Catwoman Begins

My cat Mamie, perhaps sensing my impending transformation to Fit and Healthy Thirtysomething and fearing that my days of sloth-- and therefore my days of allowing her to lie on my chest for hours on end while I shovel fistfulls of Cheez-Its down my gullet-- are coming to a close, has decided to attempt to sabotage me the only way she knows how-- by peeing on everything.

I take that back-- she has, in the past, broken out what must be considered the Fat Man and Little Boy of the cat arsenal, the Giant Flying Boogery Ear Stink, which afflicted her for about a year in Wilmington. While a successful surgery was performed to eliminate this scourge on my personal life ("Hey, want to come over and sit on my furniture, which is covered with gelatinous wads of goo that smell like a homeless man's belly button?"), I think Mamie sort of realized that with great suffering came great amounts of petting, and filed that away in her brain.

And I have to say, the Random Pee Bomb is nearly as effective as the Boogery Ear Stink-- it certainly smells worse, although this time Mamie has been civil enough to contain the battle to the basement, specifically to a woven rug that Ben put under the laundry table. And since it's so centrally located, it doesn't have the visual wallop of the B.E.S., which could be flung in a six foot arc in any direction (which was really, really hard to explain to my landlord upon relocating). But the R.P.B. is more of a psychological weapon-- every whiff penetrates straight into your brain with the ominous message "Say goodbye to your friends, kemosabe. You're the cat lady now."

Especially horrifying about this is that the woman who lived in our house before us was a cat lady; according to our neighbor Frank, who somehow knows everything about everyone in our neighborhood, there were, at one time, thirteen cats living in our house. Some might say that this could be the cause of Mamie's problems-- that she's simply retaliating against the ghosts of Pee Bombs past.

But I have a more terrifying theory: what if the house makes you a cat lady? What if, when she moved in, the old owner was a young, vibrant, vitamin-taking hipster? And the the house mugged her with its cat ladyness, and all the sudden her clothes all had a vague funk and she wanted to prop cross stitched pillows on every available surface?

If this happens to me, consider this my will. You will know what has become of me. And do not destroy Mamie-- she's but a mindless pawn in the house's deadly game. But I beseech you, please, before anyone comes over to mourn me as I stare at them from behind bifocals and a fur-smeared, teddy-bear appliqued sweatshirt with mock turtleneck underneath, please at least destink my basement. And scan it for signs of Boogery Ear Stink. Just in case.

Farewell, sweet Pentium

Just to explain the bitter, nuke-u-lar winter type silence that has fallen over my blog of late-- this past Monday, around one in the morning, my computer began making a sort of wheezing noise that I normally associate with our dog when it has a particularly vigorous booger infestation. So I got out of bed and put it in sleep mode, and... and... it never woke up.

I've been futzing around with it for the last few days, trying to coax one more evening worth of life out of it before I consign myself to the bitter task of computer searching so that I can rescue my (you all must admit) insanely awesome collection of one-hit wonders from my hard drive so that they can live to craft another decade of mega CDs. (Because where, I ask you, where, am I going to get another copy of "Brand New Pair of Rollerskates" by Melanie Safka? Answer? Effing nowhere.) But I can't even get it to go into safe mode-- it just keeps taking me back to this scary black screen that looks vaguely DOS-y.

So anyway, until I get that situation resolved, my blog might be MIA-- again. Those of you who are particularly interested in seeing it up and running can feel free to send donations to my Pay Pal account, so that I can save up and get the super sweet computer that can burn pictures right onto the CDs I make. Because nothing accentuates a CD full of crap like an awesome picture of me making guns with my fingers!

Powerless

Check it out-- Ben and I are two of the hundreds of thousands without power in Ohio! We knew we were in for it when we saw six guys out in the middle of the street cutting up a felled tree on our way home Sunday night.

"Do those guys work for the city or something?" Megan asked from the back seat.

"No, they're just, like, regular guys," I told her. "They're vigilantes."

"Really, really helpful vigilantes," she agreed.

Upon pulling into our freakishly darkened driveway, our neighbor Frank came running out with a lantern for us, simultaneously being helpful and rubbing in our face that he has a generator and we don't. And now, two nights later, Frank's generator continues to taunt us by allowing Frank to keep a full-on spotlight on the front of his house, which I basically use as ambient light to pee by (and then not flush the toilet, because our water pump is also electric).

