No Use Crying...

Today, I spilled the milk.

Well, more like dropped the fat-free organic goodness (slippery little sucker) and then it was sort of busted open, just laying there on the floor, seeping out of its cardboard container. And then I just sighed, and picked it up quickly, and thought, very seriously: There's no use crying over spilt milk. And that little platitude made me chuckle and convinced me to go on living.

And then, in an attempt to salvage the remaining milk, I poured some into two to-go coffee cups. Then I used a chip clip to reattach the top of the container, and then I stuffed it in the fridge.

Oh also? This is my way of explaining all of this to J. Sorry, babe. Your milk is chip-clipped in the fridge. Tasty!

In other news, I finished this book early this morn, and LOVED it. Please do read.

Other exciting things? J is heading to NYC this weekend without his beloved, and that means some Netflix HomeValley-lovin' angsty film-viewing! The kind I am never allowed to do when J is in the vicinity! (To be fair, he allowed me to watch about half of Evita after we returned from Buenos Aires, before he ever so kindly stated we can turn this off now; for the love of GOD, shut up, Banderas.)

So what to watch? Leaning towards The Curious Case of Benjamin Button and Last Chance Harvey, but I am not completely thrilled about either. Any suggestions?**

Finally, the TV-viewing moratorium is going better this week. I'm proud to report that the tube has not been on AT ALL today, which is quite a feat, considering I like to wake up and start my day with some Apple-Cinnamon Cheerios and some TLC. Then, I typically work until noon, then head back to the living room for some lunch and perhaps some What Not To Wear. Anyway, I am trying to see exactly how long I can make it without actually turning on the set. A whole day? A whole two days? We're hour-by-hour here now. It's getting close to the Oprah witching time, and we all know I am powerless against O and her damn feel good stories about Journey frontmen and warrior moms.

But lately? It's my books that are stressing me out... I've got a whole stack of books that need to be read (loans from others, loans from the library), and they're glaring at me, taunting me: You used to fancy yourself an intellectual, they brat. And now you have the attention span of a gnat.

I have to be strong, and keep from reaching for that remote. It's getting serious, y'all. If I can't reel it in... dial it down... quit the incessant Jon and Kate in happier days-viewing... Well, let's just say there's been talk of down-grading.* To basic cable. And getting rid of the DVR.

And I won't let that happen. I can be strong for you, DVR.

*By the way, all of this talk is by me, the big-mouthed blogger with the highly questionable self-control. I usually just run my scatter-brained schemes past J rapid-fire, and he just acquiesces to pretty much anything knowing I will forget about it within the hour. Because look, J! House Hunters is in Lisbon!

Oy.

**Edited to add: The TV rule applies to actual TV. When J and I initially conceived this plan, we specifically stated that weekend movies and NFL football were free zones. Because, come on.