She's about a mover

Amanda came over last night. It had been a while since we'd last seen each other. She brought over some wine and convinced me to watch The Hills with her. Truth be told, it didn't take much convincing. On my own, I'd never watch the show, but watching it with Amanda is fun. Sometimes the act of watching someone derive pleasure from something is pleasurable in itself. Before the show came on, we sat at my dining room table and talked, made each other laugh, and talked some more. It was a good night.
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Yesterday, while I was waiting for my car to be fixed, I watched The Family Stone on HBO. It was one of those holiday comedy/dramas that have become a genre over the last several years. This particular film had a decent cast: Diane Keaton as the matriarch; Craig T. Nelson as the patriarch; Luke Wilson as one of their sons; Sarah Jessica Parker as the girlfriend of one the sons. The list goes on. Overall, the film was uneven, but as with most films of its kind, I didn't expect much from it and therefore enjoyed it on a basic level. Roger Ebert once pointed out that films centered around Thanksgiving always end badly and films that center around Christmas always end well. He found this odd because Thanksgiving is usually the holiday you spend with the people you want to be with and Christmas is the holiday you spend with the people you have to be with. Well, The Family Stone centered around Christmas and it did end well. There were some teary moments, however, and those, I must admit, in the interest of full disclosure, did their job on me. Don't worry-- I made up for my moments of weakness by going outside and grilling up a massive steak in a Patriots jersey while talking about cars with my neighbor.
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I've noticed, when looking back on past entries on this here blog, that I've made a welter of spelling and grammatical errors. This is due to the fact that I don't really spend anytime editing my work. Most of what you read is the first and final draft, although there are times when I go back and make corrections. Those times are few and, consequently, my entries are often less than perfect creations. Why am I relating this to you? Is it out of a sense of guilt? Is it because I want you to disregard my flaws and view me as a perfect writer who never makes mistakes? Is it because it's early still and I'm not yet awake enough to think of anything else to write about? I'll let you answer those questions for me, provided of course you find them worthy enough to mull over. I know I certainly don't.