Mr. W and I watched “Four Christmases” on Friday with two coworkers. I still think Reese Witherspoon is adorable. Parts of the movie made all of us laugh aloud. Like when an old family photo portrayed a young version of her character in couple-like poses with a very butch looking female, and Reese’s character denied naively that her buddy was gay, saying that they used to play-pretend they were laying out on the beach sunbathing, and they’d lay in the basement naked, and her friend would be very protective and didn’t want her to burn in the pretend-sunlight, so she’d rub sunblock lotion onto Reese’s skin everywhere — and then realize halfway into her sentence what she was saying. There was one part of the movie that was exceeding disturbing to me, though. The boyfriend’s sister-in-law, towing a toddler with her, was telling Reese’s character that breastfeeding doesn’t hurt her at all anymore. It did at first, she explained, but then the nipples toughen up like leather and she can’t feel them at all anymore; “here, look, flick one,” she invited, offering her left boob to an alarmed Reese.
I turned to Mr. W with my eyes wide. “Is that true?” I gasped.
He wouldn’t answer me!!! Waaaah! I’m loathe to lose two of my erogenous zones.

Today was spent reading the fourth book of the Twilight series, Christmas shopping, wandering around the Irvine Spectrum outdoor shopping, exploring a new crepe restaurant and then a new coffee shop that claimed to have live music (turned out it was more like some teenage kids goofing off doing more party karaoke than actually performing for strangers; we left before we were even halfway done with our specialty coffees), then finished off the night at the Lake. And I went back to reading.
I guess it’s somewhat noteworthy that I did do a tiny bit of hat shopping. Enough to know that I can not pull off the cabbie cap. The hard brim and low bulky top turned the girl in the mirror (me) into a Communist. I quickly took it off. Ironically, Mr. W found a short-brimmed Fedora that he really liked. The tag said it was on sale for $9 and it looked good on him. After he came back from the register, he explained his wide grin by telling me that it rang up as an even deeper sale item, $4. I ducked his efforts to find me a hat as well, dodging the bulbous colorful yarn caps and the hunter-in-the-blizzard style lambwool-lined plaid hats with ear flaps.

Welp, back to the book. Stephenie Meyer is getting really good at her characters’ dialogues in this last book of the series. I actually chuckled aloud quite a few times.