I'm at work right now (obviously), and sort of dreading finding out if I'm spending night three with no power-- if I am, then I need to work out a way to make distilled water jug baths more pleasant. Because this shit is not pleasant.

And this article casts the ominous shadow of the fact that this might not be resolved until the weekend, which I find wholly unacceptable. I am, in fact, a huge proponent of power outages-- I pretty much love any event that causes your evening to not go the way you thought it was going to, like a forced adventure-- but I've kind of had enough adventure right now, and want a frozen pizza dinner, which I can eat while watching Intervention under a 100 watt bulb.

Before and After: Septic Edition

Our beautiful backyard before septic tank installation:


Our somewhat less beautiful backyard after septic tank installation:


Doesn't this seem like a lot-- a lot-- of devastation just so two people can take a shit that's up to code with the Geauga County health department?

So now Ben and I are trying to rake this mess out so we can spread grass seed before winter-- to be fair, this shot is obviously from before the project was fully complete, but there's still a lot of raking to be done. And it's not fun, cozy, "whee, I'm raking leaves so I can jump in them while wearing a cozy knit sweater!" raking. It's backbreaking Grapes of Wrath raking.

But still, nothing is without its upside. For instance:

1. We were able to use every dollar that the previous owners escrowed us for this illustrious project, thus ensuring that they would not get one cent of their bitterly complained over money back.

2. This project was chiefly overseen by an Amish guy, which allowed me to engage in one of my favorite pastimes, which happens to be gawking at the Amish.

3. Once we get the grass seed down and the hay spread, it will be technically impossible to rake when the leaves fall!

4. All this raking is making me buff and sexy, albeit in more of a female bodybuilder way than an Anna Kournikova way.

So thanks for the escrow money, former owners! Please take comfort in the fact that although your $17,000 is now firmly buried in our backyard, we can now crap without fear of reprisal from the local government.

Requiem for a Dying Computer

I came home to find the black screen of death on my computer today-- even more ominous than the blue screen of death, which at least has writing on it, the black screen just stares at you, a yawping maw of desolation and emptiness. "I ate your thesis," it says. "And all your pictures, and that live recording of Barenaked Ladies performing 'McDonald's Girl' that you worked so hard to find."

Luckily, Ben was able to resurrect the computer through a complex process of unplugging and plugging the power cord and hitting random buttons-- apparently, the escape key is now somehow imperative to the start-up of the computer for some reason, as is that weird Spanish squiggly button. But I know this laptop isn't long for this earth, so the time for harvesting its bounty has begun.

I actually discovered the black screen of death right before I had to drive to my parents' house to pick up a chainsaw, which isn't as interesting of a story as it sounds, so I'll omit it here. But on the way there, I found myself musing over what I really would have lost if I came back and the computer couldn't be saved. In the past, this concept has driven me to insane, panicky tears-- what if I never get to hear "Oh Sherry" again? But tonight, it didn't seem so bad.

After all, I did the smart thing and saved all my digital pictures to CDs the last time the black screen of death darkened my door, along with all my important word documents, including the fragments of the fabled John Boston Story, which is the worst novel ever written, and which I've been working on since I was thirteen, so at least that would be saved for the ages. And maybe it was time to admit that I never, ever wanted to hear "You Spin Me Right Round" ever again. I could rebuild my music collection, make it bigger, better, far less embarrassing ("Pray," by MC Hammer? Really?).

But thanks to the random button poking of my computer savvy husband, I have been given a second chance. Maybe now I can finally use this computer to write something of substance-- my entire thesis was actually composed on my old computer, and the John Boston story was from the computer before that. Maybe, in its dying days, this computer can become home to my masterpiece.

And then, just to be a dick, it will eat it.

The Very Hungry Kimmerpillar

In an effort to get back on track with my life after months of house-based neglect, I decided to go to my doctor and get a physical, because:

a) My body is a finely honed machine that needs maintenance like any other other superbly-crafted apparatus

b) Secretly, I constantly believe that I have contracted some sort of horrible disease, like typhoid fever or lupus

c) I've been having a lot of trouble breathing through my nose lately, which is turning me into a slack-jawed yokel.

So since I was going in for a battery of tests anyways, I figured it would be a good idea to have some bloodwork done to ensure that my cholesterol and sugar levels were okay (and that my blood had not been replaced with concentrated amounts of Hawaiian Punch, which would be disgusting, but tasty).

