I’ve tricked Netflix into believing I’m sophisticated and not someone who fast-forwards to sex scenes in movies
I neglected to properly plan ahead and reorder my Netflix queue back in August.
I’d been thoroughly looking forward to fluffing the pillows on my futon, cracking open a half-gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream and hunkering down for a night with McDreamy and my mccats. I was expecting to receive Season 6 of “Grey’s Anatomy.” I wept when two red envelopes arrived containing “Sometimes in April” and “All the President’s Men.”
OK, no tears were shed. The only thing my exes and my mother have ever agreed upon is that I am robotic and incapable of experiencing human emotion. But if I had the capacity to cry, this seems to be a scenario worthy of waterworks.
On another night when I was in the company of only cats pining for an ex drowning my sorrows in sweets taking an evening off to recharge from my overbooked and high-energy social life, I tapped into a stolen WiFi connection and carefully culled through Netflix’s numerous offerings in an impassioned effort to expand my horizons. Historical dramas! True crime! Independent documentaries! I felt brainier with each low-budget, single-camera esoteric directorial debut that I added to my account.
I can’t bring myself to watch them; I can’t bring myself to send them back. I estimate that I’ve now wasted approximately $25 on those movies. As you may already know, I’m bad at math, so that number could be considerably higher or lower. It’s hard to say. What I know for sure is that $25 plus or minus a lot or a little would be better spent on my cats. Basically, Rwanda is taking organic, grain-free, human-grade food straight out of Isabel and Teva’s mouths. You’d think Rwanda of all places would know better.
And you know what I can’t watch until I send back those other discs? Sigh.
I probably already would have devoured the flicks if they included a little lesbian action. That’s all I’m saying. I mean, “All the President’s Men” sounds like the name of a drag-king band and is about behind-closed-doors shenanigans at the Watergate hotel. Stuff happens in hotels. Sexy stuff. You do the math. Seriously, do the math. Because I can’t.
Also, depending on what charitable crusade you’re aligned with, April is Stress Awareness Month, STD Awareness Month and Tsunami Awareness Month, among others. “Sometimes in April” could have highlighted the Rwandan genocide with a B story line about a girl named … hmm … oh, I don’t know … off the top of my head … JESSICA, who is stressed about STDs because of the tsunami of sex she’s been having. Or something. I’m not a filmmaker. These are just suggestions, Hollywood.
Now, because I’ve hoarded these two films for months, Netflix thinks I’m so enamored of them that my “taste preferences” indicate I also would be interested in “suspenseful political dramas” about the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Flying Nun‘s escape from Islamic Iran.
Unwilling to quietly end my costly standoff with Netflix, I marched down the street to the local video place and slapped down $5 to rent the first installment of “Grey’s Anatomy.” I’ve watched all four episodes on the first disc. The most Callie and Arizona touched was when one rested her head on the other’s shoulder as the camera panned out. It’s as if ABC doesn’t realize I live vicariously through token gay characters on primetime soaps.
There was as much lesbian sexual tension on that show as I expect there to be in a movie about the ethnic cleansing of 800,000 Africans. Not enough.
Please recommend movies and TV shows to me that don’t suck. Or suck *a lot.* If you know what I mean.
I will add them to my queue and probably forget that they’re there and then one fateful day they’ll arrive when I don’t want them and I won’t cry because I’m emotionally stunted and then I’ll write a blog post about how I can’t even win at Netflix. So really, I’m just planning ahead. Because I learn my lessons. Sort of.