I went to see The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian this evening. I must point out, to give this story its proper context, that the Famille Evil saw this film about a week ago, and Captain Sweetie and I saw the new Indiana Jones movie just two nights ago. Accordingly, I have had it about up to here with hand to hand combat.
I went back to see Prince Caspian because Bunny and Pony wanted to see it again, and had invited a friend to see it with them. They did not go see Indiana Jones a scant 42 hours before. They had not overindulged in CGI hocus-pocus, nor were they particularly worried about suffering through Yet Another Epic CGI Battle sequence.
On the other hand, I could barely sit still.
This is unusual for me, this inability to sit still--the sheer number of hours I spend reading and computering would seem to be Olympic level training for the Sit-a-thon (expected to be an official Summer Olympics event by 2016).
Nevertheless, I really did not want to see this movie again. However, I have not prepped my kids to expect to be dropped off at the theater and then picked up again TWO AND A HALF HOURS LATER. As a result, this was a test of my Mom-a-liciousness.
At first, I faked it. I had an interesting bout of insomnia last night, lasting until some time after 5 a.m. this morning. I was up before 8:30 a.m., so I used the dark and comfy seating at the theater to take a nap. So, I snoozed, and woke up, and the movie was LESS THAN HALF OVER. Oh my god, how was I going to survive? I toyed with the idea of leaving entirely, and shopping, or heading over to the bar next door and drinking margaritas--but rejected that as possibly leading to leaving the kids at the theater for an inappropriately long time.
So, at first, I went to the restroom. Then I went out and got a refill on my Diet Coke (TM). On the way back, I peeked into the theater across the way, and saw the last 10 minutes of Baby Mama. SPOILER ALERT!!! Tina Fey turns up pregnant. Even I saw that coming, and I had only seen about 2 minutes before that.
So, back to Prince Caspian. Sure, Ben Barnes is a hottie hot hottie, and I'd have stayed in Narnia for the chance to score with him. But there were just too many scenes of battle to suffer through, so I went back to the restroom (yes, there was much Diet Coke (TM) consumed--this was not entirely unwarranted) and then went to check out Sex and the City.
Oh. My. God. It was downright pornographic. Do we really need to see walk in closets the size of my entire house? Complete with individual lighting sources for each three linear feet of drawers and rack? Did you know this movie got an R rating to ensure parental guidance of real estate exploitation? I felt so. . .so. . .dirty and cheap, lusting after that pre-war penthouse that was larger than my entire city lot. So I tried to go back to Prince Hottie Caspian of Pre-Teen Appropriate Narnia--and that movie was only half finished!
So I whispered to Bunny that I was off to watch some other movies, and I went to watch the end of SATC. It was not about fashion labels and product placement that got to me--it was the obsessive pricing of everything. "Don't leave those Blahniks behind! Those are $400 shoes that have never been worn!" "Actually, they are $525 and I'll go get them."
Never mind that the constant flipping of NYC real estate must have resulted in realtor fees into six figures--clearly the world is much better for knowing that the throw pillow the Yorkie is humping cost $300. (Not that anyone mentioned that the Yorkie himself must have cost at least five times that--you can't put a designer name to a Yorkshire terrier, nor can you purchase one at Barneys, so we won't mention that price tag).
I wanted to write letters to the actresses, as follow;
Dear Kim Cattrall;
You have the world's best eye brows. Please let the rest of us know how you got them. Plus, there is nothing wrong in wearing a bra once you are 50--show off those assets to their best! Love, Me.
Dear Kristin Davis;
Please give me the name of the painter who did that portrait in your attic. Or else just make a Public Service Announcement about the perils of getting an ID that says you are 21 when you are only 7.
Your friend, Me.
Dear Sarah Jessica Parker;
Please publish your diet and exercise program for the rest of us. Also, please remove that weird pre-cancerous bump off your chin, and we will forgive your squinty eyes. Plus, "Three inch plus stilletto heels: the American answer to footbinding? Discuss."
Prophylactically and culturally relativistically yours, Me
Dear Cynthia Nixon;
You are perfect.
So SATC ended, and Ding Dong, Bridezilla Is Dead! But there is still another agonizing 45 minutes before Narnia is freed and Britannia rules. So I leave the theater, AGAIN, and stop into What Happens In Vegas. Nothing is happening in Vegas at the moment, but Cameron Diaz is in NYC and actually wearing shoes she can run through Central Park while wearing. The SATC girls had practically convinced me that NOBODY who was ANYBODY wore anything less than a 3 inch heel. Yet here is Cam, running through the City, lobbing unripe tomatoes at Ashton Kutcher without three other women in crippling shoes conjoined to her.
But surely, Narnia is safe by now.
No? Not even yet?
Hell with it. I'm getting out my cel phone and sending text messages to Captain Sweetie. If I'm suffering, isn't it only right that he should suffer too?
I think I'm entitled to as much wine as I can drink, once I get home.