wolfie and the sneak

I'm am 99% ashamed to admit this, but the remaining 1% is enough amusement to make me say it anyway.

As we whittle down our spending, me and the mr. still haven't given up on our movie rentals. (Goodbye cell phone I never use; a long, long, hard and bitter good bye emusic; good bye impulse buys) and on our visit last night, I convinced Hi-C to watch a "chick flick" with me.

Now mind you, the term "chick flick" makes me cringe. Convulse is actually the proper term.

But sometimes I want to cry my eyes out or ogle a hot piece of man flesh and not feel like I'm objectifying him (enter rationalization of screen and camera, actor's decision to star in such a role, etc.). You know, rent a couple hours of mind-junk-food and then return to earth.

So, I convinced him to watch PS, I Love You. It was often awkward dialogue, weird hazy filming, some of my least favorite actors, and yet, I cried through 75% of it. Not just cried. Wept. Wept and wept and wept and soaked Charlie's good, supportive, patient (and incredibly bored) shoulder.

I don't really know why it caused so many tears, but I haven't cried that hard since we planned our wedding!

It felt good. That crying; it's some real good stuff.