Why, oh why, have I never seen Better Off Dead before? All these years, denied the opportunity to have an even bigger fatter crush on John Cusack.

So, so unfair.

Gettin’ chilly: Revival of the back-porch routine last night, with an October twist. Bundled up in coats and blankets, sitting on armchairs we dragged out onto the back porch, drinking beer much more comfortably and discussing time, journalism, children, real estate, history, simple pleasures, crafts and home decor.

Conclusion: I am going to take up quilting. In fact, I may head to the fabric store right now. I’m a stitchin’, bitchin’ maniac. Nerd with needles. Terrible textile tyrant. Crafty lady. Domestic dame.

I could go on, but time’s a-wastin’.

Nabbed directly from Gawker.com: “I Love Six Months Ago.”

Drat drat drat.

Side note on trucker hats and farmer chic: These East-Coasters are playing Farmer Bob, what with their mesh caps and shiny tacky jackets and worn, holey jeans and boots and whatnot. Puh-leeze. Why’n’t y’all go and actually visit the Midwest and take a look at the guys you’re imitating. Stick your hands in some cow poop, and THEN tell me how cool you are.

Perhaps Elizabeth Spiers says it better. …

And duh, I realize that this fad is like, so over, obviously. But being without television and Cosmo, I catch on a little slowly.

MOVIE LOG
Italian Job: Better than expected. Had to suspend belief and lower expectations for a while, then vow not to take it seriously. After that, a fine ride.
Walking and Talking: Fantastic. By woman who brought me [Okay, okay, “us”] “Lovely and Amazing.” One more reason to love Catherine Keener. Sidenote: one hard flick to track down. Resorted to nabbing a screener copy from work, but was well worth the constant eagle-eyes.

SOUND BITES
Recent acquisitions include the Kill Bill Vol. 1 soundtrack and 12 Memories, the latest by Travis. Haven’t listened to the latter just yet, except for the song “Peace the F*** out,” which is playing right now.

AND IN PRINT
Reading The Beauty Myth by Naomi Campbell and The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien. Not quite meshing together, I realize, but need the latter to battle the depression caused by the former.

I know you care. I know you do.

In other news: Grudges dissolved, fences mended. Some, at least. Thanks for that.

Enough already! MCI is prank-calling us now. The phone rings at all hours, and there’s no one on the other end. I’m waiting for the heavy breathing to kick in. Iain’s taken down their number from Caller ID and has vowed to call them back and give them a piece or two of his mind. MCI, if you’re reading: For the love of God, leave us alone! We don’t want any! And we don’t have all day to start prank-calling you back!

This post brought to you by: Forgiven from the album “Burn To Shine” by Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals.

Elliott Smith is dead. They think he killed himself.

This sucks. I hate suicide. And death.

Man.

I am officially emerging from my cocoon, shedding layers of blankets and blinking as my eyes adjust to the light. I feel much better, too; I’ve been sleeping since Sunday, basically, fighting off the flu.

But enough about me … har. Who am I kidding? This is all about me. So here are some highlights from the last week:

• Shopping with my little sisters on Thursday. We hit Jo-Ann Fabrics in South Toledo for some quilting material for me and pillow-making cow-print fabric for Katie. Then we hit up the thrift store for t-shirts, including such classics as “Is That Your Final Antler?” [with a picture of a moose] for Kate and “We Scare Because We Care” [featuring Sully and Mike of Monsters Inc.] for Kelly. Talked Kelly out of buying the teal pleated miniskirt … for now.
• Coffee on the porch with Mom. We discussed everything under the sun over a couple of cups of Folgers and a smoke. That’s what being home is all about.
• Pumpkin picking! Nothing so picturesque as shopping for pumpkins under the wide Ohio sky. We patronize Moser’s Farmer’s Market every year, and they never disappoint.
• Late nights with Dad and the genealogy books. Poor Dad is on the night shift now, but at least that puts him and me on the same schedule. He showed me some documents from the 1930’s, when GrandMatt [my grampa] was just a pup, and some photos of the old homestead in Westchester, New York. Ancestral pride, yo.
• Wombification [wom-buh-fuh-KAY-shun]. Some very quality time spent with my college roommate Mandy, also known as Wuz, Wombie, Ska, and a host of other adorable, yet unintelligible, nicknames. I met her steady beau, Nick, and she and I made the impromptu trek to Sandusky for Halloweekends at Cedar Point [“America’s Roller Coast.”]. It was mad crowded, but the hour-long waits for rides ensured that we had plenty of time to catch up.
• Topsy Turvy Tuesdays and Wacky Wild Wednesdays. Work just gets more and more interesting as weeks go by. The latest installment in the saga includes … well, lots of crazy zany stuff that I really ought not to go into right now. One word: Army.

