"Son of a @*%, he stole my line!"

I must tell you something about myself that you probably already know.

I love movies.

I love bad movies. I love good movies. I love old movies. I love new movies. (I don't, however, love horror movies). But a recent conversation with the Husband brought to mind just how much I love a good movie line. To me, there is nothing better than a well-written line. It's what takes a movie from ordinary to great. It's a singular sentence, delivered with precise timing and rhythm, that, out of nowhere, immediately resonates with your soul.

Do you know that feeling?

Maybe it makes you laugh. Maybe it makes you cry. Maybe it's just plain weird. And sometimes, it can be just so utterly brilliant that you know you must find a way to work it into casual everyday conversation, even though you'll never come off sounding as cool as Jack Nicholson did. But still, these lines stay with you long after a show is done. Sometimes a single line is greater than the sum of an entire movie.

So in honor of this, I thought I'd share my top ten favorite movie lines, and see if you could guess any of them. Though I could make this list about 200 long, I'll start with ten, and a bonus thrown in for fun.

NO CHEATING. Get your mouse off that google search right now. Just see if you know any of these off the top of your head. For anyone who takes an honest crack at it, I will randomly draw a winner. The prize will most definitely involve chocolate of some sort. Or maybe my favorite movie.

Or maybe you get to have me on your couch eating chocolate. Watching my favorite movie.

You never know.

In any event, here they are (and in no particular order):

ONE:
"Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here."

TWO:
"I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

THREE:
"Every man dies. Not every man really lives."

FOUR:
"Invite him out for a drink, and then after about twenty minutes, casually drop into the conversation the fact that you'd like to marry him and have lots of sex and babies."

FIVE:
"The greatest trick the devil ever played was convincing the world he didn't exist."

SIX:
"It has been coming on so gradually that I hardly know when it began. But I believe it must date from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley."

SEVEN:
"I'm the guy who does his job. You must be the other guy."

EIGHT:
"No, I like you very much. Just as you are."

NINE:
"Miss Truvy, I promise that my personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair."

TEN:
"I love you, too, kid."

BONUS:
"Sean, if the professor calls about that job, just tell him, sorry, I have to go see about a girl."

Good luck! Contest ends Thursday at 6 p.m. central time.

Trying unsuccessfully to make sense of the world in which I live

While perusing a high quality periodical this week (which is a whole other post in and of itself), I came across something startling. It took me by surprise, and I'll be honest, was more than a little disturbing.

What frightened me were two different full-page advertisements. The first one was for this charming product:


Monkey Cuddles, they call it. A miniature baby monkey wearing a diaper, holding a half-peeled banana to his cheek, and sporting a saucy little bow on top of his head. And all of this adorable cuteness can fit right in the palm of your hand.

Oh, the google searches I'm going to get this week for that paragraph alone.

But really. I must know.

WHO BUYS THESE?

I am guessing old ladies in housecoats and slippers, who shuffle happily between their shelves full of Marie Osmond dolls, and the yellow pictures of grandchildren from 1968 still on the walls. These are probably the same suckers victims who willingly send all their life savings to Mr. Liu Yan and his many relatives who have billions of dollars trapped in overseas banks. (Oh, Liu. All the horror, and yet you somehow manage to still send eight emails to me every day. You're such a trooper).

That demographic I kind of get. I will never BE that person, but I can begrudge the old ladies their little treasures. Whatever.

But this one I will never understand. Here we have disturbing advertised product number two:


Yes, a skeleton wearing blue jeans and a leather vest, riding a Harley that is decorated with other skeleton heads, and proudly sporting a pirate flag on the back of the bike.

Please help me understand. WHAT DEMOGRAPHIC IS BUYING THIS?

I could be wrong, but I just don't picture a tough, tattooed, chiseled biker taking the time to order himself a porcelain figurine. What would he do with it? Do you think he would put it in his curio cabinet that's full to the brim with miniature tchotchkies, and then proudly display it at his next Hells-on-Wheels meeting, where he and his crew eat homemade tea cakes that he tenderly serves on lace doilies?

Yeah. Not likely to happen.

And I'm not imagining granny in her housecoat wants the biker skeleton, either.

I really hope somewhere in this world is a factory full of unsold figurines. Because that would mean nobody bought this crap, and my life, as I know it, would still make sense to me.

Unfortunately, I am sure there are many a parcel in the mail today with these very things in them.

I think I must be missing the tchotchkie gene. Because I just don't get it.

[My apologies to any readers who actually own these items. Please unsubscribe from my blog. We clearly have nothing in common. You are definitely in the wrong place if monkey and skeleton figurines are your thing. No hard feelings, okay?]

If that's not love, what is?

"Do you love me?

Do I what?
Do you love me?

For twenty-five years I've lived with him,
Fought him, starved with him,
Twenty-five years my bed is his,
If that's not love, what is?

Then do you love me?
I suppose I do.
And I suppose I love you, too.
It doesn't change a thing, but even so,
after twenty-five years,
it's nice to know."

You know that song from Fiddler on the Roof where Tevye asks Golde if she loves him? And she rattles off a list of chores she has done for 25 years that proves her love?

I think I finally know just what they mean.

See, my husband is not the flower-sending kind. Don't get me wrong. I have gotten them. Just not on a regular, everyday basis like I think I should.

My husband is not the foot massage giving kind of guy. I think my ugly, knobby feet might actually disgust him. He's more the type to try massaging OTHER parts, if you know what I mean.

And my husband definitely is not the "Surprise! I bought you a sparkly new diamond ring for no reason!" kind of guy (unlike some lucky girls - hi, Emily!)

But I do know that he loves me.

