Dear Netflix . . .

Dear Netflix,

I think it's time you and I had a little chat. In this mutually dependent relationship we share, things have grown strained. I've started to wonder if I could make it through the winter evenings without you, while you've been making some assumptions about me that I find uncomfortable. Frankly: you think you know me, but you have no idea.

It really was charming of you to recommend Secretary given my past administrative assistant experience (and because I happen to love Stranger than Fiction). I really like that you're trying to suggest movies that appeal to my whole person. However, I believe you and I have very different idea of what's normally involved in the daily life of an administrative assistant. (FYI: it's not really very PC to call us secretaries anymore.) 

I can assure that during my administrative assistant career, I did all of my typing on a computer; dressed in appropriate, if not inspired, business casual; answered the phone with acceptable competency (although sometimes it did take me 1/2 a second to realize where I was . . . 2, or was 3?, straight years of temping will do that to a person); and never once had a self-destructive, sexual-charged, sadomasochistic employer/employee relationship. Needless to say, I was a little shocked when I sat down to watch the flick you so wholeheartedly recommended.

I mean, what the hee-haw? There are things in that film that made me want to scrub my retinas with steel wool. Seriously, if I get up halfway through the movie to clean the boiled-over yuckiness up from underneath the stove burners, I think we can all agree that this was not "another movie I might enjoy." For the record, I did not <3 this.

Also, I've noticed a disturbing trend that because of my affinity for British films, you seem to think I should also enjoy Parisian flicks as well. Now let's just hold on here. This seems like a pretty big leap.

While I did study the French language for 3 years, I remember next to nothing about the language today. As an Anglophile, I'm secretly thrilled that my native tongue is English. Also, the one time I was in Paris, I had food poisoning. While you think you're recommending movies about the most romantic city in the world, I think you're trying to taunt me with nauseous memories about the city I puked all over.

(Does this really look like a happy memory to you?)

I'm glad you're taking past experiences into account when making your recommendations, but until you have the full back story, I think it's more important for you to remember that I don't really care for films which push my moral and intellectual boundaries. I will always be happy with the fluffiest chick flick you have. If you can squeeze Hugh Grant or Colin Firth (preferably: both) into the film all the better.

Capiche?

Thanks for listening.

Your otherwise super-satisfied customer,
Ada