You know on that episode of Friends where Monica uses the little vacuum to vacuum the big vacuum and then says something along the lines of "Now if only they made a little one to clean this one…"?

I think it was episode #678.

Kidding.

I realize that I'm a nerd and half and am filled with all sorts of inane information that is only useful for random insertion into blog entries and Trivial Pursuit (The Pop Culture Edition), but I seriously don't remember episode numbers.

Stop looking at me like that- I don't, I swear.

However, she did have shorter hair and a natural facial structure; so I'd wager that it's an episode from that brief period in nineties before all of the real people were permanently replaced with the robots.

Damn you, Hollywood.

Anyhow, back to my point; and, yes, I really do have one.

Stop looking at me like that- I do, I swear.

For those of you who do remember the episode, congratulations, you're old enough to drink. May I suggest Vodka?

After all, Vodka is to happiness as creepy anal retentive Monica is to Judith. That's me. (And that's my point in case you weren't paying attention.)

In an effort to cut down down on our use of harmful household chemicals, we bought a nifty steam cleaner last week; and I have subsequently steamed every single item in my household.  You know that grate at the bottom of the fridge? Steamed it. The little logo on the washing machine that has that bit of lint/dust/general dirty crap that refuses to come off for even the handiest of Peter's toothbrushes? Steamed it. All of my floors? The couch? The bathtub? The mirrors? The windows? That spot  around the gear shift in my car?

I steam cleaned the freezer, folks.

Oh, yeah… And the vacuum is pretty sparkly too.

So for today (and maybe Friday too because I'm planning on re-organizing my closet), you may refer to me as "Creepy Anal Retentive Before She Was a Robot Monica".

And I won't mind in the slightest.

(Have you worn the mad hat yet? You really should… It'll bring out the [insert color] in your eyes.)

It's been a pretty stressful couple of weeks here in the land of Shakespeare. Matter of fact, I've become rather brooding and significantly less perky than norm (and by George, I wasn't really all that perky to start with)… And I won't even begin to describe the effect that said stress has had on my body (but then again eating my weight in Starbucks' Java Chip topped with chocolate sauce and crushed Valium as a means of self-soothing probably would cause a similar reaction in most everybody).

But thanks to the subsequent bloating, break-outs, and random bouts of tear fests over the loss of my grandmother (Again, a sincere thanks to all of you who offered your thoughts, kind words, and condolences. You  mean the world to me.); I've become somewhat of a semi-agoraphobic lately.

With perhaps a bit of ablutophobia and catoptrophobia on the side.

But have no fear! I think that it's pretty safe to say that I've completely avoided  the cathisophobia during this brief hypochondriac moment, as I've done nothing but sit around on my jiggly Java Chip-filled arse and watch movies while simultaneously looking up new things to be afraid of via the magnificently thorough Phobia List found here.

Go ahead, go look those up, you know you want to… I'll wait.

Waiting.

Still waiting.

Dude, seriously, it's an alphabetical list. Hurry the fudge up already.

Are you done? Great! Now go back and look up macrophopia- because you just completely ruined my day.

(I know I've missed a lot lately- but I'll do some catching up this afternoon. Oh! And remember that giveaway I mentioned in my last post? Remember? C'mon… think hard! Well, I'll be posting it on the morrow, so don't give up on me just yet.)

From February 2007:

“I bought a chair once, but I didn’t like it.”

Peter has finally discovered eBay.

I arrived at Chez Mama just in time for the dinner rush. I could tell
from the prime seating, the highest chair on the floor, that the
hostess recognized me despite my usually successful record of attempts
at anonymity. A food critic can always tell when they've been marked-
good seating, service beyond the norm… One restaurant, much like this
one, even went so far as to cut my food for me as if I couldn't be
bothered to feed myself.

And I couldn't, so that was okay.

The ambiance had a "home"y feel to it. The decor was rather lovely and,
if the various toys strewn across the floor were any indication, very
kid-friendly. It was a packed house to be sure, not an empty chair in
sight. While perusing the menu, I could overhear the shouts for
"Tonights Special!" from the busy table next to me. So I followed suit.

