Because I Said So

I just watched the most god-awful movie. We have netflix: as many as we want per month, but only two at a time. The only way you get your money's worth is to watch the DVDs and send them back as quickly as possible, so I get stressed when we have those little red envelopes sitting around for weeks. We've been catching up with all the shows our tivo recorded while we were on vacation, and we weren't that thrilled about what was in the little red envelopes, so there they sit. The other problem is this: I am in charge of the netflix queue, so I pick all the stuff I want to see. Sometimes we choose things that we're both interested in, but normally, I manage our entertainment choices. For example, since my stint in the hospital, I just can't watch House or Grey's Anatomy, so Rob doesn't watch them either. I also don't really care for cop shows, or crime movies, or movies with a lot of violence, so that leaves dramas (and those sit around my house for a long time) or chick flicks. We're just now getting to the problem: Rob likes chick flicks. He loved the Sex and the City movie. Many women could just watch the chick flicks they get from netflix during the day, when they have some free time, or when Oprah is in re-runs, but not me. Rob wants me to wait for him, which means the little red envelopes sit and sit and sit. But, last night, we had an aberration: I was saying we should really watch the netflix so we could send them back, and he said, "I don't really need to watch that movie if you want to watch it on your own." Score!

So, this morning, I dropped Leila off at school, came home, had some breakfast, and noticed that I had plenty of time before the water rehab class I wanted to try, to watch this movie, and, maybe, get it in the mail before the mail carrier came. I switched on "Because I Said So" and proceeded to watch this piece of poo. It was so bad, I called Rob at work to tell him the he had dodged a bullet. It was awful. During the movie, I was sitting on the sofa, saying out loud to no one in particular, that this was the worst movie ever made. It was Diane Keaton at her most hysterical (and I mean that in the literal sense, and not that she was really funny) and Mandy Moore, who clearly has no acting chops of her own, so was doing her best Diane Keaton impersonation. Now, I could be wrong about this, but the other actors who where in this movie seemed like they were having a hard time masking their embarrassment. The only redeeming quality was an actor named Gabriel Macht who played "Johnny" (even the names were stupid) and he had about the best smile I've ever seen.

You may be asking yourself, "Why didn't she just turn it off and save herself?" to which I will respond, "that's none of your business." Just kidding. I did watch the whole blessed mess, and I think this is why: I was planning on trying out the aforementioned water rehab class at the pool, most likely populated with octogenarians recovering from recent hip replacement. By the time the movie was over, I looked at the clock and it said 10:50, plenty of time to get on my swim suit and go to the pool. However, I realized, as I turned off the TV, that the clock I was looking at was the only clock in the house that we hadn't changed for daylight savings over the weekend, and the water rehab class was long over. I think, somewhere deep in my subconscious, I knew that the clock was wrong, I knew that if I stopped the movie I'd get up in time to see a different clock with the correct time, and actually have to go to the class. I think I may have tricked myself into being lazier than I already am. There are layers to my laziness now.

Which brings me to my next topic. I read an article this morning about which cities in the United States have particular traits, among them, obesity, depression, fitness, etc. Portland, OR is, according to the story, the biggest buzz kill; they have more depression, suicides, and divorces than other places, and it is cloudy 222 days out of the year. I have been to Portland a number of times, and I did not see any people standing on ledges of tall buildings or crying on street corners. Miami is supposed to be the fattest city. The only person I know who lives in Miami is a size zero; her ears are the size of quarters, and her index finger is the same size as my pinky. I think you could fit three of her in to me. The manliest city is Nashville, TN, where I have never been, and now I think I know why. The study to test manliness of cities deducted points for "emasculating " things such as furniture stores, minivans, and subscriptions to beauty magazines. The fittest city was Salt Lake City, another place I have not been for obvious reasons, and the most recession-proof was Arlington, VA. The most energetic place? The San Francisco Bay Area. My home, my stomping grounds, the place of my birth, and now my albatross. The article says (btw, you can read the whole thing on abcnews.go.com/US) that the study "measured health, wellness, and overall energy" and that San Franciscans "seem to get things done."

Can you blame me for feeling like a loser most of the time? Look what I'm supposed to live up to! I'm supposed to be healthy, and well, and energetic and get things done; if I were any of those things, this blog would be so boring! I've had four chocolate chip cookies this morning, and, like, seven starbursts! I spent this beautiful morning with my blinds drawn, watching a nightmare of a movie! I'm wheezing as I write this, and I'm not energetic enough to go get my inhaler! They should have interviewed me for their study, and, had I chosen to tell the truth about my life, I would have dragged all those scores right down into the gutter with me. Seriously, most energetic: whatever. I want a coke.