-head record and my place in the Survivor poll in the butterfinger hands of Randy Moss. If I could breathe, I would vomit.

Times Square just got prettier

No need to crowd into the outdoor lobby at the Marriot Marquis any longer. The new TKTS ticket booth has finally opened! The renovated structure is far superior to the rundown (but much beloved) trailer/plywood contraption that formerly housed the booth. It's got more windows (twelve in all) and get this: you can use credit cards now.

But all of this is nothing compared to the booth's new facelift. It's covered in glass walls and sheltered by a red glass canopy.


But here's the show stopper: a sixteen-foot high staircase made of ruby-red glass that rises over the back of the booth and lights up at night. Visitors can climb to the top for a new vantage point of Times Square. They are encouraged to have a seat and enjoy a picnic lunch, but there's no smoking allowed. Fabulous!


I imagine that in ten or twenty years, this staircase will be as much an iconic image of Times Square as the towering, lit up Coke sign. It sounds like to the perfect excuse to go visit.

Martha wants to eat your baby!

I have this love/fear relationship with Martha Stewart. For example, I love her magazine, but I would be terrified to have dinner with her. (I’m certain she’d yell at me for my salt intake or my Sally Albright-like requests for extra ice in my Coke.) A recent article on her website about costume ideas for babies is a perfect example of my joy tempered with terror in all things Martha. There are some lovely photos with sweet lambs:


...and adorable chickens:


But eventually it all devolves into cannibalism:


That? Is horrifying! Martha wants to eat your baby like a turkey! Or bake him into a pie:


And let’s not forget succulent baby lobster:


At one point, didn’t the photographer have to ask himself, "Why am I putting so many babies on plates today?" And I imagine Martha saw his look of uncertainty, and pulled out her whip. An exquisite, hand-woven whip made of stingray leather and trimmed in ostrich feathers to be sure, but a whip nonetheless. Terrifying!

Now I had this post all typed up and ready to go, and then this evening at dinner two of my closest friends informed me that they bought a lobster costume for their infant son and were planning to take his photo as he sat in a stock pot. Hopefully, they will not read this blog and hopefully no one (I’m not naming any names, Chris) will tell them about it. I adore them and their son, but that photo is going to Wig. Me. Out.

A positively perfect day

My friend Melissa recently fulfilled her dream of moving to Arizona. Before she left, she tried to fit in all the things in Pennsylvania that she had never gotten around to doing. This made me think of the times I was working in New York City and all the New York natives told me that I had seen more of their city than they had in all the years they lived there. Unfortunately, we rarely spend much time exploring our own hometowns. This inspired me to have a Pennsylvania Renaissance. I’m going to act like a tourist in my own hometown. I already watched someone eat three pounds of beef in Clearfield, so a visit to Frank Lloyd Wright’s world-famous masterpiece seemed in order. On Friday I went to Fallingwater.


The BBC’s Elizabeth Bennet may have said of Pemberley, “I have never seen a place so happily situated,” but had she lived long enough (or at all) to see Fallingwater, Mr. Darcy’s home would have fallen in her estimation.


Fallingwater is cantilevered over a waterfall, which runs underneath the house, its boulders being worked into the home’s design, forming a hearth in the living room, a shelf in the kitchen, and the foundation upon which the building rests. The house is not my style at all; it’s all low ceilings and straight lines and steel and concrete. But the way in which it’s put together, the genius of its design, the loving care taken to incorporate it into its surroundings, almost made me cry. Its beauty defies description. In the words of little Miss Maggie, “Oh, I could live here.”


All that touring made me hungry. My perfect lunch consisted of the most delicious tuna salad I’ve ever tasted, served on mushroom bread, with a side of cole slaw, a frosty fountain soda, and a gob (which was wrapped up and eaten later – that sandwich was huge!) I love museum café food. It’s almost always great.


I ate this on the café deck, listening to BeeGees music on my iPod, and enjoying this view:


On the way home, I listened to the Cousin Road Trip CD, and relished the natural beauty surrouding me. The road between my house and Fallingwater is all gentle curves and hills winding through sun dappled meadows and fiery autumn trees and sparkling streams. It made me so thankful for a western PA autumn.




Inspired by Liz and Zack, I stopped at a pumpkin stand:




A perfect Pennsylvania day.

My team is as shallow as Paris Hilton

I am doing shockingly, particularly well in Fantasy Football. I have had the overall top score for three of the five weeks we played. And you know what? I think I figured out why. Listen up, people, because here is the secret for a winning FF team: no depth on the bench. No depth on the bench. That’s all there is to it.

