Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Et Tu, Drew Barrymore?

Have you guys seen that movie "Going The Distance"?  It was on HBO the other night and a well-meaning friend suggested I watch it because "It's about a long distance relationship, just like you and Dylan!"  For those of you unfamiliar with the film, it stars a delightfully dorky Drew Barrymore as a young woman interning in New York where she meets an equally socially awkward Justin Long.  They fall in love, she moves back to California to live with her sister (the ever-fabulous Christina Applegate) , and despite myriad struggles, trials, and travails, love conquers all and Drew and Justin are reunited in San Francisco after he quits his job to manage some indy band.  Aaannnnnnd...scene.  Now, ordinarily I have mad love for both Drew Barrymore and Christina Applegate, but after watching this steaming pile of shit I wanted the entire cast and crew to eat a bag of dicks.  Because this?  Is not real life.  In the real world, long distance relationships generally have the lifespan of an ABC Family sitcom.

In case you hadn't guessed where I'm going with this, yes. . .Dylan and I broke up last week. 

In truth, I think we both knew things were over the day he moved to North Carolina.  We each felt a little like the manager of a Home Depot before Hurricane Sandy:  we knew it was coming and dreaded seeing it happen, but we both knew we would profit from it in the end.

A lot of people have asked why I don't just pack up and move to the other side of the country, apparently forgetting about those pesky little things like children, family, and a career.*

*Apparently we HAVEN'T come a long way, baby.

But even if those things didn't exist, I'm just not sure I could leave Oregon.  Oregon isn't just where I live; it's an integral part of who I am.  Oregon is relaxed and quirky and down-to-earth and outgoing and filled with some of the craziest motherfuckers on the planet and I wouldn't have it any other way.  Besides, I just don't think I would do well in North Carolina.  For example, did you know that in North Carolina it is against the law to sing off key and all sex must be performed in the missionary position with the window shades fully closed?  I'd be screwed. . .*

*But evidently not with me on top.

Is it really that big of a concern in the Tarheel State that Gladys Kravitz will be peeking through your curtains to have her retinas permanently scarred by your filthy little genitals?  If so, then a heretic such as myself wouldn't last five minutes.  You see, I'm the type of asshole who will do something simply because I'm told that I can't.  While it generally would not occur to me to perform a vertically untoward act in front of the living room window, the moment I learn that it is strictly verboten I will be dusting off my old cheerleading uniform and putting on a show that would make Larry Flynt blush.

Once Dylan and I both came to the realization that (a) he wasn't moving back to Oregon and (b) I wasn't moving to North Carolina we knew that it was time to sack our bats and leave the playing field.  It's not that we no longer love each other; it's simply that we are old enough and mature enough to recognize that love is not enough.*

*I can be mature!  Shut up...

I know that time will make the dull ache in my chest abate, but even as I write this and am subsequently forced to think of Dylan, my heart starts skipping like Perez Hilton on his way to a "Glee" concert.  But despite the emotional angina and general angsty feelings, I'm just happy to be feeling something, because for the last few days I've felt pretty. . .numb.  I know that it's only a matter of time before I totally lose my shit in the middle of Target when the Lumineers come on the musak, but right now I feel like a dominatrix with A.D.H.D.:  there's no telling when I'll hit bottom.  Fortunately, myschedule right now has fewer holes than Stevie Wonder's dartboard so I am able to stay busy for at least nine hours a day and avoid any extraneous thought.

When not at work, I've been relying on my standard cure for depression: reality T.V., as I am of the firm belief that the only way to feel better about yourself is to revel in other people's trainwreck existence, but then late last night I came to the sobering realization that both Honey Boo Boo's momma and the entire cast of Teen Mom 2 were getting laid more than I am and I shame-spiraled right back to Square One.

