secondhand fishes.

Have you ever watched a movie that everyone else in the world loved, but that left you feeling like you'd been cheated out of the three dollars it took to rent it? If so, did it make you feel angry? confused? disappointed? or like an elitist meanie?

Here's the truth: I hated, with an unreasonable passion, Big Fish.

It was horrible. It was so bad, I want to scream.

I've just screamed.

Now, why was it bad? It was so boring, we watched in three goes. The main characters were grossly underdeveloped. They were, essentially, cardboard cutouts with lines. If you want to see a good movie that came out this year about tall tales and dealing with your crazy relatives, watch Secondhand Lions.

ikea, the island god of particle board.

John and I are moving. From our sweet little apartment in Atlanta (the interior of which we love, the exterior of which--due to a crazy amount of construction--makes us want to take turns jabbing his fancy art pencils in our eyes) to the The Big Smog. My favorite town. The city of angels.

The very words "los angeles" being about the only Spanish I know, I am super excited about learning a new language. Of course, I took three Spanish classes. So. That might not go well.

I found out that it's going to cost around $900 to rent the smallest truck U-Haul has and a dolly to tow my car. I also found out that I can buy a sofa, a stool, six chairs, four tables, a bed frame, a TV stand, two computer desks, two night stands, a chest of drawers, and two lamps from Ikea for $980.93.

Can I get an Amen?

Now, I said to myself, "Holy crap! I can buy the coolest furniture in the world for the price I'd pay to get our current furniture to L.A."

Our current furniture. I mean that in a transient sense. Because very little of it was ours to begin with. Like, our current apartment, which was first used by other people...and will soon become something totally depressing--a $90,000 condo...ahem...and will be used by others after us. Our tables were originally at home in my parents' first apartment in 1972. Our entertainment center belonged to my sister and her husband. They have now built a house and have an entertainment center strong enough to withstand a cow dropping out of an airplane and landing on it. The couch and the bed belonged to my dad's parents. I really have no idea how old they are.

The furniture that does belong to us fits into two categories: 1) furniture my parents bought for me when I was ten and 2) more reasons for us to love Target.

I not-so-secretly want to blow every penny we make working in New York this summer on Barbie dolls and furniture that will be so insanely in-the-moment trendy, we'll be forced, by our own will or that of local officials, to replace it all in no more than five years.

Fortunately for those who love me, I rarely ever allow myself to give in to such purchases. Which reminds me, I know more Spanish than just "the angels." I also know most car dealerships offer "credito facil."

kiss and make up. please.

I'm currently reading Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About. There are moments in this book that are like little nuggets of gold:

"'I want proper grass.'
'AstroTurf is better than proper grass, it's designed specifically to be better than proper grass. It has only one reason for existence, and that's to beat grass at it's own game.'
'You just want something you don't have to mow.'
'And that makes me what? An Evil Genius?'" (34).

And yet, somehow, I haven't decided if I even like this book yet. The fights between main character Pel and his girlfriend Ursula are usually pretty funny. And, I would say, fairly accurate. As in, I could easily see John and I having these same discussions. Sort of. You see, the problem is that Pel never lightens up. He continues to narrate his story with an undying, arms-in-the-air, "What can you do? Women are crazy" attitude. The overall effect lands far short of the Nick Hornby self-deprecating British heroes I'm used to and makes me want to shout out at him, "Stop bloody whinin'!"

Not being British myself, I could never quite pull this off though. In my head, by the way, I sound just like Keira Knightley in Bend It Like Beckham -- "I was not whinin'!"

At any rate. I have reached the point of wanting to yell at the main character. And I'm only on page 66. Of 373. I see this as possibly meaning two things: 1) it's too early in the book to really draw any conclusions and the comedic elements will eventually give way to a sweet (if rather pithy) love story, or 2) women really are impossible and I'm proving some sort of point by wanting to tell him to stop whining and just go mow the grass. I feel like somewhere a man is snorting in amused disgust at my apparent ignorance.

out of the darkness.

So, it's 4:00 and I've only just showered. I still have a towel on my head. Before that, I had a two-hour nap. Now, usually, I don't take naps because I always wake up with a headache. But I already had a headache, so I went with it. My mistake. I understand now. Napping makes the pain inside my head increase, regardless of the level going into the nap. How is this possible? I mean, sleep is inherently good for my body, right? If it's that easy to fall asleep (and today it was), surely that means my body needs it. So why does it make my brain feel like it's loose inside my head and sloshing from side to side whenever I move?