I discovered this when I looked at Jonesy’s bench this week and saw a mortifying 95 points there (more than his starting lineup actually scored), including 32 points from DeAngelo Williams alone. This has happened to many of my fellow players, but not to me. My bench never scores high. And that’s when I realized it: I have nobody good on my bench, therefore I have no real decisions to make for my lineup, therefore I avoid all that tinkering that can end up biting you in the butt.

Now, if some of my starters get injured, I am screwed but good; but if they can just stay healthy, I can continue to avoid making any decisions at all, aside from the ones I made on draft day. And there it is ladies and gentlemen: no backups, no handcuffs, nothing that can insure you from total disaster in the event you are “Tom Brady-ed.” I may be one snapped hamstring away from complete annihilation, but that’s the way I play.

Now please, for the love of decency, pray for my hamstrings!

Burgers the size of your head

Last night was the great burger challenge at Denny's Beer Barrel Pub.

Chris got the two-pound challenge burger:


And "Mr. Slim" got the amazing three-pounder:


We spectators cheered the competitors on with silver pom-pons and lots of enthusiam. Alas, it was not enough. Chris ate about half of his burger before posing for a photo with a big loser symbol on his forehead. Mr. Slim came so close, finishing all the meat, but being undone by the mustard and relish-soaked bottom bun which was covered in raw onions.

However, much like General MacArthur on the Philippine shores, he vows to return one day for his ultimate triumph. I can't wait to go back myself. I tried deep fried pickles (so ridiculously delicious!) and a good time was had by all.

On the menu for tonight...

I am going to Clearfield, Pennsylvania, to watch two of my friends consume a two-pound hamburger and a three-pound hamburger, respectively. Amanda, you know all I will be thinking is, "Big bear chase me!"

I cannot wait.

Quotations from a Scrabble game...

I would like to preface this by saying, in my defense, that it was incredibly late when we were playing Scrabble this past weekend.

Me: Is B-E a word?
Aunt Linda: V-E?
Me: B-E.
My mom: Like, “be”?
(pause)
Me: I am so tired!

Later…
Aunt Linda: "Is B-E a word?" Heh. My goal in life is to never say anything that stupid.
My mom: You’re setting your sights high saying it’s your goal for life. It’s your goal for tomorrow, maybe.

Umm... what?

I got a piece of Viagra spam today, subject line: "New Outdoor Collection!"

Yeah, I don't get it.

It's here!

Behold! Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Nikon 50mm f/1.4 AF-S!


Or, as it is known in my family, "the chubby little baby lens." This nickname can refer to the fact that the lens itself is small and chubby, or that it is an excellent tool for photographing chubby little babies. Check out that f/stop! After reading many, many articles about f/stops, I still cannot explain to you what they mean, and I'm not convinced anyone actually can. But James assures me that the 1.4 f/stop is absolutely fabulous, and I choose to believe him.

I spent months coveting James' lens, while lamenting the fact that it didn't jive with my D40. Now, Nikon has finally released a compatible version and I jumped on that thing like a hyena on a wildebeest carcass. Isn't it adorable?


Even more adorable? All the fabulous photos I'll be taking of little Julesy with this. I cannot wait!

Dallas ruins everything!

This week was not so stellar for me in Fantasy Football and, as is usually the case, most of the blame rests with the Dallas Cowboys. They screw up everything!

But first, just when I thought my Ronnie Brown's 41-point performance last week might be the season's best, Brett Farve had to go and totally go off his meds this week, racking up an insane 45 points. Congrats to Jamie who was the happy recipient there. What a performance!

In other aforementioned news, I loathe the Dallas Cowboys. Like the fool that I am, I picked them in both my work survivor league and the cousin suicide league. I should have known they'd go out of their way to lose, and at home no less, just to stick it to a Steelers fan. They are so spitefully selfish. Mark and I are now out of the suicide poll and the prize will go to either Mr. or Mrs. Livermore.

And now all my hopes for the week rest in the capable hands of Mr. Hines Ward. If he can just rack up ten fantasy points for me tonight, I will beat Brian and clinch the division lead. Hines, I believe in you! You can do it!

The music ignites the night with passionate fire.

This past weekend, I took a second trip to Pittsburgh, this time with Jen and our parents to see Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova in concert. If you've seen the film Once, you know what amazing musicians they are. And if you haven't seen Once, you are a fool who needs a Netflix subscription.

To start the evening, Mom and Dad treated us to dinner at their favorite place in the theater district: Tambellini's, a charming little Italian place that is a Pittsburgh classic. Tambellini's is the place where they invented fried zucchini. Oh, so delicious! They do it in a tempura batter with a wonderful horseradish sauce on the side. I am spoiled for fried zucchini anywhere else.