Blood work, of course, requires you to fast for twelve hours to ensure that your tests aren't tainted by any of the sugars or fats from food that you eat (and since my diet consists almost entirely of sugar and fat, this seemed especially important in my case). So while a normal human being would schedule their physical for eight in the morning, requiring very little actual fasting, I chose to go at 4:15 p.m.

Why? Partially because I wanted to be able to leave work early, because a little blood-letting is always preferable to suffering through late Monday afternoon at an insurance company. But partially, I imagine it was also because I enjoy constantly informing people of any agony I may be in, and fasting offers a multitude of opportunities to remind people that you haven't eaten in fourteen hours. You're going to Chipotle for lunch? Sorry, I can't-- I'm fasting.

You'll note that I never actually tell anyone why I'm fasting, thus giving off the false impression that I am on a hunger strike for the people of Tibet. Not that I am particularly known for my symbolic acts of dissension, although I have successfully managed to never see an episode of Navy NCIS in protest of the fact that it stars my arch nemesis, Mark Harmon.

Ultimately, though, the fasting was less impressive to my co-workers and more of just a giant pain in the ass for me, as I apparently require food every thirty-seven minutes in order to remain functional, like a rusted-out car with a gas leak. At one point I attempted to fill my stomach with water in an effort to feel full, but this merely resulted in me being really, really cold and full of pee. I also worry that I might have incurred a mild case of water intoxication, as I have never really found auditing so funny before.

But I persevered and made it through to the blood-letting, after which I crammed my face full of crackers to hold me over until I made it to McDonald's, where I ate enough food to tide the US ladies' gymnastics team over until the closing ceremonies. Full of chicken and soda and potato-esque product, I drove home, a crumb-covered testament to good health.

Dear Evil Cable Corporation,

First off, please just let me apologize for writing this on the back of a Burger King bag; I have been unable to order my favorite stationary for the last week or so, because our Internet is out, and I believe it to be all your fault.

Okay, maybe it was our fault at first. Maybe we spliced a cable we shouldn’t have in an effort to supply precious, life-giving cable television to another room of our house, so Ben would no longer be forced to sit through countless episodes of I Love Money on VHI. We did that, and then the Internet didn’t work. Okay. Our bad.

Then we had to call you for help, which really means talking to The Demonic Machine—one of those recorded ladies that asks you questions like “Did you turn off your computer?” and then, when you scream at her, “YES, I TURNED OFF THE FUCKING COMPUTER, YOU PRERECORDED RETARD!”, she says, “sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

And when we finally got to a real person, we were informed that no one was coming to fix the Internet until at least Saturday. Thus, an entire week passed with Ben and I falling further and further into Internet-deprived depression and despair, until finally our house was like the last few days in Lord of the Flies, with an old computer monitor stuck in our front yard with a crudely shaved stake.

But then—salvation! In the form of Randy, the Perfectly Acceptable Cable Repairman, who had the whole problem fixed within ten minutes, giving us a full day of glorious, glorious Internet access. Thank you, Randy! If you ever return to my home, you will be greeted at the door by several comely virgins, as a mere “thanks” can’t possibly explain our gratitude.

Sadly, though, it was not to be.

Yesterday evening, I returned to my computer after a long day of painting Ben’s basement office only to find the ominous absence of the “online” button from the front of the modem. No service!

And so I ask you, Evil Cable Corporation, what you intend to do to make this right. Merely fixing our Internet is no longer enough—I have spent so long without it that I have become feral, getting my gossip fix by following the exploits of Lucky on the back of my Lucky Charms box and crafting e-mails from leaves and twigs I find in my backyard. It may be too late for me—I might actually have to go back to living off the Internet grid, a terrifying prospect that I haven’t had to look in the face since 1996.

Look at me! I’m even having to blog from work. FROM WORK! Every blogger’s nightmare—what if the boss catches me? Or that weird coworker that always peers at my computer as if she’s trying to see into my soul? I cannot allow this to continue!

My first request is the hearts of each of your children brought to me on a platter made of the deeds to all your homes. I will stick a leaf in your mailbox once I have come up with a second request.

All best,
Kim

Clearly, God is angry that I haven't left Euclid yet-- ever since we started Operation: Get Out of Dodge, He has been inflicting us with a multitude of plagues, including the theft of my beloved Garmin (still pissed about that, by the way-- I've been wanting to drive by my new house all week, and without Garmin, I am incapable of finding my way there-- screw Mapquest, I'm done with that garbage!). Recently He decided to up the ante with a brownout, and tonight, I am without water due to a massive water main break about five houses down from mine-- a different water main, mind you, than the one that exploded on my street last year. Why are there two water mains on my street? Because Euclid sucks. That's why.

