The chicks and me

Last night my wife and I saw Letters to Juliet, the prototypical chick flick.  In a theater of about 40 – 50 patrons, I was the only male. There were little chicks (and not so little chicks making too much noise), mommy chicks, grandma chicks and me. The whole thing was kinda of surreal…and filled with estrogen.

As far as strange movie experiences, this one is probably second only to the time Linda and I saw Moscow on the Hudson. We were spending few days in early April at our ski house in Killington, Vermont. One day it rained, so we decided to catch a matinee in West Rutland. Not all that match action in West Rutland mid-week in early April. Come to think of it, not all that much action in Rutland (west or otherwise) at all. Turns out, we were the only ones in the entire theater. At least we weren’t bothering anyone while we discussed the film.

Back to chick flicks. I have nothing against the genre. Afterall, every guy has to put with a chick flick every now and than if they know what’s good for them (wink, wink). Nothing wrong with Pretty Woman, You’ve Got Mail and my personal favorite – Notting Hill. No offense to my wife but Notting Hill has a special place in my heart. My daughter Allie was 10 years old when I took her to see Notting Hill at the 10 PM showing. She was so excited to be out with her dad late at night, seeing a movie. To this day, if she’s not around and it’s on, I text her to let her know that I’m watching it.

So guys, every now and than, you just have to suck it up and take your best gal to a chick flick. My one word of advice, stay away from the not so little chicks who tend to bring their own food and make lots of noise while unwrapping all that food, which is why they aren’t so little.