How do I know? Because he builds me things like this, of his own accord and design, knowing just how much I need it in my life:

A giant, wall-sized bulletin board, covered in a pretty red-checked fabric. Divided into three sections, topped with crisp white wooden letters, clearly, and oh-so-neatly, denoting each kids' spot.

He knows the piles of papers that come home from the school need to have a home. And he knows that their current home (which is piled up on my desk) makes me crazy. So, he spent a whole Saturday last weekend putting this together for little ol' moi.

In addition to that, he gave up his lifelong dream of having a man cave downstairs and put wainscoting on the walls in the basement, knowing full well he'd never get to hang that rifle, Danish flag, and beer keg lid on walls as pretty as these.

So does he love me? I suppose he does.

Although, if he ever wanted to send flowers or big, sparkly diamond rings in addition to the house stuff, I wouldn't necessarily refuse them. You know, because I'm just so nice like that.

Thanks, baby.

After almost 15 years together, I suppose I love you, too.

God bless refined sugar

Several weeks ago, a reader named Tracy (hi, Tracy! Got a blog yet?) sent me her favorite brownie recipe. And because I like you, internets (and am constantly striving to fatten you up), I am going to share it with you.

Plus, we made and ate two pans of these in one week, so surely it is not fair that I get fatter while you do not.

Here now is what I have dubbed 'Tracy in Iowa's Sell-Your-Soul-to-Satan-For-One Brownies.' May your thighs have mercy on your soul.

Mix up a batch of your favorite fudge brownies. From a box, because surely no one makes brownies from scratch anymore, right?

Bake according to the directions, and allow to cool. When cool, spread with your favorite cream cheese frosting. Mine is the kind in a can because I'm just so lazy homespun like that.

Be sure to lick the knife clean when you are done. This is CRITICAL to the success of the recipe.

Then take 1 cup peanut butter and 2 cups chocolate chips. Melt in the microwave until smooth and creamy (took me less than a minute). Add 3 cups Rice Krispies to chocolate mixture and spread over the cream cheese frosting layer.

I know, right?


Then pop the entire pan into the fridge to speed up the setting process. Heaven forbid one should have to actually wait for them to be ready on their own. THAT would be a sin.

Then hide them from the kids, and be sure to eat at least four. Preferably six. If you eat half the pan, I promise to hold your hand through your next Weight Watchers meeting. If you don't, then I'm not sure we can be friends anymore.

Thanks, Tracy. Send me any more you've got because, clearly, this getting fatter thing seems to be working for me (at least in my neck, anyway).

What? You still here? Get thyself to the kitchen and start baking. Now!

Gracias, mine interpeeps

How much do I love the internet today?

So, so much.

You sure do know how to make a girl feel good. Even you lurkers that decided to come out and play. I thank you. From the bottom of my very short-haired heart. I think next time I'm feeling bad about myself, I will whine about it here, and wait for you all to make me feel pretty again. Seriously, thank you. Your kind words meant a lot to me. I am just blown away by all of it.

Now onto other non-hair related things (you mean the world doesn't revolve around my hair? Shocking, but true).

Yesterday was the first day of school. A buzz of energy, the kids got all ready in about six minutes, and then sat around waiting until it was time to go. When the time finally arrived, there was some moaning as they lugged their school supplies to the bus stop, which I was absolutely no help with. I mean, someone had to be snapping pictures, right? Who else will document these milestones?

Once at the bus stop, I forced them to endure the gratuitous, cheesy smile pose that moms everywhere are snapping this time of year. Backpacks on, freshly scrubbed faces, new clothes. Note to self: Must get more creative for next year. I'm thinking headstands on backpacks, human pyramid, flame-thrower in the background. Something.

McKay had a lot more anxiety and nervousness about this year, which surprised me. Poor kid could hardly eat anything for breakfast because his stomach was all in knots. Lucky for him, I ate enough for the two of us. Just trying to keep the universe balanced and all that (or so I'm trying to tell my thighs).


Hannah was definitely the most excited, "Aboutstartingfirstgrade! Ohmygoodness!! I'minfirstgradenow!! I can'tbelieveI'mfinallysogrownup!! I'minfirstgrade!!!" And that's exactly how it sounded all morning, I kid you not.
Chase was hardly nervous at all - telling his usual round of jokes, searching the ground for frogs, and asking how soon it was until lunchtime.

But in the end, only my baby girl looked back.


But only for a second, and then she was gone. Leaving me, my checkbook, my novels, and daytime movies all alone.

Whatever shall I do?

"Shelby was right, it DOES look like a brown football helmet"

All right, because you asked for it. Here is my new, unplanned hair. I still don't like it, but have at least managed to stop crying whenever I look into a mirror.

Pros of having short hair:

• Not spending 25 minutes with a blow dryer every morning.
• Not having to sweep up large piles of hair in the bathroom every day.
• Less money spent on shampoo and product means more money that can be spent on shoes.
• I could pose as a man and do undercover work, should I ever so desire.
• On hot and humid days, my neck isn't nearly as sweaty.
• No more ponytail headache.
• Much more interesting bed head in the morning.

Cons of having short hair:

• It's short.
• It's really, really short.
• It accentuates my fat neck (just ask the stylist from hell).
• I don't know how to style it very well.
• I am tempted to really tramp up the cosmetics in an effort to draw attention away from my hair, thus giving me a new look - drag queen in a bad wig.
• Hannah still telling me how ugly it looks.
• Having EVERYONE notice and comment on it is really embarrassing.
• Every other commercial on t.v. is for hair products, demonstrated by models with long, flowing locks. Who mock my pain on purpose, I know it.
• And I can do absolutely nothing about it.

P.S. Know the name of the movie where the title comes from? If you do, we are meant to be BFFs. If you don't, find out and rent it today.