Ah, that's funny…seriously, give me back my books

When I was in high school, there were these dorky commercials for a Time Life series of books: "A woman burns her hand on a stove -- two hundred miles away, her sister feel a burning sensation in her right hand. Coincidence? Read Time Life's Mysteries of the Unknown to find out…"

My friend, Geoff, convinced his mother to buy him these books. Without reading them (because the thrill was really just to Call Right Now) he loaned them to me.

Of course, with all my school work (and obsessing about what boys I thought were cute, obsessing about if my friends thought those same boys were cute, whether those boys thought I was cute, whether those boys thought my friends were cute, etc.) I never got around to actually reading them. Geoff and I used to joke that I would give them to him as a high school graduation present -- because that was Like, So Far In the Future It Would Never Occur. And now, twelve years after graduating from high school, those books are rotting somewhere in my parents' house -- unread.

Why do I bring this up now? Because Geoff loaned me another book: The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It was my first introduction to British humor -- unless you count that time I watched "The Holy Grail" when I was fifteen -- and I totally don't because I was too busy trying to look cool around the guys I was watching it with to understand British humor. And tonight, as I'm sure you know, "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" is being released in movie-form and I hope it is, if not fantastically wonderful, at least not crappy enough to upset me.

Wish me luck (and please go see the movie so the numbers won't be too low and the reviews will call it The Biggest Flop in the Galaxy -- or something equally mean-spirited-and-uncreative-attempting-to-be-hipper-than-thou-and-I-told-you-so-ish).

A nest of silver spoons

I think I'm nesting. Like a sparrow carries twigs back to the nest, I've been carrying home little silver spoons and tea sets. One of the things I was most excited to register for before the wedding was silver. With glee I responded "yes" as the Dillard's saleswoman ticked off the list of items offered in our pattern:

"Forks?"
Yes
"Salad forks?"
Yes
"Soup spoons?"
Yes
"Butter knives?"
Yes, please
"Cocktail forks?"
Yes
"You don't want cocktail forks. "
Yes, I do. Twelve please.
"Strawberry forks?"
Yes.
"One?"
No, twelve please.
"You want twelve strawberry forks?"
Yes.
"I'll put down two."
Twelve please.
"Sigh"

So it was with great delight that I recently discovered and purchased Gorham Chantilly ice cream forks off the Internet. I was so excited to tell my husband -- who was mildly amused at my semi-guilty shopping confession.

"What is an ice cream fork?" he asked.

"Well, now we won't have to tell people to lick their salad forks to use for dessert because we'll have ice cream forks," I said. "You don't have to use them for just ice cream -- you can use them for anything because they are shaped like spoons but they they have little prongs like forks and--"

"Like sporks? You bought us very expensive sterling silver sporks?"

Which is technically correct but rather less sophisticated sounding. So I promised not to buy any clothing or fun things for two months (although he doesn't think I will last a week without finding an easily-rationalized pair of shoes). He is so wrong. I am steel. I am iron. I am so strong. I am...fighting the urge to buy a sewing machine.

I have this bizarre desire to make monogrammed napkins and monogrammed table runners and knee-length circle skirts with sequined flowers. It's like I've been possessed by the combined spirits of Martha Stewart and a home-ec teacher from 1965. I just want to stay home and work on my herb garden.

Hormones are powerful, scary things.

In other news, my husband noticed that that Anthony boy from American Idol looks like Harry Potter. Now I find myself rooting for him. Even though his rendition of Climb Every Mountain was wince-educing. Honestly, I find myself jerking my knees up to my chest and turning away in pain when some of these (what shall we call them? kids? people? fame whores? semi-talented delusionals? unpolished talents? yes. let's settle for unpolished talents -- except for the guy with dread locks who looks like he has strong body odor -- and that other guy that makes me want to check the whereabouts of my purse. You know who I mean. The girlfriend-beating, Lord-praising, serial-killer type) sing. ...yes I've been watching American Idol. Leave it alone. I can't help myself.