Even more distressingly, I was in the middle of a crucial load of laundry when the water was shut off, so now my outfits for this week are wet and soapy and no doubt forming some sort of crud crust down in my stinky filthhole of a basement. So now I have to break into my junior varsity clothes, which include a lot of polo shirts and ridiculously cuffed jean capris.

And more distressing still was the fact that I spent the whole day cleaning the house, and so was a disgusting smelly wreck-- "this is okay," I thought, "because once the house is clean I will shower and be a fresh morning lily!" Not so! Filthed up and sticky with cleaning residue, I drove the forty minutes to my parents' house, showered, and drove back, thus killing the evening I had planned to spend watching The Nanny Diaries, which I will most certainly not be allowed to watch once Ben is back in town.

So at least now I'm clean, and I have a gallon of water for teeth-brushing and hair-refreshing in the morning, should water not be restored. And I'm doing my best to avoid the inevitable situation that will develop when I need to use the bathroom. I think I can hold it for the next twelve hours, until I get to work. Right?

Robbed!

Dear Asshole That Stole My Garmin,

You're really lucky you got that when you did, because I'm about to move away. So I hope you enjoy the drugs that its pawning afforded you, unless you're actually using it to plot routes to some other, unrelated drug score, in which case I hope you enjoy the pleasant Englishman voice I programmed into it for you.

I do appreciate that you didn't take my CDs, and also that you very gently shut the car door so that I wouldn't wake up to a dead battery. That was really nice of you, really.

Since I will be leaving town in a few short weeks here, I would appreciate it if you didn't come back and try to take any of our other shit, although I imagine that I will likely spend most of my remaining evenings here hiding in the bed of Ben's truck with a baseball bat. You know, just in case.

In conclusion, I hate Euclid, and I hate you, and I hope your face is eaten off by vicious dogs (which are also abundant in this neighborhood, just to warn you). I would also like to give a special shout-out to the Euclid Police Department, who always stop patrolling our street as soon as school lets out (which would explain why we were robbed DURING THIS EXACT SAME MONTH two years ago).

All best,
Kim

Hey, um, never mind

We ended up walking away from the house-- I think it was when they threatened to just put it up for auction even though we had a contract signed that really did me in. All in all, this all went quite possibly as badly as it could possibly have gone, short of the ghoulish corpses of Indian burial ground zombies rising from the earth, coated in shit from the bad septic system, to ensnare us and drag us back into their hellish abode.

Anyway. I'll tell you more about it when my eyes aren't so puffy, or my contacts seared to my eyelids. In the meantime, if you know of any houses for sale in the area with no fucking septic system, please call me. We're interested.

After a long day of yardwork at my parents' house yesterday, Ben and I were treated to a rousing game of "Who Can Find the Most Embarrassing Picture of Kim From Her Youth?" My mom was the winner, with this stunner.

Please note that the brown sweater I'm wearing is the infamous Afro Bathrobe, a gift from my grandmother that inflicted upon me a life-long fear of sweater coats and a firm belief that all of my clothes, no matter how cute or expensive, will earn me a horrible nickname. The rest of my wardrobe appears to have been plucked from the closet of a 1930's librarian, except for the long-strapped denim purse, a nod to the plucky, can-do attitude of Blossom.

In that purse, I carried paperback books of "Herman" cartoons. I was the lamest kid ever.

What's the frequency, readers?

Okay, let's not beat around the bush-- I am not blogging as much as I should be. I understand that, but as of late, I have also come to understand a terrible truth:

I'm just not as in to blogging as I used to be.

I don't know why-- part of me thinks that (downer alert) I might be having a little bit of a depression problem again (which might be great, because as everyone knows, I'm at least 30% more hilarious when depressed, although 90% of you aren't actually around me to witness it). But then, it might be that The Part That Wants to Start Writing a Book is becoming more aggressive, and wants more time for that. Although if that's the case, I wish it would just Get Started, as opposed to stranding me on the couch for hours a night either reading books by other people or, even worse, honing my Guitar Hero skills.

But either way, I've either got to shut the blog down, or get off my ass, because my posts just aren't good enough to sustain a twice-a-month posting schedule.

So here's what I propose-- from now until April 1, I will attempt to blog every day (barring times that I go out of town, which should only be once or twice), but the blog posts will probably only be a paragraph long, max.

