Well, really for the pizza and beer.
When my husband offered to take the family to a movie last weekend, I was all for it. See, when my husband suggests a movie, it’s an evening event. Thanks to Alamo Drafthouse and Flix Brewhouse, a movie comes with craft beers and tavern food. Beats the hell out of Diet Coke and Raisinets.
As we gathered around the computer to select a movie – which usually leads to an argument that would send lesser families to Camp David – my daughter reminded us that she already had plans. She made us promise we wouldn’t see anything “good” without her. That was an easy promise, and not because I’m a thoughtful, selfless mother. No, I knew the “good” movie option was off the table as soon as I lost my romantic comedy ally. There was no hope for compromise when two violence-loving dudes (a.k.a. hubby and son) held the majority. I was stuck. But hey, I’d get to hang with my guys, I wouldn’t have to cook, and I knew there’d be Firemen’s #4.
As the lights went down for Thor: The Dark World, I ordered an amber ale and psyched myself for an entertaining show. After all, I’d really enjoyed Man of Steel. Granted, I would’ve cut forty minutes of fighting, but the story was interesting, there was romance, and Henry Cavill – a man I’ve loved/lusted after since The Tudors – headed up an all-star cast.
But back to Thor. The movie starts in a far-off galaxy, with some all-powerful rock that will determine whether good triumphs over evil. Blah, blah, blah. Your basic story, but Thor, played by Chris Hemsworth, has the fine-looking superhero factor in his favor. Add Sir Anthony Hopkins as Thor’s father, and you’re really upping the score. I’ve adored this actor since he introduced Hannibal Lecter and a new food pairing with Chianti. Despite this talent, I’m still not mesmerized. I turn to my husband. “Another beer, please.”
Thirty minutes later – even with a buzz and a much-too-short shot of Thor’s bare chest – I’m still not feeling it. I need something more. “Honey, please order me a pizza. Make it a supreme.”
TEN. HOURS. LATER.
Battles are still raging. I can’t tell the good guys from the bad. They all wear horns. (My husband later reminded me that Thor was a Viking.) The only clue is the color of their eyes. And I mean funky colors. Ninety percent of the cast wear contacts. I’m guessing Bausch and Lomb paid dearly for that product placement.
I try sleeping, but it’s too loud. Notice I didn’t say too bright. The whole movie is set in space. My dark-day depression has maxed out. I’ve got to get help. “Chicken wings, please.”
ONE. MILLION. HOURS. LATER.
Guess what? They’re still fighting. I’m biting my buffalo-wing-burning lips to keep from yelling in exasperation. I order a giant cookie. At this point, I’m not sure if I’m trying to suppress my anger or punish my husband by running up a huge bill. I just want it to end.
FINALLY, it’s over. Bloated and miserable, I roll out of my seat to find my guys high-fiving (their version of two thumbs up). I point at them. “You owe me four chick-flicks.”
My son shakes his head. “No. He took his shirt off once. We only owe you three.”
The kid’s taste in movies may stink, but he is a clever, clever boy.