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

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Happily Ever After?

I am the first to admit that I have terrible taste in television. Perhaps because I grew up in a home without a t.v., I find myself drawn to the glowing animated box like a moth to the flame. While I can defend my penchant for Project Runway and Top Chef, some of my other television habits completely lack defense. No matter how much knitting I may have gotten done while watching Millionaire Matchmaker, The Real Housewives of Orange County, or The Hills, the time spend watching such drivel truly are lost hours of my life.

So when the satellite receiver in the Shack spontaneously exploded last fall, just when I was contemplating moving in, it seemed like a no brainer to not fix it. The decision not to have television had nothing to do with living life closer to nature and everything to do with saving a couple bucks and keeping me away from my guilty pleasure: the Bravo Network. Of course, we promptly set up a Netflix account.

While we keep the bad television at bay, I continue to have devastating access to my beloved chick flicks. I enjoy the run of the mill conflict of interests and the predictable happy endings of chick flicks. But when I popped in Must Love Dogs this morning while doing laundry, even I found the plot a little too predictable.

As a person in a committed relationship who is contemplating pet ownership, I guess I wanted dogs to feature a little more prominently in the plot line. Sure “Must Love Dogs” made a cute title and a great poster, but little time was spent exploring just how pet ownership affects a relationship. And even though it was supposed to be an edgier chick flick that focused on the divorcee instead of the twenty-something, it was still had the heavy handed standard chick-flick application of “I found someone I’ve committed to and now my life is perfect” to all characters: even the ones who’d shown no inclination towards commitment at any other point in the film.

I know I watch bad television and poor movies that are all pretty far removed from reality. But still . . . .

Why are we always feed this line that our lives are miserable until that magical moment of falling in love? Why does falling in love in the movies always lead to marriage, maybe some babies, and little else on screen?

I’m not saying I’m anti-commitment, rather, I’m wondering: “what’s next?” Is there really no life after making a commitment worth making a movie about? And most importantly, are dogs and cats involved in happily ever after?

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