Then it was on to the Byham. After a not-so-enjoyable opening act, Glen and Marketa emerged and started the evening with their wonderful cover of Van Morrison's "Into the Mystic." Then they played their Oscar winning song "Falling Slowly." Oh, they sounded so terrific, just as brilliant in person as they do on their CDs. We had great seats in the first row of the balcony, and the Byham is such a nice, small theater; it was perfect for this type of concert. In fact, at one point Glen walked to the edge of the stage and performed "Say It To Me Now" without a microphone or anything, just him and his guitar, and his voice echoing off the theater walls sounded so amazing. Here's one of the clandestine pics I took. It didn't turn out so well in the low light. If only I'd had my D40, they'd have been awesome.



Glen is so charming and funny. He was telling little stories and jokes all evening, and he and Marketa were telling the stories behind the songs and what the songs were about. And they kept asking us to sing along, and the crowd was just wild for them. It was so much fun. Julia was not pleased that we took her mother away for the evening, but I know she will forgive me. She is such a generous little pumpkin.

The narration crackles and pops with incendiary wit.

This past weekend, I went to see Anthony Rapp’s one man show Without You, which is based on his memoir of the same name. I went with Melis and her former students Taylor, Lauren, and Sandy. Afterward, we sprinted 14 blocks (14!!!) to the Cheesecake Factory (portobello burger – yum!) for dinner with Eric, who is prone to hyperbole, and Andy, who can run like a gazelle.

Before the show, when we were standing outside the theater waiting for Lauren, Anthony came walking up the street to the stage door. Sandy looked up and said, "Is that him? I think that’s him!" We all turned and Melis said, "Yeah, that’s him." It was one of those moments where you could be really cool and say "hi" or "break a leg" or something, but instead I just looked away and squealed like the dork I am. Well played, Stombaugh.

The show was all about the making of Rent, meeting Jonathan Larson, hearing those songs for the first time, creating a cultural phenomenon, losing Jonathan Larson, and about Anthony’s relationship with his mother, by all accounts a sweet little firecracker of a lady. The show was great. We had fabulous seats (I could have reached out and touched the stage) and he sang lots of Rent songs as well as some new ones he wrote for the show. It was cool to hear him sing "Without You" and "One Song Glory" because his character doesn’t sing those songs in the show. He also sang an early draft of the lyrics for "Rent" and that was cool to hear how the song evolved.

Afterward we met Anthony and got him to sign our tickets and Melis’ book. Just like when I met him in New York, I told him that I love Adventures in Babysitting, once again hoping he’d respond with "Ya think?" and once again being disappointed. (Well, we can’t have it all. However, this will, in no way, deter me from dropping to one knee and intoning, "Oh Thor, mighty god of thunder," should I ever meet Vincent D’Onofrio.) Anthony was very kind and gracious. We told him about our cousin Kristen and my friend Chris who are big fans of his, and he was very sweet listening to me prattle on.

The show’s run is finished now, but Anthony hopes to tour with it in the future and do a run in NYC. If you love Rent, definitely see it if you get the chance. If you don’t love Rent… well, what’s wrong with you?

Marry me, Ronnie Brown!

This week was a fabulous one for my fantasy football team! My much derided draft pick, Ronnie Brown, vindicated me big time. He kicked 41 types of butt, and racked me up a point for each of them. The dude is a running back, and he threw a touchdown pass yesterday. Genius! The Giants, in a highly stressful situation (for me), managed to pull out a win by the hairs of their chinny chin chins, allowing me to stay in the Suicide League. And depending on how Philip Rivers performs for Mark tonight (hopefully well, but not too well), I may clinch this week's immunity prize. An excellent week, overall.

However, in wide receiver news, Randy Moss continues to prove his utter uselessness. Does anybody want him? Because right now I am ready to trade him for, like, a glazed donut and two Sharpie markers.

I am excessively diverted!

"Dearest, lovliest Elizabeth, what the heck is going on here?"

I am re-reading the magnificent Pride and Prejudice for the who-even-knows-how-many-th time, so I’m also watching the film adaptations. (BBC version: pure bliss. Knightley/MacFadyen version: did they even read the book?) But I had never seen the film made in 1940. I knew a bit about it and was certain I’d hate it.

First off, the costumes were a mess. The clothes were 30 years off, and in some cases 130 years off. In one scene, Miss Bingley was actually draped in sequins! Another found her dripping in diamonds at an afternoon garden party. I settled into my sofa, fully prepared to gleefully roast this total disaster. But then something happened. Early in the film, there is one hilarious scene which finds Mrs. Bennett and Lady Lucas (each desperate to exhort her husband to visit Mr. Bingley immediately in order to better claim him as a future son-in-law) engaged in a frantic carriage race, shrieking at their respective coachmen:

“Pass them, Higgins! Pass them!”
“Overtake them, Jennings! Overtake them!”

