Blogs Over Baghdad.

The preceding title was a result of me scanning all the songs on my iPod and trying to cleverly insert the word "blog" into one. I was really hoping I could work it into a Britney song ("It's my blog, Bitch."), but no dice.

Welcome to my blog, readers (i.e. my sister.) This has been a project long in the making, and grossly ignored in favor of things like "my job" and "my family." So lame. But with the new year approaching, I decided to get a head-start on my resolutions (do more yoga, watch more of The Hills, pretend-kill less people), and writing more is a big one. The "obsessive and crafty" title is either a temporary and embarrassing name indicating the state of my life, or a permanent moniker that I will go on to trademark and make millions off of. So just be aware.

I was especially both obsessive and crafty this Thanksgiving weekend, and I owe it all to John Krasinski and my crochet hook. God, that sounded dirty and a little alarming. All I meant was that I swooned over JK while madly producing scarves, courtesy of the pattern in my Stitch 'N Bitch Crochet: The Happy Hooker book. And because it's Thanksgiving, and it's not frowned upon to camp out on your couch, the guilt over my old lady pass times was minimal.

An uplifting discovery: License to Wed is totally not as horrible as one would expect. Really! The commercials featuring mechanical babies and an uncomfortably wacky Robin Williams do the movie no justice. Had the commercials featured more Krasinski face time, and sporadic rays of sunshine from the delightful Mandy Moore, the film may have actually done okay at the box office. Yeah okay, probably not. But I'm majorly obsessed with Jim (he IS his character from The Office, and I don't care WHAT you tell me about him being a "real person"). And I'm A little obsessed with Mandy's delightfulness. She's just so clean and shiny. But not in an oily way. More in like a sparkly way. My next blog may be devoted to how to achieve Moore-level delightful sparkliness. Step one: scrunch your nose, ALWAYS. Adorable!

Also currently on my obsessive radar: the Tales of the City book series. So I'm 30 years late to jump on the bandwagon - so what?! Lurid tales of bathhouses and discos never go out of style. After a string of bland "epic" novels that made me feel like my emotions were being manipulated a la a bad episode of Grey's Anatomy, Armistead Maupin's bad-ass trilogy is a fantastic salvation. Hallelujah for rampant drug use and casual sex in San Francisco!

Alright readers, (hi, Sister! Still there?) it's nearly quitting time, and The Hills is singing it's sweet siren song from the depths of my Tivo (or is that the sound of Justin Bobby's douchebagness competing against Spencer's?). More to come... (that is SO what she said. Zing!)