So in the end, I reverted to the one thing that has gotten me through every traumatic and melancholy event from alcoholism, to a  crippling eating disorder, to a marriage to a man so adept at mind-fuckery that he made Svengali look like Captain Kangaroo.  I laughed.  First, I called my friend Jess whose stories can invariably have me giggle-snorting like Fran Drescher in an ether factory.  Then I texted my homegirl, Misty, who sent me pictures of her Griswold-esque attempts at holiday decorating that made me snort so loudly in the middle of Starbucks that I had to fake an asthma attack. Then I reread Jen Lancaster's "Bitter Is The New Black" for the gajillionth time.*

*Oh, Jen.  Your tales of Ambien-induced eBay purchases and the day you stole a bag from a homeless man complete me.  Much love.  ((fist bumps))

And finally I sat on the couch with my laptop and watched vintage "Saturday Night Live" skits until  tears rolled down my cheeks. 

*RIP Gilda, John, Chris, and Phil.  You have brought me more joy than you will ever know.

Like everyone else on this dusty little cobblestone we call Earth, I have faced my share of shitstorms.  But never once. . .not freaking EVER, have I lost my ability to find the humor in  life.  So the next time you find yourself faced with a breakup, a job loss, a catastrophic illness, or a circumstance so astronomically jacked up that it makes you stare heaven-upward and ask "Are you freaking kidding me here?", find your laughter.  A sense of humor is a lot like an asshole: we all have one, some shittier than others, but all are individual and unique.  A sense of humor is exactly that. . .a "sense".  It is a sense of whatever YOU find funny, be it "I Love Lucy" skits, political cartoon, or those freaky cat videos on YouTube.  But regardless of your particular brand of humor, keep it close at hand in times of need for it shall serve you well.

My whole life I never believed in love.  I married my ex husband when I was deep in the throes of an eating disorder and looking for someone to save me.  The word "love" was used as a weapon between us, and to be honest it lost all of its street cred with me.  Dylan picked that word up out of the gutter, dusted it off, and made it shiny and new again.  For that reason alone, he will be forever in my heart.  

Don't be afraid to love.


Monday, November 19, 2012

Dr. Seuss: Scaring The Shit Out of Children Since 1937

One of my greatest accomplishments as a mother. . .*

*After teaching my short people the words to Blackstreet's "No Diggity" and how to make a prisonyard shiv out of a toothbrush and a sharp rock

. . .is instilling in my twin boys a voracious love for reading.  I'd like to think that having children who eschew eReaders and whose fecund hearts swell with glee at the thought of a day spent poring over tomes at the local bookstore almost makes up for hemming their pants with duct tape and letting them wear their school clothes to bed so I can sleep in an extra half hour in the morning.*

*Don't be judgy.

From the time the boys were infants I spent countless hours reading to them; sharing my beloved childhood stories, and discovering new classics as well.  Many of them such as "The Poky Little Puppy" and the Winnie-the-Pooh series continue to warm the cockles of my otherwise blackened and withered heart, but there are some that I read that made me wonder what level of Ira Levin-esque psychosis spawned such madness.  If you are a parent, I can guarantee you own at least one of these books.  And if you are a child being exposed to said books, be very, very afraid.


Let me preface by stating that I love me some Dr. Seuss.  I believe  that "Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are" and "Green Eggs And Ham" were two of the finest works of literature ever put to pen and "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish"  is just one acid hit away from being a Lollapalooza-sized drug trip.*

*"Who am I? My name is Ish.  On my hand I have a dish. . .when I wish to make a wish, I wave my hand with a big 'swish-swish', then I say 'I wish for fish'. . .so, if you wish to wish a wish, you may swish for fish with my Ish Wish Dish."   That is some existential shit right there, yo.

 But the one story I can never read without an overwhelming sensation of "WhatThe@#$%!?!?"  is perhaps Dr. Seuss' most seminal work: "The Cat In The Hat".

And henceforth, hipster headwear was born.

Our story begins with a pair of siblings who appear to be no older than six or seven being left home alone while their mother disappears on an errand of dubious origin.*

*Which she does yet again in "The Cat In The Hat Comes Back".  I can only presume the mom is supporting a raging meth addiction by giving handjobs to truckers at the highway rest stop.