And with that, they had me.

I am mortified to report that this movie utterly charmed me, which is most inconvenient as I was quite prepared to despise it. I was so eager to be spiteful and malicious about its lack of parity with the novel, but the complete lack of parity is what saved it. This film throws off the novel text with reckless abandon, which allowed me to enjoy it as an old movie that just happens to share a title with one of my favorite books.

Indeed, there is almost no resemblance to Austen’s masterpiece. There is a character named Lizzy and one named Darcy, but they bear no likeness to Austen’s creations. I found Darcy to be kind, polite, and charming throughout (quite a feat considering he’s portrayed by Laurence Olivier, an actor whom I loathe) and Lizzy was rather rude and not at all witty, which could have been accomplished so easily by simply having her speak Jane Austen's dialogue. She’s also played by Greer Garson, looking every bit of her 36 years. Ludicrous. Jane is a bit of a manhunting schemer, Mary is quite hilarious, and Wickham has a facial hair situation going on that makes it impossible to take him seriously. And horror of horrors, Lady Catherine turns out to be quite awesome and a bit of a Cupid for our “young” lovers. Yeah, I… have no idea.

And oh, the American accents! The opening titles make it clear the story takes place in “old England” yet none of the principles speaks with a British accent, despite the fact that the two lead actors are actually British. Olivier sounds more like a Czech immigrant. Perhaps Darcy came to Pemberley by way of Prague.

But! There is so much hilarity to be enjoyed. In addition to the carriage race, we get to see Kitty and Lydia doing shots (shots!) with the officers, leading to Kitty being drunk as a freshman at a frat party; Colonel Fitzwilliam in a kilt, sporting a moustache that rivals Wickham's in terms of sheer hilarity; and one truly horrifying scene in which Mr. Collins (here, the librarian at Rosings) stands before the Bennett family, declares his intentions of taking one of the Bennett girls as his bride, and proceeds to look them over like cattle at a county fair.

As a connoisseur of human folly herself, I think Elizabeth Bennett would be excessively diverted by this spectacle. I know I was.

Oh, and by the way...

...I still hate Air France.

Just in case you thought my feelings had changed on the subject, I wanted to disabuse you of that notion.

Incontrovertible proof: Curling is not a sport

This past summer, during our annual trip to the Gibsons’ to swim, be lazy, and stuff our faces, Melis and I found ourselves in the pool discussing Olympic sports. She was upset that softball is getting the boot, I was relating the amusing fact that roller skating is up for possible inclusion in future games, and all of this ended with me declaring that curling is not a sport. Sorry, Canada. And I still maintain that it is not a sport. I think it’s more like a board game. You don’t have to have any kind of physical prowess to play it. It’s bowling on ice. No, it’s shuffleboard on ice.

Melis countered that you needn’t be athletic to participate in archery, and that’s considered a sport. And that lots of people would say gymnastics isn’t a true sport because it relies on judging as opposed to a quantifiable score. Whatever. I have no time for her logical arguments! I am too busy being certain that curling participants shouldn’t be on the receiving end of Olympic medals until there’s a Trivial Pursuit category at the games.

And it appears I’m not alone. Behold! A list of the top ten fictional sports! And what should make an appearance at number 6? Oh yeah, that’s right. And can I just say, the fact that the photo shows little old ladies in cable knit sweaters on the ice only proves my point. When’s the last time your Great Aunt Harriet strapped on some knee pads and played volleyball?

Besides, it’s on the interwebs, so it must be true.

An open letter to several members of the NFL

Dear Matt Cassel,

You may genuinely be unaware of this, but one of your teammates is the league's top receiver. No, not him; the other guy. The one with a big 81 on his jersey. And here's the thing, he's on my roster and I really need him to get me some points so please, for the love of decency, you wretched little brat, throw to him!

Dear Randy Moss,

I don't know if you kicked Matt Cassel's dog or just stole his hair gel, but he's not throwing to you so much. So, when he does actually throw to you, do try not to drop the ball like it's a candied ham. Butterfingers!

Dear Hines,

Carry on, sir, just as you were. XOXO

That's not your mother, that's a man, baby.

Someone on the spamverse thinks I’m a dude. More specifically, a dude named Jack. I keep getting spam with the subject line, “Jack, find great singles in your area” or “Jack, take online surveys for cash” or “Jack, buy cheap Viagra here!” (Apparently Jack has problems of his own.)

Has someone been messing with my email, joining mailing lists and giving the name Jack? It wouldn’t be the first time somebody messed with me like that. Oh yeah, I’m looking right at you, Kristen!

