Firth + kids = sexxy

Though I am confident that pretty much no one in the entire world is going to go see Nanny McPhee, as the ten or so people I mentioned it to over the weekend claimed never to have heard of it, and one person actually accused me of making it up, I still highly recommend it.

Not for its startlingly original storyline ("It's like Mary Poppins! Only she's ugly, and the kids are really annoying!"), or its clever scene-making (food fight, anyone?). But because Colin Firth plays a widower (hot!) with seven children (virile!) and a pocketwatch chain (smokin'!)

Actually, the movie itself was not that bad. Ben allowed me to choose whatever movie I wanted, since a) I was sick, and b) when we work together, we inevitably choose the worst movie possible, such as Just Friends, Guess Who?, or-- and this was a shocker to us-- Munich. We figured that if we picked a movie that just already looked sucktastic, we could at least say that it had met our expectations.

But of course, I am a sucker for all movies starring Colin Firth, and all movies featuring a widower father of young children. So if you fit into this category (so, basically, Ashley, Hoang-Anh and Angela), I recommend that you run out and buy your tickets to Nanny McPhee right now. I mean, he cries in this movie. And that is effing hot.

T-Minus Three Weeks...

I was going to write a whole big long blog about how I had to stay home sick from work today, as I seem to have a new, more virulent version of the Death Flu of yore, but really I was so sick that almost nothing of note happened. I

• crocheted
• took a bath
• walked the dog
• watched an interminable show on the Style network starring Elizabeth Hasselbeck from Survivor: Outback
• thought about getting dressed
• watched old cartoons on Homestar Runner

and many other boring things.

But then I decided, nah. Because today is much more important than Death Flu Friday-- it's the Three Weeks Till Wilmington notch on the countdown! I am officially coming, as I officially have a plane ticket (not three, as originally feared), and I am officially planning on spending insane amounts of money on new clothes while officially shopping with Ashley at officially recognized Stores of Merit, such as Goody's, Marshall's, and Belk, and perhaps Blackbeard's Bryde, but only for a sassy new official purse.

I am also officially going to see Angela's baby (if it ever comes!), and David, Nina, and Hadley, and last but not least, I am officially going to an official Pig Pickin'. I may even work up the nerve to actually pick flesh from the pig, which I have not done at the previous pig pickin's I have attended.

So I may feel miserable, and achy, and hate Elizabeth Hasselbeck for no good reason, but three weeks from right now, I will have been in Wilmington for a little under four hours. I'll probably be at Slice of Life. Just like old times! Only my skin has cleared up, and I'm not mopey or overly philosophical anymore. So it'll probably be even better!

The big 2-7

For those of you who didn't know, which is probably no one, since I announced it loudly and often over the last three weeks or so, I turned 27 on Friday. I am hoping this development will lead to good things, since

• I love odd numbered birthdays, and am never very fond of even numbered ones, even 16 and 18
• 27 seems very grown-up and adult, but in a sexy, Modern Singles kind of way
• I have always believed, for as long as I can remember, that something really important would happen to me while I was 27. I'm not sure where this idea came from; it could be because that's the age my mom was when she had me, or just because it seems like every cool celebrity and young flippant upstart Oprah author always seem to be 27.

But I expect big things. Thus far, no big things have happened. But I've only been 27 for three days now, so I shouldn't really rush into things.

I do have high hopes for myself this year, apart from the Magical Thing That Will Happen When I Am 27, such as

• Quitting smoking (not, perhaps, right now, but definitely before I turn 28)
• Writing something of more than three pages, and of more intellectual depth than "Hey, I almost ate a cheeseball, but then I didn't."
• Consistently wearing size 8 pants (if only I were a juniors' size, and could wear odd-numbered pants!)

and so forth.

Thanks very much to everyone who sent me cards-- they are all sitting here on my desk next to me right now, making me feel very popular and important. They will probably remain here until Easter or so, in case you would like to come check out, in person, how very awesome I am.

In other news, if you made it to the bottom of this blog, I am coming to Wilmington in less than a month! And practically peeing my pants over it, thank you very much. More on this to come soon, I am assuming...

Sweet Chair-ity

Please note: today's sweet-ass pun comes courtesy of Alan, who totally deserves all credit, and who threatened to call me a plagiarist if I didn't mention that it was his.

Behold, the world's giantest chair!

Bestowed upon me at work last Friday as part of a complex seat-switching system (my old seat is currently unoccupied back in the call center), this chair takes up about two-thirds of my entire cubicle, and routinely knocks my coat off the coat hook. The arm rests also tend to get stuck under the desktop, occasionally trapping me in place for long periods of time, until I can fight my way out.

This chair is so big, if I take it up as high as it will go, my feet don't touch the ground.

This chair is so big, it might deserve its own name. I'm thinking Frederick. Frederick, the world's most gigunda chair.

