I've been three-quarters of the way through "The Hobbit" for nine years now. Bilbo's been stranded in the forest with the giant spider for nigh on a decade, and frankly, I hope the damn thing eats him.

So one could imagine my enthusiasm when my husband bought the expanded-box-set-collectors'-edition-nerd-gasm "Lord of the Rings" DVD trilogy.

Approximately 36 hours of orcs, orcs and more orcs. Thirty-six hours in a one bedroom apartment. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

Frodo is coming for you, and he's bringing The Fellowship.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the kitchen. (I was looking for implements with which to blind and deafen myself.) I discovered the amazing sedative powers of nerdom and its king, Peter Jackson.

Forget the movies. Ignore the movies. Go straight to the 18 hours - six full DVDs - of Hobbit documentaries. There is nothing like a medieval reenactor explaining the fine points of sword forging to knock you out. Insomnia? How about two hours on light weight chain mail? The making of tree puppets? Twenty minutes on the time Sam the Hobbit cut his foot? Or better yet, an hour on how one goes about attaching giant latex rubber feet to normal-footed actors! (Plus bonus footage on the making of fake Hobbit toe hair.)

Oh yes, I mock. But the truth is I'm addicted. I'm no longer able to sleep without the subtle Kiwi-accented Peter lulling me away with the finer points of location scouting. He is my warm milk, my teddy bear, my wooby.

I am now both well rested and able to discern the finer points of elven battle dress.

And I'm considering going back to "The Hobbit." Maybe. Possibly. I'm flipping a coin.