Takin' off...

Jen, Jules, and I headed to the Gibsons' for one last week of fun and swimming. It sure beats working.

Go Lions!

I realize from my blog it appears that I do nothing but watch TV all day, but that's not true! It's just been true for the past two days. I let the most recent season of Friday Night Lights pile up on my DVR and I am freebasing it as I type. Some things I didn't remember from last season:

1. How spectacularly awesome Tami Taylor is. I mean, I remembered that she was fabulous, and I remembered that the show often causes me to spontaneously shout, "Tami Taylor for queen!" but I didn't remember the full magnitude of her amazingness. It's almost too much. You either have to watch her scenes twice or look away completely, lest the majesty of the character overtake you.

2. How much Coach can rock the coach uniform. You know, the polo shirt, khaki shorts, white sneakers, and socks halfway pulled up the calf that would make the average man look sad and tragic. But not Coach. He pulls it off with room to spare.

3. How I have a Pavlovian response to the opening credits. Meaning, the music cues up and I lose all composure, crying immediately over the memories of Jason's courage and Smash's heart and Matty's sweetness and Coach's inspiration and how Tami should be queen.

I. Love. This. Show.

Magnificent trash

"We'll type an anonymous letter. That's a genius idea!"

You know, I try not to feel superior when I watch this show, but come on, I don't have super-human powers.

Also, tonight The Situation uttered a sentence containing no fewer than four acronyms, all trashy and ridiculous, and I understood every one of them.

I am so ashamed. Really, look away.

Evolution of a hallway. My hallway.

So, it all started with this. Beige walls and hideous brown paint on the woodwork. Hideous.

Oh, the horror.

So, I put on a fresh coat of bright white for a nice blank slate.

Then came the shelves of frustration...

...so that this big ol' mess...

...and all this stuff...

...could turn into this. Ah, magnificent organization.

They're alphabetized. It's a thing of beauty.

The shelves of frustration are flimsy and the West Wing DVDs are heavy, so I needed to reinforce the bottom shelf. I think this stack of books does very nicely.

Oh, and there are some actual VHS tapes in this collection. How could I give these up?

Who here is smart with the smartiness?

So, my friend Melissa who had moved to Arizona has now moved back to PA and bought a house. That means her famous Halloween parties are back on and I need a costume idea. I know it's early, but does anyone know of a costume that I could work my pajamas into? I am all about the comfort.

I thought about going as Sydney Bristow from that episode where she's in a mental hospital and spends the whole episode wearing PJs, a comfy cardigan, and hair that hasn't been washed in a week, but I don't know that there will be many Alias fans at the party.

You know, like this. But without the manhandling.

I am turning this Allen wrench solely with the strength of my rage.

Miles to go before I sleep.

Vile piece of metal.

You may have heard me talk about Ikea the way people in love talk about their paramours. You may have heard me say that shopping there makes me want to seek out Swedish people and plant a big old kiss on them. It was all true...before.

I do not feel that way this evening.

I took a trip to Ikea yesterday and purchased six Lack wall shelves. The Lack wall shelf is the backbone of my formidable organization system. I have no fewer than 11 Lack shelves already hanging in my apartment. I am a Lack junkie and I accept that.

But alas! The foolish people at Ikea took the brilliant Lack shelf, which was already perfect, and changed it, making it both more difficult to hang and less sturdy. What the crap? It used to be once you got the hardware on the wall, you were mere seconds from filling your shelves with goodies. Now, when you hang the hardware, your saga is only just beginning. You're just at the threshold of Allen Wrench Hell. And you're not getting out without a major time commitment and utter surrender to arthritis.

Then there's the aforementioned lack of sturdiness. That's not what they meant when they named it Lack! I have to wonder if the Ikea shelf designers realize that people will actually be placing items on these shelves. In my case, it's a good thing DVDs are relatively light. No way I'd trust my Tolkien books to these flimsy things. And if my Shield DVDs take a tumble, I am going to go Vic Mackey on these shelves. I am going to rip them off the wall and plant heroin in their cars.

Oh, Ikea. We may have to break up.

Dying for Fall

That is all.

Why couldn't I have been on this flight?

You'd be dining out on this story for years.

My favorite part: New York Police Commissioner Ray Kelly said it "appears" Steven Slater was quitting.

Yes, it certainly appears so.

"Screw you all! Now I'm grabbing a beer and blowing this joint." So much more memorable than a letter of resignation.

Very occasionally, I wish I could draw.

This is one of those occasions. Check out this very funny illustrated diary of an overnight flight.

Kristen, it is 8AM and I am getting in line to hold Wes.

Kris and I are headed to Liz and Zack's this weekend for some awesome fun. There might be some Rock Band, there might be some farmers' market, but there will definitely be pottery painting.

Craftiness! Cute babies! Witty repartee! It's gonna be off the hook.

I think I might need this chair

I laughed so hard at this I had tears streaming down my face and I had to muffle my guffaws with my cardigan because I was at work.

Great balls of fire!

I just received word from Melis that the aunts went to see Million Dollar Quartet today and they were "giddy as schoolgirls to meet Fake Johnny Cash, Fake Elvis, etc."

I can picture it now. And it's delightful

Also, I like saying "Fake Johnny Cash." Because I am a dork.

So, that's how Salander is pronounced.

As though I wasn't traumatized enough by The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo book, I spent this evening watching the Swedish version of the film. (Netflix streaming through the Wii is awesome, btw.) I liked the casting for Blomkvist and Salander, but mostly I spent two and half hours muttering, "Hey! In the book...

...she was alive."

...she was dead."

...he wasn't that guy's brother."

...he was much older."

...he was slightly younger."

...she was far less rude."

...none of this stuff took place."

...there was a plotline that explained this."

...that thing did not happen at all."

Etc, etc, etc...

It's always difficult to watch a book be translated to film (unless Peter Jackson is doing it), but this wasn't too bad. They did have a boatload of information to pack into it, and they did the best they could. I'm interested to see how the upcoming American version handles it. I predict that with Daniel Craig in the role, Blomkvist will spend a lot more time shirtless.

Mad Men is killing me.

Last week, Thanksgiving. This week, Christmas. Are they trying to kill me? It's the middle of the wretched, hot summer. How can they tease me with lovely, lovely snow and huge tinsel trees?

Even with the dysfunctional families, the spitting out sweet potatoes at the dinner table, the depressing effects of divorce on the holidays, the tacky trysts, the disturbing children, and the creepy cigarette mogul forcing Roger to don a Santa suit and let Pete sit on his lap, I am still overwhelmed by vicious envy that they are existing in December and I'm stuck in August. Not fair.

Go ahead, flaunt your mirth.