Thank you, Marques Colston’s thumb…

…or, more specifically, Marques Colston’s thumb ligament, for just not being able to hang on. Why am I thanking a total stranger’s connective tissues, you ask? Because I drafted Jeremy Shockey. Colston (sorry about this, Josh) is out for 4 – 6 weeks, and while this would concern me, as my starting quarterback is Drew Brees, I’m too tickled by the analysis of the New Orleans Times-Picayune:

Colston's injury puts the Saints in a bind since he is arguably their most reliable and effective offensive weapon. But they do have some depth at the position, with five other receivers on the roster, plus new tight end Jeremy Shockey, who can catch some of those third-down and red-zone passes that usually go Colston's way.

Red zone passes, baby!

Drew, I’m going to have to ask that you throw to Jeremy. A lot. We have an excellent working relationship, so I’m sure you will indulge me.

I am on 13 hours of sleep, here

To those of you who called me last night, sorry. I went home and crawled into bed at 5:45 PM. Apparently all those nights of staying up till 3 and 4 reading Twilight books have finally caught up with me.

I am super peppy today, though. I'm very, very awake. Like, too awake. I think sleepiness suits me better.

I love it when a plan comes together

Dear Packers Defense,


Love,

Ali

I drink from the keg of glory

Victory is mine! Victory is mine! Great day in the mornin', people, victory is mine. I drink from the keg of glory. Bring me the finest muffins and bagels in the land. -Josh Lyman

So, this weekend was the first of the NFL season and, consequently, the Fantasy Football season. Imagine my horror when I learned that I'd be going head to head with Melis, The Queen of Football. I was pretty much resigned to losing. Imagine then my surprise, nay, my shock, when I found that not only was I winning the match-up, I was kicking butt! This Fantasy Football thing is so much fun! Not only did I win head to head, but I'm currently leading Jonas by five points for the overall victory this week. Now I just have to hope that my Green Bay defense can hold out against Jonas' Vikings defense tonight so I can clinch the immunity prize for next week's Survivor competition. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, just know that I had a fabulous start to my FF career. I'd like to thank the Academy, Melis for giving me advice despite the fact that she was my opponent, Drew Brees for having such a stellar game, Randy Moss for catching so many passes, Hines Ward for doing the same and being so adorable while doing it, and Jamal Lewis' hamstring for not snapping like an old rubber band.

And I'd like to send condolences to Mark, who drafted Tom Brady in our league, and whose FF hopes collapsed yesterday, much like the structure of that young man's knee. I hope Bill Belichick's bad cheater karma doesn't take out his wide receivers next. Stay healthy, Randy!

Well, as the philosopher Jagger once said, you can't always get what you want.

So, this weekend I had my first Fantasy Football draft. I was the tenth to pick out of ten people, and also I am an ignoramus in matters of football, so I didn't get an elite running back, but I did get an excellent wide receiver (Randy Moss). My top RB is Jamal Lewis, and I appreciate everyone's prayers for his hamstring, whatever your reservations are in sending good thoughts in the direction of the Cleveland Browns.

I also hit a few snags, namely choosing a dude on the injured reserve list (read: "out for the season") and a dude who is apparently a raging lunatic psycho who beats people and now has legal troubles (read: "out for the season and possibly in jail"), but aside from these missteps, I had a fabulous time in my first draft. Next year, I will do more research and weed out the Russell Crowes of the NFL before drafting.

Oh, and today I went to Yahoo and one of their top stories was "NFL player shot, in critical condition," and my first thought was, "Oh, please don't let him be on my roster."

To paraphrase the divine Jane Austen, Fantasy Football has made me sick and wicked.

Caller ID bites me yet again

Today has not been my best day. First, I went to the break room to buy a carton of milk for my cereal, only to find that when I returned to my desk there was a big hole in the carton. Then my computer started making hideous beeping noises and, after wrestling with it for a while, I picked up my phone to call the Help Desk. Imagine my shock when the Director answered the phone. I looked down at the caller ID screen in abject horror to see that I had dialed his number accidentally (and don’t ask me how, because it’s not all that similar to the Help Desk line). I seriously considered just hanging up on him until I remembered that he has a caller ID screen too. Blast! There was no getting out of this one. I apologized for the incorrect number and considered just going home and going to bed since I doubt this day can be salvaged.

"We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight at the Copa Cabana..."

Do you ever go to sleep listening to your iPod? I like to put it on shuffle and fall asleep to it. Then, I check out the Recently Played list to see what I was listening to during the night. The other night it was "Everybody Have Fun Tonight" by Wang Chung, a song from the Chocolat soundtrack, some Death Cab For Cutie, a little Barry Manilow, and Winston Churchill's Never Surrender speech that he delivered to the House of Commons during WWII. I wonder what strange dreams that combo caused.