The kids appear to be managing things pretty responsibly, considering their age, but evidently they missed the whole "Stranger Danger" assembly at school because they were more than happy to open the door for a six foot tall cat wearing nothing more than a top hat and a Jerry Sandusky smile.

The cat assures them that "Shh, your mom won't mind" and as these children are both light-headed from subsisting on a diet of Cheerios and neglect and desperate for an adult role model, they happily give him the run of the house.  Unfortunately, things soon go south and, like a virulent case of the clap or a member of the Clinton Administration, this feline son of a bitch just won't leave. Finally the fish steps in to cockblock the cat and in the end the children are left to cover up for the pedophiliac feline under strict orders to "not tell mother".

So, in summation:  if a stranger tells you that "it's our little secret, so don't tell your Mommy" then that's OK, because Mommy's probably too jacked up on a cocktail of crank and trucker spunk to give a rat's ass anyway.  Sweet dreams!


Anyone else notice that little fucker is about to flush his mother's watch down the toilet?  No?  Just me?

"I'll Love You Forever" is a touching and beautiful book in theory.  It tells of a mother's lifelong love for her son and how, no matter what his age, he will always be her precious baby.  All together now:  "Aaawwww!"

The story starts with the boy as an infant and moves up through his early childhood years.  The little boy single-handedly dismantles the house, does enough property damage to make F.E.M.A. cringe, and drives his mother batshit crazy but every night when he is sleeping peacefully, all is forgiven.  She tiptoes into his room, holds him gently and sings him a sweet lullaby:

"I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always.
As long as you're living
My baby you'll be."*

*Personally, I call bullshit.  Yes, we always LOVE our children, but kids can be real little assholes.  Any mother who claims that she always LIKES her children is either lying like a rug or heavily medicated, or both.  

Hyperbole aside, the story seems relatively innocuous thus far, right?  Well, "thus far" is the operative phrase here.  Our story continues with our boy entering his teen years where he celebrates the glory of his hormonal youth by masturbating to the J.C. Penney catalogue, smoking a doobie behind the garage, and apparently dressing like Rick Astley.

"Never gonna GIVE, never gonna GIVE...give you up!"

Most mothers would be justifiable repulsed by their sons at this age as they are little more than a giant Axe Body Spray scented hard-on with feet.  But not this mother!  Laws, no!  Of course, she respects her son's need for privacy so she does what any respectable matriarch would do.  She gets on all fours and crawls into her teenaged son's room at night before sneaking into bed with him, thus ensuring that all of his subsequent wet dreams will be accompanied by memories of the smell of his mother's Oil of Olay rejuvenating face wash.

"'Da FUQ!?!?"

While such behavior should inevitably lead our young lad to don a trenchcoat and head off to algebra class with a semi-automatic in his backpack, our hero manages to flee from this den of inequity and start a new life in a home of his own as an adult, safe from his mother's clutches.  Or, does he. . .?

Wait, no. . .is she. . .wha-whaWHAT!?!?


And the takeaway from all of this?  It's OK to love your children, you just shouldn't "LOVE" your children.  I am anxiously awaiting the sequel to this cautionary tale, which I can only imagine will look something like this:

 "Mother! Oh God, mother! Blood! Blood! "


Fuck that noise.

Mary, God, and the Baby Jeebus know there have been a kajillion children's books written about emotionally abusive relationships. . .

*Yeah, I'm lookin' at you, "Runaway Bunny" and "If You Give A Moose A Muffin"

But this book makes "What's Love Got to Do With It" look like the freaking "Princess Bride".  The basic premise of the story is this: a boy and a tree are friends.  As the boy grows, he strips the tree of everything she has while giving nothing in return, repeatedly deserts the tree for years at a time, returning only to take more shit away from her, and ultimately coming back to stick his ass in her face when she's down for the count.  To be honest, every time I read this book I keep looking for the torn out page that shows the kid pissing on the stump at the end.

Oh, and did I mention that he also liked to cut a bitch?  'Cuz. . .umm. . .yeah.

