In between my daily sessions with the Marquis De Sade — I mean, my physical therapist — I’ve been spending some quality time with my wife. Now, she thinks she’s giving me plenty of space to be on my own and work through my “Mr. Grumpypants” feelings (because apparently, I am eight years old), but her idea of “space” is a little different than mine. Whereas I envision vast uninterrupted expanses of time — hours upon hours to watch the latest Clint Eastwood marathon, she envisions tiny little half hour increments. Ones where I can still hear her bustling around, doing her Yogalates and watching Judge Judy.
Anyway, my wife got some guys from work to move the flat screen into the bedroom, which is great. I’ve only been trying to do this for years, but of course it wasn’t feng shui enough or some bullshit like that. Back before I was stuck in bed 24-7 (except for my brief sessions with the agents of the Spanish Inquisition), I thought it would be kick ass to have the giant TV in the bedroom. Wouldn’t have to move — it’d be awesome. Yeah… funny how you don’t realize just how shitty not being able to move actually is.
So, we’ve been spending a lot of time in bed watching movies together. And, I only get to pick the movies fifty percent of the time. Which is fair, right? Yeah… not when Miss Chickflick Lonelyhearts is picking the other fifty percent. I have seen everything Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock, and Meg Ryan have done. (Except for Speed which feels like a huge oversight to me.) And now we’re moving into the newest crop of romcoms, so we’re halfway through the Katherine Heigl filmography. I’ve only managed to avoid Bridget freaking Jones by the skin of my ass. It’s this or an endless line of musicals. It gets worse. I’ve been told there will be Jane Austen movies. She keeps saying all this shit about the cinematography and “lush” scenery and costumes. I’m like — I only want to see dudes in tights if they are named Robin Hood.
Think I could get someone to shoot me again? This time in the head?Read More