I can't decide yet if I like Frederick, but I do know that he's winning me lots of friends around the office. Friends who, thanks to Frederick's freakishly tall back, can sneak up on me without me ever noticing, because if I turn my head to get a glipse behind me, all I see is chair.

Behold its awesome glory!

Stupid gnome!

Just spent entire lunch hour attempting to purchase plane ticket to Wilmington on Travelocity.com. I went through the whole process three times, and at the end of each time, I was told there was some sort of error. So now I have

1. No lunch hour
2. No ticket to Wilmington
3. Even scarier, possibly three tickets to Wilmington, as it is possible that all three transactions went through and just didn't post for some reason. So if there are any other people with the exact same name as me out there who want to go to Wilmington over President's Day weekend, feel free to step forward and come with. We'll all be sitting in the exact same seat, so I hope you wear deodorant.

Grr. I'll have to attempt again after work. But just think-- if I can ever get this to actually work, I'll be in Wilmington one month from right now.

Shirley would be horrified

Have to be quick, because I'm at work right now, but I couldn't wait two more seconds without posting this story about Ric Flair that Ashley sent me from the Charlotte Newspaper. Not only does it come with what might be the world's single greatest video of Ric Flair and people imitating Ric Flair, it is highly informative. Did you know, for example, that

*Charlotte has a hockey team? And Ric Flair supports them? And maybe if he supported Cleveland's hockey team, they wouldn't be leaving town at the end of the season? Not that I support Cleveland's hockey team, but whatever.

*Ric Flair's fiancee is named Tiffany VanDemark? Which I think is the single greatest Ric Flair fiancee name ever.

Anyway, watch the clip for yourself and prepare to fall in love with Ric Flair all over again. Whooooo!

Crochet it isn't so!

Okay, I have to stop with the blog title puns. I'm starting to sound like the guy who writes the categories on $25,000 Pyramid.

But I figured I couldn't really pass this one up, as it so accurately depicts my new and obsessive love of crochet. Although I technically still don't know how to really crochet anything, except a straight line, and have only learned how over the last three days, I am now totally and insanely in love with crocheting. I could be out doing totally normal, adult things, like buying fruit at the grocery store or sitting at work, and then this voice in my head says, "You know what you ought to do, is crochet yourself some sort of bag to tote apples in. Because that would be pretty sweet, right? An apple bag?"

As I mentioned, so far my mother has taught me only how to single crochet in a completely straight line; if I wanted to, for instance, stop crocheting and end my project where it is (currently: three long rows of single crochet, too thin for a scarf, too long for a headband. But still totally awesome!), I wouldn't be able to, because I don't know how to stop crocheting and not have the whole thing unravel. It's sort of a metaphor for my fragile crochet hopes and dreams.

And yet I press on with my lame, non-entity crochet project. In fact, I brought my crochet into a bar with me last night, not because I wanted to crochet, but because I had switched cars several times and was afraid I would forget it if I left it in the car I had come in. But even as I sat there having a fantastic time with my friends and co-workers (although I was secretly sad not to have won at Boggle during our Christmas party, held a few hours earlier), I heard the crochet calling to me-- no one will think you're weird if you crochet here in this bar. Just plop yourself down on that comfy couch and get your crochet on. They'll think it's cool. It'll be the biggest new fad-- crochet bars.

Luckily, I was able to resist its siren call and use the bar for its intended purpose of stupid intoxication. But as soon as I'm done with this blog, I will be unable to resist any longer, and the non-project will begin to take on an even more pointless shape.

Five things you always wanted to know about Al

Welcome, Alan, to my blog! Alan glimpsed The Unwilling Adult for the firs time today, and was rather saddened to find himself not more prevalent (although his wedding WAS listed as one of the top moments of 2005, shutting out such heavy hitters as Mamie's Trip to the Super Hot Vet). But considering how much I find myself talking about Al on a daily basis, I was also surprised not to see more of him. So, in no particular order, here are some fascinating facts about Al:

1. Alan can do an awesome keg stand, as pictured above (check out that form!)

2. Alan once got some waiters to sing Happy Birthday to my dad in a crowded restaurant, causing my dad to swear eternal vengeance against him, and even prompting my dad to offer me a large sum of money to stand up at Alan's wedding and say "Listen, folks, it's not only Alan's wedding day, it's also his birthday!"

3. Alan can bench-press more than I weigh.

4. Alan, Dan, Kelly and I once took a fantastic overnight trip to Canada (after nixing other ideas such as Go to Mansfield Again and Buy Crap at Meijer and Bother Nerds in the Dorm Lobby), which produced one of my favorite pictures of Alan and Dan posing as Mounties.

5. I still owe Alan, and haven't forgotten, a Star Wars medallion from Revenge of the Sith (and will get it in the mail ASAP!).

So everyone give a big hello to Alan, one of my best friends and an awesome guy, even when he's making rude comments about various people while drunk at Denny's.