I am all about sacrificing for your children, but this co-dependent tree needs to set some fucking boundaries, yo.  The second that smarmy little bastard came back demanding money for strippers and blow I would have smacked him upside the head with my branch and said "Do you see the words ATM carved on my trunk, Bitch?"  and started hurling apples at his punk ass like Randy Johnson on Red Bull.

The last time I read this book to my short people, my son J. asked "Why is the boy so mean to the tree?"  And I explained to him, "Because the tree's a pussy, Honey".

Lesson learned?  Abuse me once, shame on you.  Abuse me twice, and it's gonna get REAL up in heah.


Am I the only one who thinks this book reads like a lengthy suicide note?  And perhaps they wouldn't have such an issue with mice if the senile old lady with the speech impediment wasn't leaving bowls of mush out all night.  I'm just sayin'. . .

Despite the fact that the majority of these books read like a Quentin Tarantino script, they were all written with the best of (misguided) intentions.  And remember, no matter how disturbing and skeevy most some children's books appear to be, do not stop reading to your children.  Giving them the gift of literacy and a love of the written word is the most precious gift you can bestow upon them; it is one that will serve them well throughout their lives.

But if they start creeping into your room at night trying to carve their initials into your flesh you have my permission to sue Shel Silverstein.  Good luck.


Wednesday, November 14, 2012

You Had Me At "My Anaconda Don't Want None Unless You Got Buns, Hon"

ME:  How was the wedding this weekend?

DYLAN:  Predictable.  The pregnant bride wore white with no sense of irony, the minister read the "Love is patient, love is kind..." spiel from second Corinthians, and the bridesmaids got hammered and dry-humped each other to "Love Shack" at the reception.

ME:  Ah, romance.  Sorry I missed it.

DYLAN:  No you're not.  You hate weddings.

ME:  "Hate" is such a strong word.  I guess I just don't see the point of getting married other than improving your insurance coverage and ensuring the two of you never have sex again.

DYLAN:  You're a cynical bastard.

ME:  I prefer 'pragmatic bitch'.  Was the food good, at least?

DYLAN:  Typical meat-n-taters buffet.  We don't really do "creative" this side of the Mason-Dixon line.

ME:  So, no "Star Wars" themed same-sex commitment ceremonies down there in the not-so-deep South?

DYLAN:  This is North Carolina, Darlin'.  We have pretty strict rules about marriage: down here you can't get married unless you're thirteen, heterosexual, or second cousins. I'm pretty sure it's in the Book of Leviticus.

ME:  That's disturbing.

DYLAN:  No, what was disturbing was watching the bride and groom have their first dance to the Police's "Every Breath You Take".

ME:  Wait.  Wha -- what?  That. . .that's a song about stalking!  Like, 'it puts the lotion in the basket', 'I want to wear your ass as a hat', fifteen to life stalking!

DYLAN (laughing):  I know!  Apparently it's "their song".  That'll make a great story to tell their children:  "I'll never forget the night I met Mommy, the sun was setting through the leaves of the tree outside her bedroom window, and she glowed like an angel in the light of my night-vision goggles".

ME:  Aaaaannnnd, that took care of the 'heebies', now all that's left are the 'jeebies'.

DYLAN:  Ahh, then my work here is done.

ME:  What about us?  

DYLAN:  What about us?

ME:  Well, what about our song?  Do we have a song?

DYLAN:  Where are you going with this, Taylor Swift?

ME:  I'm just saying that every couple should have a song.  Did you and your ex wife have a song?

DYLAN:  I never really thought about it.

ME:  Well, what did you dance to at your wedding?

DYLAN:  We got married at the courthouse when she was four months pregnant; there wasn't a lot of time for dancing between the morning sickness and overwhelming sense of 'what the fuck'.  Why?  What did you dance to at your wedding?

ME:  "Fields of Gold" by Sting.

DYLAN:  ((laughing hysterically))

ME:  What?

DYLAN:  You do realize that's a song about a dead guy who cheated on his wife, right?