Is this something you guys would be interested in? Or is the twice-monthly post sufficient? Or is it just time for me to hang up my spurs completely? Wait, don't answer that one. Because it's never really been a dream of mine to hear the phrase, "Yeah, it's probably better if you just quit writing now." If I want to hear that, I'll check in with my old poetry professor.

Please advise.

The fall of Chris Benoit

A totally fucked-up story from Yahoo: former WCW wrestler (and member of the Four Horsemen along with Ric Flair, Arn Anderson, and Dean Malenko) Chris Benoit killed his wife and son over the weekend, and then shot himself.

Chris Benoit was totally a favorite of mine during my WCW glory days (along with sorely missed Eddie Guerero). Rich and Alan and I watched many a Benoit match, and marveled at his cheerful Candian-ness. I even had-- and still have, actually-- a Chris Benoit valentine card (because apparently, nothing says "I love you" like a sweaty, half-naked wrestler on a flimsy cardboard card).

But apparently, my former WCW heroes are not faring so well.

So please, Ric Flair, hear my impassioned plea-- do not die in some horrible way. Don't kill anybody, don't do any drugs, don't fly in any planes. Shirley might not miss you, but my heart, it would break.

Night at Giant Eagle

Having slept until nearly noon this morning (after finally coming down from my mouse-disposal adrenaline high at two a.m. the night before), I found myself with an excess of energy around ten o'clock and decided to make the most of it with a trip to the grocery store, thinking it would be less crowded.

While there, I learned the following things:

1. Really, really ugly people go shopping at night.

2. They often bring their children, who are often barefoot.

3. They buy the following items: Spiderman popcicles. Fatback. Thomas' English muffins.

4. They have coupons for every item they buy.

5. They always pay by check.

6. They hate Oprah Winfrey ("Why that God-damn Oprah Winfrey got to be on the cover of every magazine? Give someone else a chance, girl!") and, confusingly, Maya Angelou ("That woman a bitch.").

7. They are very interested in what you're buying. ("What you got there? Peas? Why you buyin' peas? In the pod? That makes no sense.")

All in all, a highly depressing trip. Which I then decided to follow up by depositing two of the $2 checks I've received as dividends from the stock I got from work. Because nothing caps off a night at Giant Eagle like a $4 deposit slip.

Good news/Bad news/Weird news

Good news: Despite rumors to the contrary, I have easily conquered the mail merge, effortlessly producing beautiful labels on clear sticky paper to be applied to my awesome, awesome save the date cards. (By "easily conquered," I mean "conquered after seven tries." But still!



Bad news: According to my parents, I have received a vaguely threatening letter from school, stating that I have defaulted on my student loans. First of all, let me state categorically that I have NOT defaulted on my student loans. I have, in fact, made every payment early since the first one in November 2004. This does not, however, stop me from having terrifying thoughts of somehow having not been informed about some clause stating that I needed to hand-deliver each and every copy of my cancelled checks to the registrar's office in that horrible building on-campus that smelled like sweat and pencil shavings, and that now, I owe the school some catastrophically high amount of money that will prevent me from taking a proper honeymoon, and I will end up spending it in Hershey, PA.

Good news: the Cavs won, which must mean that they are not pissed that I called their playing pathetic. This is probably a good sign that LeBron will, in fact, be attending my wedding, and bringing a totally awesome gift, and probably high-fiving me, at which point I will pee my pants.

Bad news: My MP3 player (which, Frisby, is 1G SanDisk Sansa) is still only playing the same songs-- fortunately, it has selected new ones, as I was getting really tired of fucking "Bad Day." The list is now:

• The Real Slim Shady, Eminem
• Stacy's Mom, Fountains of Wayne
• Seven Nation Army, The White Stripes
• Ready to Go, Republica
• We Can Work It Out, Stevie Wonder (still)

Weird news: Two girls at work witnessed a chipmunk attack and behead a bird, which I thought very odd, as chipmunks are supposed to be vegetarian, forcing me to worry that the chipmunk has rabies, and might charge out at me at any time and gnaw on my ankle, turning me into a rabid monster a la Teacake in Their Eyes Were Watching God, and someone will have to shoot me.

The following activities were performed in my car between the hours of 5:05 pm and 8:15 pm yesterday, when I was caught in a really bad traffic jam on my way home from work.

1. Called Ben to find out the situation: overturned cement truck at E. 140th. Minor annoyance.

2. Called Megan to find out when I will be going to visit her and her husband and their new baby! Fun times! Too bad I'm not moving at all. Urge to pee rising.