Apparently, I can be a bit much.

So, the other day I was in the King of Prussia Mall, waiting for our Cheesecake Factory buzzer to go off and I was perusing the goods in Urban Outfitters, when I happened upon some pint glasses with the signs of the Zodiac printed on them. I don’t believe in that horoscope crap, but I picked up the Taurus glass for fun and read the back. After abusing me mightily and telling me how pushy and disagreeable I am, the text’s advice ended with this line: “Hang out with a Cancer. They’re too passive to tell you off.”

Amanda! No wonder I love hanging out with you so much!

When people in the UN can't agree, they should just start a mother-in-law conversation.

So I'm in Philly visiting Aunt Linda and Uncle Giz this week, and yesterday Melis, Kris, Lex, Mom, and I took a side trip to Manhattan. It was fabulous. I saw two shows that I've been dying to see, got some John's pizza, and saw a used-to-be-famous person on the street. (It was Greg Germann, who played the quirky Richard Fish on Ally MacBeal.)

In the morning Kris used her student ID to obtain a ticket for Gypsy for me while everyone else got tickets for Legally Blonde. We had lunch at Junior's and then rushed off to our shows. Gypsy is amazing and Patty Lupone must be on steroids for the amount of energy and emotion she puts into that show. She is a Broadway legend and it was such a thrill to see her in that amazing role. Go see it!

We met up for dinner at John's and then split again. The others saw Xanadu and sat in the on-stage seats. Whoopie Goldberg was guesting in one of the roles and she touched Lex and my Mom during the "Strange Magic" number. That squeal of jealousy you just heard came from Harrisburg, PA, from the mouth of my friend Chris.

While all this was going on, I was uptown having the theater experience of my life. I got a second row, dead center seat for The 39 Steps and I cannot even come up with an adjective powerful enough to describe how fabulous this show is. Every once in a while you see something on stage that you know is special and amazing and could never be recreated by someone else, and that is what I saw on the stage of the Cort Theater. Go see this show, go see it now, get in your car and drive to New York, but first stop in Johnstown to pick me up because I need to see it again.

Even my restroom experience in the Cort Theater was entertaining. There was a woman in the Ladies' Lounge complaining about her mother-in-law, and this must be the topic that crosses all cultural divides because total strangers started joining in, and here's what I heard:

"I hated my mother-in-law. My word, she was vicious."

"I hated my mother. Now, she was vicious."

"My first mother-in-law opened all my wedding gifts!"

"No wonder she was your first mother-in-law."

"I always referred to my son's first wife as 'my son's first wife,' even when they were still married."

I just love it when women get catty in the Ladies' Room!

Right now, my Olympic spirit is about as existent as Australia's ability to judge gymnastics.

So, I have just about had it with Olympic gymnastics. Someone call the police because Nastia Liukin was robbed.

Could someone explain to me how the Australian judge scored He Kexin three tenths of a point higher than Nastia? Three tenths! Ladies and gentlemen, in a sport where the winners are decided by hundredths of a point, a three tenth difference is the Australian judge effectively saying, “You and your routine can head straight to the ninth circle of Hades, mate!” Between this and the improperly lowered height of the vault table at the Sydney Olympics, hasn’t Australia done enough to screw up gymnastics? Is it wrong to think that perhaps they shouldn’t be allowed near the sport?

Oh, and! And! This crap tie-breaking system! The whole point of gymnastics scoring is that the results are not determined by a single judge (who may or may not be incompetent--I'm looking right at you, Australia), but by a whole panel. So why would you take two performances so comparable in their execution, and apply to them a tie-breaking rule that does rely on only a single score, on a single judge’s opinion? That makes the opposite of sense.

Please tell me why two gold-medal-worthy performances can’t just be rewarded as such? Is it so necessary to crush the hopes of a young athlete like that? Boo, gymnastics! Boo!

And I still think you shouldn't get a medal when you fall on your face.

We wear tiaras instead of helmets

So, I decided to join a Fantasy Football team. Now stop that. Stop laughing. Really, if you can’t behave yourself I’m going to have to ask you to leave.

Now, about my new hobby, yes, there is a cousin Fantasy Football league and I just had to get in on it. My fellow players (Melis, Brian, Jen, Josh, Jamie, Jonas, Aaron, Scott, Mark) and I will be drafting at Uncle Denny’s picnic next weekend. Alas, I am dead last in the draw, but at least Tom Brady will surely be gone by then so I won’t be forced to take him, because he and his beady eyes creep me out. I swear, when he’s on TV it’s like he’s looking through the screen at me, getting an idea of the layout of my living room, all the better to hide behind the sofa and jump out and murder me. It’s the eyes. He’s got the dead, cold eyes of a sociopath. But on to more pleasant things: my team name!