ME:  It is?

DYLAN:  What did you think he meant by "I've never made promises lightly, and there have been some that I've broken" and "remember me when the west wind moves" ?

ME:  I never really thought about it. . .huh. . .I guess that explains why my ex loved that song so much.  Well, that and his bizarre homoerotic obsession with Sting.

DYLAN:  You know, I like the guy less and less with each passing story.

ME:  He has that effect on people.

DYLAN:  So, what do you think our song should be?

ME:  It doesn't work that way!  You can't just pick a song!  It has to have historical significance, like the song that was playing when you first met, or the first time you kissed, or the first time you danced, or the first time you. . .

DYLAN (interrupting):  OK, slow down 'Girl On Fire', I think I've got it.  So, first time we met was in the parking lot of your office. . .wait!  There was music!  Who's that homeless guy who lives in your alley?

ME:  Stony Joe?

DYLAN:  Yeah!  He was singing, remember?

ME:  Stony Joe is always singing so that's hardly historically significant.  Besides, he only sings showtunes and TV themes and I really don't care to immortalize the moment we met with an off-key rendition of "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air".

DYLAN:  Well, the first time we kissed is out.

ME:  Why?

DYLAN:  Because we were in your car at the time and based on your taste in music you were probably playing something like "Get Low 4 Me" or "Smack My Bitch Up".

ME:  Pfft!  You have no respect for quality music, yo.

DYLAN:  You're right.  How could I possibly not see the poetry in such lyrics as "Will these bitches wanna try 'n be my bestie?  I turn left 'n leave em hangin' like a testie" ?

ME:  Bite me.  OK, so how about the first time we danced?

DYLAN:  Wasn't that in the middle of Target?

ME:  Oh.  Yeah. . .OK, so probably not terribly romantic but you did learn how to Dougie that day.

DYLAN:  Which I'm sure will prove to be a highly lucrative job skill someday.

ME:  Hmmm. . .so, what about the first time we. . .

DYLAN:  No music.

ME:  Pfft!  Child, please.  You know you heard the angels singing.

DYLAN:  What's that?  I couldn't hear you.  There seems to be some crazy stuck in my ear.

ME (pause):  So we really don't have one, do we.  We don't have a song.

DYLAN:  Why is this such a big deal to you?

ME:  Because you're. . .you.  And I've never felt this way about anyone before, and that just seems. . .major.  Like it should be some craptastically overrated James Cameron movie with a John Williams score or some shit like that.

DYLAN:  You hate James Cameron.

ME:  I think the point just sailed past you thirty seconds ago.

DYLAN:  No, I got the point.  But here's my point: we don't need someone else's song.  We have our own soundtrack.

ME:  Such as?

DYLAN:  Well. . .umm. . .OK!  The day we met.  There was a hazmat spill in the building next door and my station showed up, right?

ME:  Right.

DYLAN:   So, that would be "Burnin' Down The House...So You Could Stalk Firefighters".

ME:  Ha!  You totally stalked me!  So really it should be "Where 'Dem Girls At?. . .'Cuz I Want to Leave Creepy Notes on Their Cars".

DYLAN:  First kiss?  "Who's Gonna Drive You Home, Tonight...So I Don't Have To Listen To Any More Shitty Nicki Minaj Songs".

ME:  More like: "Paradise By the Dashboard Light...Except For the Part Where My Hair Got Caught in Your Watch and You Jammed Your Knee into the Emergency Brake".

DYLAN:  First dance?  "Dancin' With Myself...Until Target Security Throws Us Out".

ME:  Or: "Dancin' In The Streets...AFTER Target Security Throws Us Out".

DYLAN:  First time?  "Let's Talk About Sex, Baby...No, Really.  Let's Talk About It, Because I'm Going to Need a Complete Medical History and a Blood Sample".

ME:  What can I say, I'm a safety girl.

DYLAN:  As well you should be.

ME:  I was thinking of something a little more romantic, but realistic, considering our age.  Like, "Feels Like The First Time...Except With Less Angst About Buying Condoms and Worrying That My Ass Looks Fat".