When my meal arrived a few moments later, I must admit, I was shocked.
French Toast for dinner? A bold move for a restaurant such as this,
indeed. Just next door, the Famous Smith Bistro was serving its
scrumptious meatloaf and mashed potatoes; and I had it on good
authority that the Jones Cafe around the block would be serving their highly-applauded Tuna Casserole. Both solid staples on the popular dinner menu.
I just couldn't imagine what the chef here was thinking. Breakfast for
dinner? Would it be a brave triumph or a gigantic flop? We would see.

The presentation was superb albeit a bit messy. The toast was fluffy
with a great color and lightly sprinkled with powdered sugar and
then drowned in syrup. And despite the tacky plastic character serving set, over
all it looked very very promisiing.

Immediately, I tasted… bread. Followed by a delightful mixture of real vanilla and cinnamon.  Neither too dry nor too moist, the French Toast was perfect.

In conclusion,  I would highly recommend  that every person with the last name Shakespeare pay a visit to Chez Mama  for one of their inventive "breakfast for dinner  "  items  (the chef assured me that  they make monthly "I really need to go to the grocery store" appearances); and I gladly award Chez Mama an illustrious and noisy  Three and a Half Burps for culinary delight.*

Be sure to join me next time as I go deep into the country for Deer Sausage Jambalaya at Grandpa's Dirt Road Diner. Until then, this burp's for you!

*Unfortunately, I was forced to deduct half a star after having a rather nasty and unnecessary argument with a pretty little waitress over whether or not I was allowed to use a real fork.

Hilary Swank is, by far, one of my favorite actresses. No one, and I mean no one, who has ever seen Boys Don't Cry can claim not to like her without me thinking that they're tasteless freaks with a fondness for stupidity. (No, I'm not calling you stupid for not liking Hilary Swank… I'm calling you a tasteless freak who enjoys being stupid. Not necessarily a compliment, I know, but it's still not "stupid".)

But as much as I love her, I was a little disappointed when I found out that she was to have the lead in P.S. I Love You.

You see, I read P.S. I Love You. And it was one of those very rare novels that had me anxiously awaiting to see the movie version of a book that I hated. Yes…

Hated it.

You read that in the voice, right? Because I so typed that in the voice. And for those of you who have no idea what voice to which I'm referring, you are far too young and/or pop-culturally deficient to be at this blog. Step back from the computer- it's just a jump to the left and then a step to the right… Nevermind. I can tell that you're hopelessly lost. Moving on now.

I generally avoid reading popular fiction because, all too often, it is
written for the popular masses. (Imagine that.) And those popular masses? They be
hatin' on the adjectives, yo. And P.S. I Love You definitely falls into the popular fiction category.

The book read like a vintage Dick and Jane. It wasn't cute, or light, or fun, or even endearing. It was a telegram. Stop. In bound form. Stop. That lived in my bathroom. Stop. For months. Stop. Even though I usually read through a book in a day. Stop.

That's rather annoying, isn't it? Okay, I'm stopping now.

But the plot?

The plot had so much potential.

And with each turn of the page, I could see myself one day thumbing my nose in the face of danger and joyfully sitting down amongst stale popcorn and rude cell phone users to weep in public.

Translation for those of you who count yourselves among the aforementioned popular masses:

I would see this movie.

Dick and Jane would see this movie too.

So if I was actually expecting this to be a good movie, why was I so disappointed  that Hilary Swank was going to be in it?  Well, because I wasn't so sure that it would be that good of a movie…  and I was afraid that I would be disappointed in her for taking the role.

Until I saw her multiple leading men, that is.

Gerard Butler, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, and Harry Connick, Jr.?

We're talking hot and Scottish, hot and would have his quadruplets, and hot and croon-y and Louisianian.

Hillary Swank is no longer one of my all-time favorite actresses… She is my hero.

And this past weekend, I  finally found time to properly worship her as she so deserved . Although, I would definitely suggest to any of you out there who suffer from anything similar to my "there's a stranger breathing on me and he didn't even buy me a drink" syndrome not to venture out to the theater on a Friday night in a town where the weekend to-do for every teenager within a hundred miles is to put on her mother's hooker heels and glitter eyeliner, catch a movie, and then parade around the local Wal-Mart. It makes for really long lines in the bathrooms.

As for the movie, itself:

I laughed. I cried. I drooled… a lot. (They gave them guitars, for Pete's sake.) It was cute, and fun, and endearing and well worth my "Get Out of The House for Free" card.  And now I find myself in the rather ridiculous position of being the person that actually says with a straight face:

Skip the book; they've got a movie.