Sarah and I sat on the couch tonight talking about the various qualms that any engaged couple has, I think. We talked about various dreams we'd had in the past weeks and the nervous twitters and the slow shedding of skins that is required if we're ever going to try to get inside someone else's skin. For my part, one of my struggles is, quite frankly, with domesticity.
Tonight, case in point. We spent the evening unpacking the latest wedding shower gifts, which included myself spending an hour putting various and sundry spices into a new spice rack container. While taking out the recycling, I stopped in the pale moonlight and seriously contemplated peeing in the corner of the yard for no other reason than it was night and it was possible. I mean, let's be honest: peeing in your own yard is an honest pleasure. It's a struggle, after being un-housebroken for 13 years, to be domesticated, to spend an evening putting up silverware and writing thank-you notes. But it's a fight worth having, I think, as I love this woman, and a certain level of domesticity is part of the deal.
Which leads to my review of The Secret Life of Bees. If tonight's agenda of stocking coriander seeds wasn't scintillating enough, last night was writing thank you notes (albeit, for some cool stuff, like a 12 cup French press and a griddle), and watching a chick flick with fiancee and fiancee's mom. I'll spare you the blow by blow, and sum up the plot in four sentences:
1) White girl runs away from abusive dad to hide out in Civil-Rights era small town with black family.
2) Girl learns value of cultural differences through bottling honey and hanging out with Queen Latifah and Alicia Keys.
3) Girl turns her back on father and becomes a writer.
4) Alicia Keys looks really good and way intimidating. No clue why this movie is called what it is.
Paste magazine, one of my favorite monthly reads, gave this film a 37% rating out of 100. If you're looking for estrogenal overload, this is it. As a pubescent Dakota Fanning tried to convince me that she was falling in love with a 17 year old dude, I could feel nostrils flaring. As Queen Latifah tried to convince me that she was really a matronly figure who believed in the Black Madonna, I felt my beard growing more prickly and resistant to feminine wiles. Again, I love Sarah Martin, and Barb is a great future mother-in-law, but next time, I'm renting Pineapple Express and going in the back room.
One-half racist old guy out of five.