Year In Review: Take Two

Having received numerous valid requests to have my list updated, I am amending the list below to include:

-Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince! I heart Snape.

-Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, the movie. Way better than Prisoner of Azkaban, the movie. Although I could have used more Winky and less Hungarian Horntail. I get it-- Harry likes to fly on various objects and animals.

-Jeremy and John's Birthday Party For Themselves, Volume II. Always a good time, as Jeremy and John are party masters. Swanky house, awesome guest list, sexy hosts-- what could be better? Oh, and there's usually a pug there, so that cranks it up to 11.

-The introduction of Super Mario Kart: Double-Dash into my every day life. Curse you, Santa!

Also, let me just say, before anyone comments, that I am truly sorry about posting about my broken wee box, but I feel it necessary, as a writer, a student of the human condition, and currently the world's most savage opponent of UTI, to lay out the facts and agonies of this particular disease, without ever actually coming out and using even one remotely scientific word.

Urine Big Trouble

Note: This entry is about my urine. If you're not all about my urine, I would skip it. I don't know what kind of pinko commie would not be into my urine. But whatever. Those of you with a pressing need to know about it, read on.

Also, fear not: that is not my actual urine. But you should be a little freaked out by the exact number of photographs of urine specimens available on the internet at this time.

As I approach my 27th birthday, I am rapidly, terrifyingly falling apart. Like most other birthdays, it is in the most humiliating way possible.

My troubles began last Tuesday, with a very unfun pee-related feeling that persisted well into the day. The next morning, when I woke up, it was clear that little villagers had found a monster in my wee-box, and were trying to get it out with torches. Uncool.

So, I took off from work (after a brief and confusing office-mandated trip to Staples for credit card tape-- ostensibly to get my mind off my problems, and onto the scary Mayfield Road interchange) and went to Urgent Care, as my problem was urgent, and I needed care.

What I received was a long wait in an office full of angry people and no magazines, and a receptionist who kept calling me "Miss Sherbert," which I would have found funny, if I were not about to pee my pants in an unpleasant burst of angry wee release. I was asked 19 times if I was pregnant (no) and "if I had problems cleaning myself". Then I was given unpleasant, vitamin-sized pills, told not to drink any caffeine, eat any dairy, or have any sex for one week.

Now, five days later, I have not eaten dairy, drank caffeine, or had sex, and I am calcium-deficient, sleepy, and snarky, and still, my wee box is broken. I went to see my regular doctor today, and she assured me that the Urgent Care people are most likely lobotomized spit monkeys, and gave me medicine that does not prohibit me from eating or drinking or partaking in any particular forum of amusement. However, these pills will apparently make me very sleepy, and I'm not really supposed to drive while taking them. But I would gladly fall into a coma for a week to wake up with a properly installed wee box. Just hook me up to an IV of milk and coffee.

2005: Year In Review

I used to do this all the time when I was in high school-- I had one journal that I only wrote in once a year, on New Year's Eve, in which I reviewed the year's events and gave the year an over-all grade (curiously, none seemed to rank higher than a C+, which seems odd now, considering that I didn't have to have a real job or pay bills or act responsibly or refrain from burping in public or brush my teeth twice a day). So, I figured, why not revive the tradition!

Good Things About 2005:
Maintained relations with sexy, sexy boyfriend
Only moved twice!
Got promotion at work
Deidre and Rich's baby
Angela's impending baby
Megan and Matt's Wedding
Alan and Suzanne's Wedding
No deaths in immediate family (unless you count Frisbee Jones, but technically, that happened in 2006, so sweet! No deaths!)
Christmas and New Year's with Ben

Not-So-Good Things About 2005:
Moved twice
Apparently bought motorcycle on eBay
Evil bad mystery radiator leak
No visit to Wilmington

Huh! Well, clearly, this year was way more fantastic than unfantastic. My final grade: A- (that eBay thing really kind of tarnished it).

And so, farewell, 2005. Let's hope 2006 has as many aspects of awesomeness, as well as half as many Kelly Clarkson hits.

RIP Frisbee Jones

I am deeply saddened to announce the death of my beloved fish of a year and a half, Frisbee Jones. Noting that he was swimming erratically last night, I administered his last meal (Beta flakes-- his favorite) and wished him the best; upon returning from an outing with my friend Denise tonight, I was informed of his passing.

Frisbee Jones joins my previous Beta fish, Maynard and Throckmorton, and my short-lived goldfish, Governor, in Fish Heaven. May they all swim together peacefully, attacking not each other, but only their reflections in the glass.

As I have no pictures of Frisbee Jones, since fish are notoriously difficult to photograph, I offer instead this photo of Mamie drinking from Frisbee's bowl (many months ago-- I would not be so ghoulish as to allow her to drink Dead Fish Water). Think of it as her pouring one out for her fallen homey.