And that pretty much brings us up to date. Oh, but with a few disclaimers: A. I hold grudges way too long, B. I worry way too much, and C. I shouldn’t take myself so seriously.

OK, ‘nuff said. Good night.

Lovely Dan documented my trip to Toledo from a few weeks back. He’s so damn talented he even makes me look good.

Must … close eyes … pass out .. on couch.

After three fitful hours of sleep, I hit the road today and beelined it to my parents’ house, where I curled up in the fetal position on the couch, pausing only to fend off my sister’s jibes and to eat some home cookin’.

Am looking for a giant blanket to put over my head and something to stuff in my ears … basically, it seems, am trying to recreate the entire womb experience. Nothing feels so safe and comfortable as Home — even when there’s a hanged man dangling from the tree across the street. Which there is.

I mean, he’s a stuffed, fake, scare-crow type guy with a mask for a face … at least, I think he is. I really, really hope it’s a Halloween trick. It’s still scary, though. He’s just dangling there from his rope, lit up like Christmas by a small spotlight which illuminates him in the creeping suburban dark.

I’m talking fucking creepy.

But even with the hanged guy swaying in the breeze, I feel like I can finally turn off everything else. All the bullshit that’s been going on with people from my real life, all the hassles and drama of Deadline Disaster at work Wednesday, all the depressing crap going on. I just turn it all off and turn up the volume on the dinner-table conversation:

Me: So I had this dream last night —
Kel: Hey! I read this book yesterday —
Kate: No, wait, I didn’t tell you —
Me: I was talking —
Kel: Shut up! I was telling you ab—
Ry: Did you know that in the Zelda games —
Ma: SHUT UP!!
Pa: [rolls eyes]

Sigh … just like the olden days. I miss this. When Iain and I talk, we usually let each other finish talking. I forgot what it was like to have to battle seven other people for the floor.

Anyway. Shall remain cocooned for a few more days, venturing outside only to smoke. Fully plan to sleep off my 8-hour drive, watch Star Wars Episode II with my little brother, hang out with my three sisters, shoot the shit with Mom and Dad, and feel bummed out that my other brother is still stuck in school down at Florida.

If you need me, I’ll be that lump under the blanket on the couch.

I just had an “I Love Lucy” moment.

So I thought I’d set the water going in the washing machine, just to get a head start til I got my clothes gathered up [and a cigarette made].

I really thought I’d get back and dump the clothes in before the water got too high.

Nope. There’s foam everywhere, gurgling up out of the gaping maw of the machine, threatening to spill over the top and repeat the flooded-kitchen performance of a few weeks ago.

So I just kind of squished everything in on top of the suds and fiddled with the dials til it seemed less dangerous. Hopefully I won’t turn around and see a Bubble Monster lurching toward me …

I’m such a moron.

Don’t we all harbor a little vain hope that someday, somehow, someone will read what we write and say, “Damn, that person would fit in marvelously at Name Of Big Publication”?

An article in The Sun today pulled my green-eyed monster out of the closet, huffing and puffing and drinking too much coffee: Publications hire those whose talent emerges on blogs.

It’s about those unbelievable people you wish you knew, who write astounding things on their blogs instead of just self-absorbed personal trivia and self-deprecating comments about ass size or nicotine habit. About those writers who actually write things which matter and who actually, lo and behold, get recognized for their skills.

Now, I’ve always been a slice-of-life person, a tid-bits and small-talk gal. Never a City Reporter or Big-story Breaker. That isn’t my way. I can’t stick to writing Important Things … mostly because the Unimportant Things are so much more interesting.

But the fantasy of being “discovered” is such a delicious one, isn’t it? Hoping that some stranger will see through the tough [or not-so-tough] veneer into the shiny reality beneath.

We’ve all done it. We’ve all had that daydream, the one where you’re at the mall and the Ford Modeling Agency agent spies you at the pretzel stand and says, “We must have you!”

Kind of like the daydream where the bus you’re riding crashes into a building and you’re the only one who can rescue all the scared and injured people inside, and then the mayor honors you for your valor with a little medallion and forgives you all your parking tickets and waives your taxes and maybe throws in a little catered party at the Hilton for good measure.

Or was that just me?

Candles are flickering. High Fidelity is rewinding. The banana bread is in the oven. The leftovers from our steak dinner are cooling in the fridge. My book is laying open on the loveseat, and my cigarette is burning in the ashtray.

I love Sundays.

This post brought to you by: You Were Right from the album “Have You Fed The Fish?” by Badly Drawn Boy