After much debate (Team Brown Eyed Girl, Team Clueless, Team I’m Gonna Beat You So Badly I’ll Make You Cry And Then I’ll Tell Your Mama, etc…), I named my team “Quarterback Princess,” after a subpar 1983 TV movie starring Helen Hunt, Tim Robbins (in a small role), and John Stockwell, who you’ll best remember as Cougar in Top Gun, which also starred Tim Robbins in a small role (see how it all comes full circle?) I’m trying to get spun up on the ins and outs of Fantasy Football, but so far the most fun I’ve had was designing my team logo (a pretty, pink scripted “A” on a background of green stripes—I think I’m making my cousins mortified to be in the same league with me.)

I’ll keep you updated on my progress. Now I have to ponder the risks of waiting too long to nab a quality QB.

No, that's no problem if you fall on your face. We'll still give you a medal. Because you're Chinese.

Oh honestly, what is going on here, people? I know it's really important to stick your landing when vaulting in gymnastics, but I was under the impression that it was even more important to actually land your landing.

I'm just going to have a Bela Karolyi-type outburst here and say that I'm about sick of the favoritism being shown to the young ladies and pre-pubescent 12 year-olds that make up the Chinese gymnastics team. You can talk about start values all you want. The girl FELL ON HER FACE.

Whatever!

Gold and silver, baby!

Oh my gosh, I love the Olympics, and I love gymnastics, and I love Nastia and Shawn, and I love being American, and I've had a lot of caffeine, and I love caffeine, and I totally love the Olympics!

It's 1AM and we just took the gold and silver in the Ladies' All-around and I can't think of anything more delightful than that. Olympics, baby!

I expect to get my senior citizen's discount any day now.

I am sitting here watching the women's gymnastic team final, and it has to be said: if those Chinese girls are sixteen, then I'm forty-nine.

Oh, please.

I suppose it had to end eventually...

Well, I finished Breaking Dawn and I am now prepared to rejoin the ranks those who live in society instead of shunning people like a book-obsessed hermit. Apparently I haven't been fit to be lived with lately. I'm going to have so much free time on my hands now that I don't have to hurry home every night to read for six hours at a clip. How will I fill my time? By chatting incessantly via email and Facebook with Liz in order to deconstruct every element of Breaking Dawn, obviously. I'll also be waiting for the crushing post-book depression to set in. I wonder if a vigorous re-watching of Buffy could stave that off...

Beck! Lex! Read faster so we can chat. Liz, email me!

Holy cow, China

Those were the most spectacular Opening Ceremonies I've ever seen.

Bravo.

These books are like crack. Totally addictive and about ten bucks each.

If you haven't heard from me in a while, it's because I've been shunning the company of humans in order to sequester myself in my apartment and read about vampires. So, those books that Liz recommended to me that I started reading last Monday? I'm on the fourth and final book now, and I have seriously been entertaining thoughts of taking off work so I could read all day. But I don't have that many vacation days left and I really would like to spend time with my family this Christmas. I hope they appreciate my restraint.

Becky is now reading them, too, and I think I've got Amanda interested. Join us! Join our obsession! Capitulate now!

The Dark Knight = Membership in the Kennedy Family?

First Heath Ledger ODs. Then a Dark Knight stuntman is killed testing the Bat equipment. Then Christian Bale is arrested, for what may or may not be a Russell Crowe-like incident. Now poor Morgan Freeman is in a car accident. Is it possible that working on the most recent Batman flick is akin to running for president when people want to kill you, or being president when people want to kill you, or piloting a plane in the dark when you’re really not that fabulous a pilot?

One thing’s for certain. Michael Caine needs to watch his back.

What is obsession?

Taking your book with you on a run through the McDonald’s drive thru just in case you’re sitting there for a minute or two and can squeeze in some reading.

And you know what? It’s a good thing I did!

I love Scottish people and I love drag queens and I can tell them apart.

Okay, I saw something weird today as I was driving out of Westmont. I was coming down Bucknell Street and there were two men walking down the street, each wearing a hiking pack on their backs. This was not unusual. There are lots of trails in the woods around there. But one of the men was wearing a skirt. Now before you get all, "Ali, that's something we like to call a kilt, and you should be more tolerant of Scottish heritage," let me explain that this was not a kilt. This was a skirt. And I am very tolerant of Scottish heritage, so stop judging me! This was a short, pleated skirt, similar to something a Catholic school girl would wear. Except made of camouflage material. And he was just hiking down the street as though he wasn't making his first small step toward transvestitism. Can someone explain that to me? His friend seemed fine with it, but I don't know, now I'm wondering if he didn't have on some ladies' underthings under those hiking shorts.

