All right, all right. I missed you, too.

I never know when to use the comma with "too." But it seems like I should. Know, that is.

Anyhoo.

Ok, I'm going to get better about this. Here I am, a young lady of 31 who has been writing in some sort of diary--online or otherwise--since I was in high school. But sometimes it feels strangely liberating not to write stuff down, like I'm breaking a rule and I know better but it kinda feels good anyway. But the rest of the time it feels lazy and like I haven't digested anything because I've not committed it to the internet for any random stranger to read.

So what does Oprah do when she wants to reward her loyal audience? She secretly invites them to her Favorite Things taping. And the people shit their pants. Well, guess what? You're [not] get[ting] a car! And you're [not] get[ting] a car! And you're [not] get[ting] a car! It's Cambria's Favorite Things [Lately] episode!

Cheesecake
Only because it 's deceptively simple to make, and as long as you cover the cracks on the top with chocolate ganache (and you know I did), people will hoist you onto their shoulders and boyfriend's parents will hug you approvingly. I made a raspberry cheesecake with Oreo crust and the above-mentioned chocolate ganache for Thanksgiving, which I spent with Chris's family at his sister's house. They loved it, and they loved me. Perhaps there is a causal relationship there, perhaps not.

Massages
I finally used my birthday spa gift card from Chris and got an hour-long massage on Thursday. Sweet sassy molassy, that was a great hour. Turns out, I'm a little tense along the shoulders and perhaps around the thumbs (?) because she--Bonnie the masseuse, who bore a uncanny resemblance to Barbara Streisand--kept pulling at my thumbs. If you are ever stuck on what to get someone, get them a massage. Except for the laser leveler I am asking for for Xmas, it's about the best gift I can think of.

Cormac McCarthy
Both The Road and No Country for Old Men are remarkable books. The Road made me cry; I've read a lot of McCarthy and tears have never been an emotion that his books have moved me to. No Country for Old Men is well done and deftly crafted; the same ingredients and characters would have fallen flat--or even corny and trite--in lesser hands.

Lars and the Real Girl
I never cared much for Ryan Gosling, but this movie made me a believer. He is just outstanding. The movie also has Emily Mortimer, best known (and loved) to me as "I have hollow bones" from 30 Rock.

Comedic Karma
My sister has a rule never to make fun of people for the things they do because it almost certainly certifies you will end up doing the same thing when in a similar situation. I am finding that to be true. I always used to make fun of my friends for having to call their boyfriends or husbands every night when they were away from them. And yet suddenly that makes complete sense. And I feel like the season of comedic karma is just beginning for me. Should be fun. It's like schadenfreude on yourself.

Recipes
I've decided to start really cooking again. I think it helps to have someone to cook for/with, because it always seemed like too much of a hassle to cook for one and then eat the leftovers for the next week. So, if you're hungry, I will cook for you. It'll be like an experiment. I even bought a small food processor and a hand mixer. It's on, sucka. The soup, that is.

The Dollar Store
I had forgotten the joys of the dollar store. Which is somewhat odd because my dad works in the corporate office of a certain dollar-store chain. But you can buy the whole store for like $50. God bless America. And packs of gift bags, 3 for $1.

Moratorium, please.

I would like it if no characters were called "Mr. Darcy" ever again. Or likened to Mr. Darcy. Or described with Mr. Darcy-like qualities. I would like to see all Jane Austen-related books and/or movies shelved indefinitely. Literally and figuratively.

This well is dry, ya'll, and I have been sent over the edge by a trailer for The Jane Austen Book Club. Enough!

But: more Jake Ryan. More Nick Carraway. More Jake Barnes. More Joseph Fiennes in Shakespeare in Love. What ever happened to Joseph Fiennes? Let's bring him back.

Either way, Tom Cruise wants me to become a Scientologist.

My Posh haircut is actually more of a Katie Holmes, but I think I can rock it. (And maybe have a contractually obligated baby along the way!) As my sister Kristin said: "Good. No one can pull off the Posh but Posh." She's a Spice Girls loyalist, though, so how much should I believe her?

Anyway.

