Some things are futile
ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
There are some things you should never do with your husband, like take him to see the movie The Favourite.
What was I thinking? The Favourite is clearly an artsy, avant-garde film that can only truly be appreciated by film buffs and people who are keen to see Olivia Colman in action. People who love cinematography and set design. People like me.
Not someone who thinks Blazing Saddles is the best film ever made.
When a dance sequence came on the screen, I made the mistake of turning my head and glancing at him. He rolled his eyes so spectacularly, I could see it in the darkened theatre. He leans over. “Who dances like that?” “Shhhh! You don’t take it literally! This is poetic licence!” “This is crap.”
Fortunately, we were the only ones in the back row, so we didn’t disturb the general public. But now that I know he’s less than thrilled with this movie, I’m on edge. Yes, it’s over the top, but I like that. I love the performances, the mood, the lighting, the things not said.
He leans over.
“Why are they throwing fruit at that naked guy?”
There’s an image that involves leg rubbing and a kaleidoscope of rabbits before it fades to black. Hubby stares at me with incredulity when the lights go up.
“That’s it? What the heck was that supposed to mean?”
“The futility of it all.”
“Oh, spare me. Did you actually like it?”
“Yes! I did. Or at least I was enjoying it until you broke the spell.”
“John, I go to the movies to get away from real life. I want to be transported to another world, not sit mired in this one with you moaning about it.”
We head to the parking lot. He points at me. “Young Frankenstein. Now, that was a good movie.”
This is why I normally go alone to a movie theatre. Who needs the aggravation of someone else’s opinion? There’s something else I don’t like doing when Hubby is with me: trying to pick out a greeting card. He stands there looking at his watch.
“Just pick one.”
“I can’t take the first one I see.
He reaches over and takes one out of the slot. “Here’s Snoopy. He’s perfect for every occasion.”
“Not when you’re sending a sympathy card.”
“No one. It’s Valentine’s Day. I want to send the kids something.” “They like Snoopy.”
“Leave me alone for five minutes.”
He wanders off, but I know he’s around and that’s making me nervous. When I’m in front of a card display, I like looking at everything and that takes time. I don’t mind that. Hubby thinks it’s a huge waste of time.
He wanders back. “Find anything?”
“Are they sending you a Valentine’s Day card?”
“What difference does that make? I’m not doing it to get a card back. I’m doing it for myself. It makes me feel good.”
“You’re a writer. Just write something and send that. You’ll save yourself 15 bucks.”
“How about I write, ‘Dear kids. Your father doesn’t want to send you a card, so I guess he doesn’t love you as much as I do.’”
“Sounds great. Let’s go.”
And lastly, don’t ever try to clean out the basement if your husband is within 500 miles of you. He will instantly appear out of nowhere and root through any garbage bags you’ve accumulated.
“Are you crazy? You can’t throw away that old tobacco tin full of rusty washers. They come in handy.”
“There were cobwebs all over it. How handy can they be?”
“You never know. And don’t throw out those towels. They make great rags.”
“We have six boxes of great rags that I found under another blanket of cobwebs. You have to get rid of some of this stuff!” “Why don’t I get rid of you?” “That sounds like a wonderful plan.”
Lesley Crewe is a writer living in, and loving, Cape Breton. These are the meandering musings of a bored housewife whose ungrateful kids left her alone with a retired husband and a fat cat who couldn’t care less. Her 10th novel, Beholden, is in bookstores now.
Some movies are best watched without a spouse.