3. Called Kelly to discuss the newest BNL release, which I had planned on buying when I got home. Not only was it beginning to look like I wasn't going to get home in time, but Kelly infomed me it's not even that great, anyway. Then, phone begins to die. Must hang up with Kelly. Distance traveled: 1.3 miles in 30 minutes. Urge to pee rising.

4. Called Ben despite dying battery. Began to cry. Not good. Cut off old woman to get in far right lane, which I have learned from the radio is the only place to be to pass the overturned truck. Looked forward to seeing truck in flames, with cement volcanoing out from every direction.

5. Listened to Blue Collar Comedy on Sirius. Blue Collar Comedy is not really that funny, so I listened to a CD I made to take to Wilmington. Upon three consecutive listens, decided that I really don't like the song "You Can Call Me Al." Who knew?

6. Sobbed uncontrollably for about 15 minutes for no reason. Urge to pee reaching deathcon-4.

7. Popped massive zit on cheek, only to discover too late that it was one of those zits that is filled with blood, which made me look like a crime victim and thoroughly freaked out the people in the lane next to me.

8. Did more crying. Wondered if a pack of travel tissues would absorb at least a little pee if needed.

9. Finally approached the location of the so-called overturned cement truck, only to learn that it had been removed several hours before, and that absolutely nothing remained to impede the flow of traffic. Immediately began going 60 miles an hour again. Cried over lack of flaming truck. Cried bitter, bitter tears.

Pity party

Suddenly, without warning, things have gotten really upsetting at my house. Including:

1. Ben being the middle car in a three-car accident, in which he was hit by an uninsured motorist. An uninsured motorist, no less, who was driving illegally, as his license had been suspended four years ago for not having insurance.

2. Ben's identity has been stolen. Which is creepy, and gives off a Lifetime-esque vibe. I keep expecting Robert Urich to pop out from behind a road sign and bludgeon me to death. Which then makes me even sadder, because he's already dead.

3. This? Still happening. It's time for another ultrasound! Because the three I've already had were so much fun, I couldn't resist a fourth.

4. Not to mention the whole having all my cavities, which were done improperly the first time, redone by the dentist situation.

So, I am down right now, and planning on medicating with a Klondike bar. I realize things could be a lot worse. But right now, I am totally ready for PJs and a good wail.

At least my face looks thin when I do that pouty thing.

A lot like hate (or at least strong dislike)

So last week, in Pittsburgh, Ben and I returned to our hotel room early and decided to watch a movie. Sadly, the only movie we could find (that we didn't have to pay for, and that didn't feature full-scale nudity) was the Ashton Kutcher/Amanda Peet classic A Lot Like Love, an annoyingly drawn out love story with many things wrong with it, such as:

1. The fact that it stars Ashton Kutcher
2. The fact that it stars Amanda Peet
3. The fact that it is an annoyingly drawn out love story.

Really, it's number three that really gets me (although I really do harbor a likely unhealthy dislike of both these stars, particularly Amanda Peet, who needs to learn that being naked in a movie does not make you an artiste). In his book Killing Yourself to Live, Chuck Klosterman goes into a digression about how all people just have movie archetypes that they truly cannot stand-- he, for example, hates "nobody believes me" type movies, where people's wives are kidnapped and no one will help them. And I, it turns out, simply cannot stand movies where couples get together, break up, get together, break up, get together, are suddenly separated by 1,000 miles and changing life views, get together briefly again, break up this time seemingly for good, and then, desperately, at the last moment, get back together again, one can only assume forever, but given their past, it might be unlikely.

I realize that this is the plot of almost all romantic comedies; this is why I avoid them. While I understand that it would really be pretty boring to watch a movie where a couple just hits it off right away and never breaks up, only having minor squabbles about who walks the dog more often, it would also be much more realistic, and waste a lot less time-- if we know they're going to get together in the end, why prolong it with a series of tortured montages set to Ryan Adams music of them staring out the window moodily?

But this whole rant is not really about why I hate romantic comedies-- it is more to find out what movie archetype makes you insane. For instance, Ashley has told me that she really hates movies that in any way involve the apocalypse or any type of post-apocalyptic world, such as Waterworld, The Postman, or pretty much any other Kevin Costner movies (themselves a sign of the apocalypse).

So doooo tell-- I'm fascinated by this whole concept. Your least favorite movie archetype-- spill it.