DYLAN:  Or, "You Shook Me All Night Long...Well, At Least Until 9:30, Because We Both Had to Work in the Morning".

ME:  Or, "Hot Blooded...But That Could Just Be the Perimenopause Talking".

DYLAN:  Oh, yeah.  THAT'S sexy.  Look. . .I love you.  You know that.  I don't need some whiny John Mayer song to say it for me.  Besides, we just aren't a cheesy, Hallmark, "our song" kind of couple

ME:  That's not true!  In fact, just the other day I grabbed a pen and an old napkin and I wrote down our song.

DYLAN:  What?

ME:  You know. . .It's. . .it's a slamming screen door.  Sneaking out late, tapping on your window. . .

DYLAN:  I swear to God, if you get that freaking song stuck in my head. . .

ME:  When we're on the phone and you talk real slow. . .

DYLAN:  Shut uuuuuuuuup!!!

ME:  'Cuz it's late and your momma don't know. 

DYLAN:  . . .

ME (singing):  And when I got home, before I said 'amen', askin' God if He would play it agaaaaaain!

DYLAN:  ((sigh)). . .Goddamnit. . .

ME:  Heart hands!

    My apologies for what I've just done here.


Monday, November 12, 2012

The Day I Cheated on Jeremy Renner

"Are you sure this is what you want to see?"  Kelly asked skeptically as we neared the box office window.  "I'm not really a James Bond fan."

I shrugged casually.  "Neither am I.  I am; however, a big fan of Daniel Craig's chest, soooo..."

Kelly shot me a withering glare.  "Wow.  First you leave Nathan Fillion for Jeremy Renner, now you're kicking Jeremy to the curb for Daniel Craig?  Boo, you whore."

"I'm allowed to love all three of them!"  I explained  "Jeremy pretty much looks like the lovechild of Daniel Craig and Nathan Fillion so it's basically like loving the same person!"

I rest my case.

Kelly shook her head in silent bemusement as we paid for our tickets and entered the cavernous theater.  "Do we at least know what the plot is?  she asked.

I snorted with derision.  "Kell, it's James BOND.  Basically he drinks immense amounts of alcohol, has sex with innumerable women and blows shit up."

Kelly rolled her eyes.  "You just described my ex husband.  Trust me, if I wanted to see that I could have saved the $8.50."

"C'mon, Gene Shallit."  I told her.  "I'll buy you some popcorn."

We stood in the neverending line at the concessions stand until finally a freckle-faced boy with a nametag reading 'ZACK' announced he was opening a second register.  We began to move toward him when suddenly a gaggle of tweens ran from the back of the line and bolted past us.

"Oh HELL no!"  Kelly shouted indignantly.  "I did NOT wait in this line for ten minutes to have the cast of 'Saved By The Bell' come barreling through like the INS at a Taco Del Mar.   They need to get their little punk asses back where they belong!"

"Damn."  I eyed Kelly cautiously and stepped away to avoid touching the crazy.  "You need to lighten up, Freakshow."

She stared at me uncomprehendingly.  "Six months ago you would have lost your shit too."  she stated with awe "Love has made you soft, yo."

I grinned smugly.  "Fear not, mi hombre.  I'm every bit as jacked up as I've ever been; this..."  I gestured toward the babbling throng of tweens cramming Jujubes into their blathering cakeholes "...THIS just isn't the hill I want to die on."

Kelly snorted with displeasure.  "OK, fine.  But if these douchenozzles are sitting in our theater then I reserve the right to go all 'Dark Knight Rises' on their asses."

"Duly noted."

We approached the counter and I ordered a popcorn and two Diet Cokes.  Zack filled our soda cups with great care and scooped popcorn into the tub before passing it over ceremoniously to a young woman who anointed it liberally with butter.

"Do they really need a separate person just to squirt the butter on the popcorn?"  I asked Kelly.  "Is there some kind of high level security clearance required to operate the pump?"

