There are some things I vowed that Don would never convince me to like. Anchovies, Texas Pete (on darn near everything), ketchup on beans, Marvel comic superhero movies, scary movies, oscillating fans, and crickets chirping all night.
Don has been creative in winning me over to these likes of his—accidentally getting hot sauce on my lasagna, making an off cut with the pizza cutter, netting a few anchovies on my slice, having the fan become acceptable white noise as it drowns out the TV when I go to bed first, and then the latest—the crickets. They came in stealthily one night after I went to bed. I heard them several times through my dream fog and thought that a chirper was sitting on the windowsill. When I woke the next morning I realized that the chirping and was dronefully repetitive and coming from an app on Don’s iPhone rather than the windowsill.
But after 25 years, Don has yet to convert me on beans with ketchup and scary movies. He picks out the movies, mostly because I will scroll through the movie list for an hour, A to Z, before I find one. He does a good job most of the time—nine out of 10 choices get a Siskel and Ebert-less thumbs up. But I believe it is his mission to find the end-all movie that will turn me into a zombie-loving, blood-sucking, fear-seeking adrenaline junkie that occasionally and accidentally shouts the f-bomb at the TV. So every now and then a blacklisted movie slips into the house like a weasel, in the guise of a misrepresented presentation that goes something like this:
Me: What kind of movie did you rent, Don?
Don: It's a mystery.
Me: Not scary?
Don: No, just eerie.
If I don't trust his shifty pose or non-committal gaze, I further ask what the review says. To which his reply is typically something like, "Oh, the usual—some violence, 13 or older with adult supervision." A few have left him on the couch alone with a whole bowl of popcorn for himself, while I entertain myself in another room.
He seems to have realized he's used the same terminology for 25 years and needs to be more creative. Christmas was a good example. When I asked him what movie we were going to watch this year, he answered simply, "A western." Well, he didn't actually lie. But Christmas Day... Django?????
I, a grown woman, sat with my fingers laced over my eyes and fingers in my ears. I looked around the theatre at the wide eyes of other women—duped, as well. When we got home, I didn't know whether I had seen the worst or the best movie ever. I wasn't sure whether to take a shower, read the Bible, or pour a drink. I had to watch I Love Lucy re-runs to go to sleep.
Well, obviously enough time had passed since Christmas, so the other day, it was time for the bandit to strike again. But this time, he stooped to new lows.
While getting drinks and a snack together, I asked the usual: "So what kind of movie did you find?"
He replied. "You will like this one. It's a romance—a girlie movie." I plopped on the couch as the movie began. The screen rolled the movie title Warm Bodies as a blue-skinned, bloody mouthed zombie lumbered through an apocalyptic airport.
I gave Don the eye; he threw popcorn into his mouth and said, "Watch it, you'll see."
I just shook my head in disbelief. "Girlie movie." I believe I have as healthy an affection for dead people as the next person, but when I open my eyes, I want them gone. If not, I want a cache of silver bullets, garlic, and wooden crosses. I just can't grasp the moaning and stumbling incessantly throughout eternity, and there is nothing sexy to me about pointy teeth and blue skin.
Saying that, somewhere after the young, possibly once good-looking zombie ate the heart of the living girl's boyfriend and started having feelings for her, I busted out laughing.
I enjoyed the movie more than I thought, but mostly because of Don's tenacity to sneak one in. After all these years, it's nice to know there are a few surprises left. I might even put a dot of ketchup on my beans this week.
