The Dork Lord loves scary movies. And, predictably, really bad Sci-Fi. I once sat through Hell Boy II and came dangerously close to suffering tissue damage from rolling my eyes so far into the back of my head. Really, Selma Blair? REALLY? Rarely do his… tastes in film cause conflicts, though, because we’re both quite happy to meet in the middle, somewhere between Vicky Christina Barcelona and Another Movie Where Cops Behave Badly. Sure, sometimes that middle is Eagle Eye (AKA, I, Robot, Want to Kill the President), but usually it’s something like W and everyone comes out of the experience feeling informed and well pleased.
But the last few times we’ve wandered Blockbuster, and knowing full well my sensitivity to gore and violence, the Boy has asked to take home Quarantine.
No, and um, no.
“Why not? It’s a heartwarming tale about…”
“Don’t bother to read me the back. I see the cover. There’s crazy zombie disease written all over it.”
Sure, there was pleading in his sad, Sci-Fi loving eyes, but I held my ground. Until… well, until I realized yet again that I am a gigantic sucker. On my way home from work yesterday (and even before he called with upcoming root canal news), I decided to surprise him with the last DVD that I would ever watch while still in possession of my faculties. I mean, what says love like setting yourself up for weeks of nightmares? Nothing. Except for maybe a diamond. They’re forever, you know.
Naturally, he was thrilled with his surprise. And eventually, so was I because my god, what a ridiculous farce of a horror film that was. I’ve had subway rides that filled me with more fear. Watching a small child with people rabies gnaw on her mother’s neck not only didn’t scare me, it plastered a big old grin right on my face. Because I had just gotten off so freaking easy.
Far, far easier than he will when I bring home Nights in Rodanthe. Insert evil laugh here.
I cried for Miley Cyrus who clearly has developed some sort of terrifying ocular disease that causes her to mistake large, sparkly fish scales for red carpet finery, and also for Jessica Biel who had absolutely no time to practice her teleprompter reading skills because that last Hooked On Phonics lesson ran way too long. I also cried for the glorious mess that was Sophia Loren’s crazy ass Dynasty get up, but in a worshipy type way. But mostly, I shed genuine tears because I was just so moved by the presenters. If Shirley MacLaine told me she expected great things out of me, I’d totally forget all about that scummy Italian boyfriend I’ve been pretending to forget about this whole time and cry and blow kisses, because who cares if Shirley is totally nuts, she’s also totally awesome and can even make Cameron Diaz look like she has legitimate acting skills. And that ain’t easy.
But hoo-boy, when Kate Winslet finally won, I actually had to take a moment and pull myself together. When a lady who embraces her stretchmarks wins, we all win, ladies.
It’s Wednesday morning at 10AM and I have already logged 37 hours for the week. I know some people are totally used to this: dragging themselves into the office at 7:30 in the morning, slinking home thirteen hours later only to put in another hour and a half of “home work” in bed while their beloved lies next to them reading Lord of the Rings FAN FICTION instead of editing endless pages of ENGINEERING TEXT, after a pleasant day of not accidentally putting the coffee mug upside down in the coffee maker and standing there in complete befuddlement while steaming coffee runs all over the counter and silently screaming, “Ohmyeffinghell!”
Some people are used to this. But not me. And so I’m having a hard time with normal things like walking without running into stuff and remembering to rinse the conditioner out of my hair. Ooooh, pretty! You have no idea how many words I just misspelled.
Anyway, my boss is so superhuman about appreciation that I know quite certainly my efforts are noticed (and duly rewarded). But truthfully, that hasn’t made a bit of a difference when say, the alarm goes off and I tip toe downstairs to find that the dog has upended my laptop, stepped on it, and left a puncture mark like a bullet hole in the middle of the screen. Spy work, it is dangerous. I tried not to cry. Really, I did.
If I’m being completely honest, I’ll tell you that the only reason I didn’t exact some major revenge on that dog is, well, The Boy’s parents just bought our tickets to DisneyWorld and I don’t want to rock the boat. In case, you know, the tickets are refundable or somesuch.
P.S. You people kill me with the awesomeness of the comments on my last post. You’re everywhere! You’re in places right next door and so far away I’m sure you have to have a special passport just to get there. I love it. And on pain of being cheesy, I love that we’re all connected.
Oh, Interweb, I’m having a bit of a focus problem. Like for instance, right now I’m watching a pair of hawks nest on a utility pole across the highway, and I cannot tell you how much more interesting than work this feathery home makeover show is. Oh, wait, maybe I can. The word infinitely comes to mind. It’s not that I don’t like my work, because I do. I just happen to like hawks better at the moment. And earlier this morning, at exactly the hour I should have been strolling into the office, I liked the cool side of the pillow and blowing raspberries on the Boy’s forehead better. You know what this is, don’t you? Spring fever in February.
I’ve stopped watching the hawks now, and instead am focused on the breadth and width of me in my office chair. People, I’m pretty sure love is making me fat. My running mate Bob hasn’t seen my sleepy, creased face in about three months because, thanks to His Nerdiness, I get into bed later at night and stay in it longer in the morning (see: raspberries), and none of that lends itself to 5:30AM runs. Which in turn does not lend itself to me fitting into about six of my eight pairs of jeans (Don’t scold me. Most of those jeans were purchased sometime in 2004 or 2005. I’m not spendthrify, I just take good care of my stuff).
Let’s play a game. See how we’ve switched topics again? I’ve got the attention span of a fruit fly and I’ve decided not to fight it. So, yes, game. If you leave a comment today, will you please tell me what city you live in? I’ve been thinking about this for a few days now (on and off, of course. see: fruit fly) and I’m really very curious about where you all are. Me, I’m here. In Dallas. Where it’s 60-something degrees and sunny and the sky is blue and the birds of prey are homebuilding for their little prey-lets and where I had better buckle down and get some work done. What about you?