I had bizarre dreams. My dad was telling me about how one time, on my sister's birthday, he gave her and her cat (who never existed and was apparently named Garfield) a present. And then I went to take a shower. The bathroom was one I've dreamed about before. Everything fabric is olive green and everything wooden is dark and reddish. And there are ferns and palms in the corner and in the design of the wallpaper. It's very dark. It's not a bathroom I've actually been in, but I dream about it from time to time.

Each time I do, I find another light switch.

ipso fatso.

Last night John and I (and I can't remember why) were changing movie titles by replacing one of the words with "fat," "fatty," or some other derivitive of fat. I laughed til I cried. We've been on and off a diet for three or four weeks. Maybe we needed to blow off some steam.

Here are some of my favorites:

"Fat Wars: Episode I, The Phantom Fat; Episode II, The Attack of the Fat; Episode IV, A New Fat; Episode V, The Empire Strikes Fat; Episode VI, The Fat of the Jedi"

"The Hunt for Fat October"

"Fatty and the Beast" or "Beauty and the Fat"

"Much Ado about Fat"

"Spider-Fat," "Batfat," and "Superfat"

"Chitty Chitty Fat Fat" or "Fatty Fatty Bang Bang"

"Fatty on the Roof"

"The Joy Fat Club"

Fatty Bond: "Fat Is Forever," "Fat Another Day," "The Fat Is Not Enough," "Goldfat"

"Lord of the Fat: The Fellowship of the Fat; The Fat Towers; The Return of the Fat"

"Finding Fatso"

"Chasing Fatty"

"Some Like It Fat"

"Gentlemen Prefer Fat"

"Cat on a Fat Tin Roof"

kill bill.

John got to go to a free prescreening of Kill Bill Vol. 2. I thought Vol. 1 was awesome, I really did. This one, sadly, fell short of my expectations. There were about ten things that I thought were going to happen, that didn't happen, that I think should have happened. *sigh* I have more gripes, but they seem a little premature.

snow envy.

My mom says it's snowing at her house. The high school my sister-in-law goes to is closed today. Now, I'm wondering, why would a girl who doesn't have a job feel jealous about not getting a snow day? That doesn't make any sense. I do what I want all the time. What difference would snow make?

I'll tell you: snow.

The pollen here is insane. Insane.

I've been dreaming about going to New Mexico. Or maybe painting our bedroom mud red.

I think I'm going crazy. Last night I dreamed our fish, Santiago (a Beta), looked exactly like Nemo. And there was a shark in his bowl trying to kill him. John told me the pet psychic said our fish would die on Thursday. But I saved him from the shark by holding him away from Santiago/Nemo with the force. Because apparently I'm a Jedi now. What does a dream like that mean?

It means this girl needs to make a snowman.

hola, pascua feliz.

John and I gave up Mexican food for Lent. I was shocked by the number of people who immediately asked, "What? Are you Catholic now?" We're Methodists. And we love Mexican food.

At any rate, Lent is over now. And we've been eating Mexican food like crazy. For our Easter lunch, we went to this place called La Rumba that we've been watching for a couple months. They have these two guys that stand on the street in brightly colored ponchos with signs that say things like, "$3.99 Lunch" and "Patio Open." They're out there every day. I used to feel sorry for the Quizno's guy, who stands on the street corner of Roswell and Abernathy in a huge inflated Quizno's cup, complete with straw. He would just stand there, shifting his weight from one foot to another, waving one hand, then the other, unable to lift his arm all the way--because he was in a huge Quizno's cup. He'd be out there, dressed in plastic, in Hotlanta. It was inhumane, I tell you. But now there are these two guys, in they're floppy sombreros, and I'm not sure who I pity more. Because I haven't seen the Quizno's guy in months. I hope something bad didn't happen to him in that awful suit.

For Easter dinner we went to El Azteca. Nachos. With. Beans. And. Chicken. John had fried ice cream for the first time.

Last night: Taco Bell.

atlanta traffic: the death of southern hospitality? *or* the yuppies are trying to kill me.

Okay, so we live on infamous Roswell Road. As I was on my way home from the post office, I let a car turning left cut in front of me. I was going to let someone else go, but he didn't seem to realize what courtesy looks like in this city, so I went without him. Keep in mind then, there was a rather lengthy gap between me and the car in front of me. Which is my only explanation for why someone tried to kill me. This fancy Lexus/BMW lookalike comes flying onto the road and I honestly thought they were going into the "suicide lane" (which, by the way, is illegal, people--it's called the "left turn lane," not the "I'm-too-lazy-to-drive-to-a-light-to-turn-left lane"--you're only supposed to use it when turning left from that road). Instead, they were actually pulling out in front of me. Luckily, the car in the right lane saw what was up and hung back so I could swerve in front of him. Mr. Fancy-Pants Fake Import Car swerved back and then right behind me.