I feel giddy and full of contentment all the sudden. Like everything that should be falling into place, is. But then again, I am listening to pop music with piano and orchestra (the best kind), so it could just be a contact high. So maybe I hear piano and strings, and I picture myself in some of kind gauzy, romantic montage. And it looks almost like a Summertime Lemonade commercial. Slow motion, with a mossy river and long grass and a rope swing and oak trees casting shadows. A kindly old man in a straw hat, holding a beaded glass of lemonade. Ok, maybe not that last part. Somehow "gazy, romantic montage" and "old man holding lemonade" don't quit seem to mesh. Not in my montage, anyway; your montages are your business.

Gosh, I love a montage. I might get married just to have a slide show.

I have two ears and a heart, don't I?

Well-established is my love of song and dance. Not particularly for me to do either of those, but to watch others do them. So, inspired by the grand tradition of Grease, Grease II, The Pirate Movie, Stayin Alive, Footloose, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, Shag, Moulin Rouge, Chicago, So You Think You Can Dance, etc., I took my Little Sis to a musical adaption of the book "And The Dish Ran Away With the Spoon" at a local children's theater. It was...well, the combination of eager young triple-threats and community-theater-loving parents with misbehaved children is a bit much for me. But it was entertaining and free, and I applaud the group who puts these shows on because the plays are free and they encourage literacy and the actors are doing it out of love. I think that's really cool.

That being said, the dog made the odd dramatic choice to play her role as Blanche DuBois in a dog costume, and the wolf sneered half of his face like Elvis. Gotta get your kicks where you can get them in community theater, I guess.

And speaking of completely unrelated music: is there another song that makes you want to dance in dewy summer grass as much as "Brown Eyed Girl" does?

Managing expectations.

This weekend my sister Kelly had a date. First one in a while, because it's kind of hard to be in the scene with a 6-year-old. Upon learning of Kelly's date, her daughter/my niece said, "I might be getting a new daddy!"

On Saturday I had a date downtown at the Museum of Art. Upon learning of this, George Michael (cat, not pop star) said, "I might be getting a new daddy!"

Turns out, no one is getting a new daddy any time soon, but expectations are being managed a little better.

As for me, I will give points for the date location (great photography exhibit going on at the museum right now), but I must deduct points for the black-and-white checked Vans with ankle socks. Culture giveth, and culture taketh away.

But besides and around that, a great weekend. Friday night dinner for Beth's birthday at Billy's, which is one of my favorite places in town for a veggie burger. Saturday night dinner with Alexis, her mom, Tim, Kathy, and Ron. Sunday trip to the mall with Little Sister, where I let her order Dippin Dots because they are the ice cream of the future. Or an overpriced sham. One or the other. Fill in the rest of the time with The Deathly Hallows, and you've got yourself a weekend, my friend.

Bad stewardship.

There's this story I wrote once, I don't remember when, that I really liked. It was about a boy and girl who are falling out of love, and they go on a trip with some friends. It won an honorable mention in a flash fiction contest, then I used to enter things like that. I've never really cared for my fiction, but, in my mind, this story was different.

I can't find it anywhere. It's lost. Like Hemingway's suitcase of stories on a French train, except I have no one to blame but myself. And also, not that good.

I never took good care of my stories, and so they've flitted away from me like dry leaves.

Word Association

Paris Hilton: go away. I can't muster the energy to care.
Ann Coulter: go away forever. And sew your mouth shut while you're at it.
So You Think You Can Dance?: be on every night forever.
Soda: limiting myself to two a week. Not as hard as I thought it would be.
Grammar: underrated by the general public (sadly).
Reading grammar books for eight hours a day: overrated.
Leaking roof: here we go again.
Sleepwalking: pretty much over that phase (only lasted 13 years).
Deafness: closing in fast; where can I get a hearing horn?
Old Navy flag T-shirts: just don't. Including on the 4th of July.
The Great Gatsby: read it once a year.
State of Florida: no thanks.
Sangria margarita from Trudy's: yes please.
Keith Sweat's song "Twisted": modern classic.
Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon: slow going.
Texting: sometimes.
Rain: forecasted until sometime in 2009, seems like.
Boardgames: it's embarrassing how much I suck at Scrabble.
Bono: if it's good enough for him, it's good enough for me.