Some things are fu­tile

South Shore Breaker - - Senior Living - Les­



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.”

“What 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.”

“Who died?”

“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?”

“Not yet.”

“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.

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