My eyes actually widened. So much, in fact, that it hurt a little. I thought that only happened in cartoons.

This might not have bothered me as much had I not been honked at in the parking lot of the post office. What did I do? NOTHING, I tell you! I was backing up from my parking spot slowly, when this lady in a red car (equally as import-sports-car-oriented, but probably something more like a Honda) with a blonde as Gwen Stefani ponytail turns down that aisle at top speed. She honks immediately, like I had any chance of seeing her! But get this, I didn't stop! Haha! Take that, you with your fried hair and pretentious car!

Big deal. She just took my space. Of course.

And by the way, the pollen in this city is amazing. The parking lot oil slicks look like green sludge. The whole place kinda looks like one those cheesey shows on Nickelodeon slimed it. Gak. It looks like gak.

comic book movies.

Tuesday night John and I went out with some friends (Jim and Helen) to see Hellboy. (It's a comic book movie. So of course we went to see it.) It was a lot better than I imagined. When John explained to me that the story was about a half-man/half-demon who was brought to earth as a baby by Nazis and (a surprisingly alive) Rasputin, I was pretty sure it would be hokey at best and disturbing at worst. And I have to say, I was wrong. Somehow, through a lot of rain in the sequence with the Nazis and a minimal amount of back story, it actually came across being no more hokey than any other comic book movie--a genre that, let's be honest, highly depends on people who love illogical characters in fierce action sequences. At any rate, I enjoyed it. Even if his horns didn't look any different after we got to see him file them down.

The best part about going to see it? Getting to see the Van Helsing preview for the umpteenth time. And every time. It gets better. Not because I necessarily think it will be a good movie (or that I think it will be bad, either, for that matter), but because Kate Beckinsale is completely hilarious. I think she's supposed to be Romanian, but she does this crazy accent, like she's trying to sound ridiculous. She sounds like the voiceover for a cereal commercial. Vee mawst cahpture Cahount Chahcula und eet 'is bahts! I want to see that movie. Just for her.

Last night we rented X-Men and X2. I had only seen the first one once, shortly after it came out, and had never seen the second one. Watching them back-to-back really added a lot, I think.

The thing I find shocking about all these comicbook movies though is how easily they've sucked me in. There was a time when I felt guilty for having watched Little Women dozens of times without ever finishing the book, but now I feel like I can't really say I like Wolverine, for example, because I haven't read the comics.

So then John asks me last night, "Now that you've seen the second X-Men movie, which comic book movie is your favorite?"

Some element of my reaction to that question hearkened back to the way I felt whenever I was called on in philosophy class: I didn't want to lie and say I thought something I didn't, but I didn't want my professor (who, now that I'm thinking about it, would make a great wizard in the Harry Potter movies) to think I was wrong or stupid. But with John, there was the added pressure that I might insult him. Not that it mattered. I didn't pick one.

Of course, my first response was "Josie and the Pussycats." Tara Reid reached a level of ditziness in that movie that borderlined on being spiritual.

lazy bum.

I was supposed to be at work today. I was supposed to work three days this week. That is, I was supposed to work before I found out my assignment was cancelled. So. I'm playing with the laptop my parents gave me for graduation. I just got it Thursday night. I've been downstairs for a total of about ten minutes today. Watching movies on our little TV in the bedroom and cuddling on the bed with a purring little Dell isn't the worst way to spend a day.

caffeine debt.

This is crazy.

april fool.

You know those windows that got smashed to bits yesterday? Apparently they liked John and I so much, they didn't want to leave. At least, that's the only reason I want to accept for why there were shards of glass in our bed last night. Maybe it was an early April Fool's joke.

Country-music-loving-guy-with-the-hammer: I know, after I'm done beating their house to death and scraping up their walls, I'll put little pieces of glass and wood in their bed...and under their pillows! Yay! Today won't be as boring as I thought!

John was determined to curse at someone when he paid the rent, but the only someone we know to curse to wasn't at the office yet when he went by before work... So. I had to do it. I didn't curse though. I just handed her an envelope of glass and pinky-finger-sized splinters. Then I said, "These people made a mess," and pointed into the envelope, "That one was underneath my pillow."