It was with great dismay that I found myself--for the second time in as many weeks--crying on my couch with a pint of ice cream watching the chick flick to trump all chick flicks: The Notebook. Except this time, I was drinking a glass of eggnog spiked with my dear friend, Sailor Jerry's. There must be some sort of rehab center I can check myself into for this--not for the rum swilling but The Notebook viewing. I can just see myself--flanked by Amy Winehouse and Courtney Love-- weeping over my chick-flick watching ways, while Amy and Courtney hand me tissues and secretly think how glad they are not to have to go through such a tough, demoralizing addiction such as mine.
I remember the good old days, when chick flicks used to be about friends and disease and dying--movies like Steel Magnolias, Beaches, and My Weekend at Bernie's. Now we have real tear-jerkers like Love, Actually and Something's Gotta Give to contend with. Give me a cancer-stricken Barbara Hershey caked with pounds of white powder over a woman finding love with her soulmate in Paris on her birthday any day of the week. There are just not enough Kleenex tissues in the box for that kind of romantic shit, damn it. I can't handle it.
Hopefully the new year will bring back the chick flicks of old, although the upcoming Bridal Wars does not look promising. Perhaps I'll just have to write my own--Beaches II--with an aging diabetes-stricken Bette Midler who befriends a party-going bachelor only to find out he's been dead for days ... Hey, at least I'll no longer have to explain away my puffy eyes at work the next morning by claiming to have imbibed too much rum.