Quotations from a Phase 10 game…

This week Uncle John and Aunt Vicki are visiting from Dallas and they brought Zach with them. So last night Zach, Melis, Alexa, and I were playing Phase 10, and perhaps you can tell how the game went from some of the quotes that were tossed around:

“How could you skip me? I’m a whole phase behind all of you! A whole phase behind! You have no respect for logic!”

“You’re skipping me? Well, I have a long memory.”

“Whoa Zach, you’ve got two 11s there. And you need a 5. And an 8. Did anybody scrutinize the last run he laid down?”

“Alexa! That’s the second time I’ve been one card away from the most hideous phase of the game that I hate the most!”

“See that face? That’s her face of non-remorse.”

“How many skips do you have? Are you slipping him skip cards under the table?”

“I don’t want to hear it, Texas!”

“I can’t stand Allison.”

Levi's wife, she was quite my favorite wife.

So, this past weekend, the family drove over to The State Theater in Uniontown to see Miss Alexa in her musical debut. The show was Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, and Alexa played Levi's wife, clearly the most awesome of all the wives. She was also a featured dancer and she totally rocked.

My favorite song was "Those Canaan Days," where Alexa was the lead dancer. She came out in her French striped shirt with her fake cigarette and completely owned the staged. It was fabulous.

I also enjoyed watching the Magster, who was sitting in the audience with us, but was moving along to all of the dance moves they were doing onstage. In solidarity with her, I was singing along to all of the songs. "No one comes to dinner now! We'd only eat them anyhow..."

I’ve been waiting for that perfect art direction to come back into my life.

Yeah, my hair is fabulous. I know.

Mad Men is back for a second season and everyone’s hair and clothes are just as fabulous as I remember. Oh, and the writing and acting is amazing, but even if it wasn’t, it’s all just so pretty to look at. I actually want to buy crinoline. You need to watch this show.

100th Post!

Wow. 100 posts in less than a year. That’s more than 2 per week. What do I find to yammer about? Well, a quick perusal of past posts tells me it’s mostly trashy TV and my own klutziness. (Really, Microsoft spellcheck? Klutziness is spelled with a K?) Also, apparently I buy a lot of stuff. Thanks for reading!

Okay Liz, you were so right to deny me your books. Fine. FINE.

If you’re wondering why I’m bleary-eyed and exhausted, that would be Stephenie Meyer’s fault. I have just discovered The Twilight Saga, and if you know what I’m talking about, you’re probably a teenaged girl. It’s a series of books about a girl who falls in love with a vampire and if you’re saying, “Wait a minute, Ali, that was a show and it was called Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” just hang on and hear me out. It’s not Buffy, but it’s sorta like Buffy which is maybe why I’m caught in its irresistible web. So caught, in fact, that I’ve been staying up till 2AM to read, which is where the exhaustion comes in.

These are the books that Liz thought about lending to me and then realized she just could not be parted from, so “sorry about that but get your own, baby.” And yes, she was absolutely correct to hoard them, yeah, yeah, whatever.

Now, I find that I do have some problems with this “love” story. Namely, that the hero of the piece is in a constant struggle not to chow down on the heroine of the piece. He’s a vampire, so basically when he looks at her he sees a big, old juicy Delmonico. And he’s ravenous. Now, maybe I have no romantic spark in me, but I just don’t go for love stories in which the guy has to constantly fight his own overwhelming urge to murder the girl. That’s not cool. That’s something that gets broadcast on the Lifetime channel. Were I in this situation, I’d point over his shoulder and say, “Is that the Red Cross Bloodmobile over there?” and then whoosh! my butt would be halfway to the nearest garlic field.

So I suppose it’s a testament to the author’s ability to weave a suspense story when I still can’t put the books down despite the fact that much of what the heroine says makes me shriek, “Oh, for pity’s sake!” right out loud, and most of what the hero says and does is creepy. Creepy like that scene in Silence of the Lambs that I refuse to watch where Hannibal Lecter escapes from the cage. Creepy like a Kiefer Sutherland movie marathon. Creepy like that look that Vincent D’Onofrio gives in Full Metal Jacket just before he shoots R. Lee Ermey. Also, the books are giving me nightmares, and yet still I cannot stop reading. Blast you, Stephenie Meyer!

Ahem. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go start the second book. There are some secondary characters that have the potential to be completely awesome, and I really do hope they turn out to be. And if these books sound intriguing to you, and you think you’d like to borrow them, well, sorry about that but get your own, baby.