Mountains of books
When I saw Beauty and the Beast as a kid, sure my little girly heart enjoyed the romance between Belle and the dangerous, furry, hair-trigger-tempered object of her misguided affections, but what I really loved was the library.
A promise of full access would have led me to put up with Beast's crap, too. (The fact that her self-sacrificial love for Sir Breaks-A-Lot turned him into a mild-mannered, loving prince was just icing on the cake.)
My love affair with books has resulted in an unfortunate dilemma: I have too many. I've been going through boxes of my childhood books in my parents' garage, stacking Berenstain Bears and other rare gems to add to Ethan's library, and reminiscing over the young adult fiction (a motley mix of Sweet Valley High, Babysitters Club, and classics like My Side of the Mountain, Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, and Hatchet). And there are more than a couple terrifying Nixon-era children's books thrown in to boot.
Unfortunately, we also have several boxes of unshelved books stashed under the house and in the attic. The book collection is quickly morphing into The Book Problem. It's occurred to me that a culling must begin, lest I become a hoarder.
In other news, Noah and I have been watching 24 (in our continued quest to become the most egregious bandwagon missers in history).