"Maybe it came up in his performance review."  She replied.  "'You know, Zack's got a steady hand with the corn.  He's good...he's REAL good...I just don't think he's ready for the Big Show yet'." Kelly intoned, replete with jazz hands.  I muffled my laughter as I slid my debit card over to Zack.

"Fifteen dollars!?!?"  Kelly cried.  "Are you freaking KIDDING me!?!?  How can one popcorn and two sodas be fifteen dollars!?!?"

"When was the last time you went to a movie?"  I queried.  "Besides, you get your money's worth."  I raised my soda cup.  "Look at the size of this thing.  Ted Kennedy could drive a '67 Oldsmobile into that bad boy."

Shaking her head silently, Kelly led us into the darkened theater and we settled in to watch two hours of 007 finding myriad obscure reasons to remove his shirt.

Plot?  What is this 'plot' of which you speak?

"How is it possible for Daniel Craig to have THAT body at 44 and my 37 year old ex-husband looks like Avril LaVigne in a T-shirt? "  Kelly hissed, elbowing me in the ribs for emphasis.  " I call bullshit."

I shrugged thoughtfully in reply.  "I dunno.  Dylan looks pretty good for 41."

"Pretty good!?!? "  Kelly cried, earning her the stink eye from an elderly woman in front of us.  "Oh, lighten up, Betty White."  Kelly muttered before whispering in my ear.  "You think Dylan looks 'pretty good'?  Damn, Girl; I've seen that man without a shirt.  If you hadn't already bagged him I'd be tappin' that tree for some sweet maple syrup."

I stared at Kelly in abject horror.  "OK, euw. . .just. . .euw! Can you at least give me the illusion that you haven't been fantasizing about nailing my boyfriend?"

"I'm just saying; that man's biceps are.  .  ."

"Every time you say slutty things about Dylan an angel gets its wings ripped off!"  I hissed into Kelly's ear.  "Do you want that on your permanent record when the Baby Jesus comes back, you Whore?"

"Fine.  Fine."  she whispered, waving her hand dismissively.  We watched in silence for a few more moments until Daniel Craig found yet another reason to suspend reality and gratuitously lose his shirt.

"Hmmm,"  I mused quietly.  "On second thought, you may be on to something.  That man's shoulders have got to be digitally enhanced."

I'm sorry. . .what was I talking about?

"So,"  Kelly mumbled under her breath "if they can digitally enhance dinosaurs into 'Jurassic Park' and six-pack abs onto Daniel Craig, why haven't they figured out how to digitally enhance an expression on Kristen Stewart's face?"

I snorted unattractively into my popcorn.  "Do not harsh my Bond zen by mentioning She Who Shall Not Be Named.   Just concentrate on Daniel Craig and the requisite hot chick."  I gestured toward the screen where Daniel was giving the Bond Girl de jour a government issued hot beef injection before she went off to die accordingly.*

*Pfft!  Please.  Like you NEEDED a spoiler alert?  Name any Bond movie where the chick getting banged by 007 DOESN'T wind up taking a dirt nap.  Except, maybe 'The World Is Not Enough' but I refuse to acknowledge any Bond film that casts Denise Richards as a nuclear physicist.   Fail.

When the movie was over, we wandered back to Kelly's car, tossing our empty soda cups in the trash.

"That was amazing."  Kelly stated with fervor.  "I just spent nine bucks on a movie and I don't think I could tell you the plot if held at gunpoint."

"Hardly the point though, right?"  I replied smugly.  "It's all about the eye candy, my friend."

Kelly shook her head in wonder as she fastened her seatbelt.  "The last movie that got me that hot and bothered had more 'X's' than Stevie Wonders bowling scoresheet.  There wasn't even any full frontal in this one!"

"Welcome to middle age."  I told her with a reassuring smile.  "You have just experienced the equivalent of housewife porn."

Kelly nodded sagely.  "It's all downhill from her, isn't it?"

"Maybe,"  I stated, propping my feet on the dashboard.  "but if you hang with the right people, it can be one hell of a ride."