Chick flicks.

I was at my dad's and Holly's house. Holly put a DVD into the player. It fired up to the Menu welcome screen, to show pretty scenes in the snow and pretty people's faces at Christmas time. I think some white lace and red ribbon were evident.

"What'n'Hell is'zat?" I inquired with a little less erudite-ness (erudition?) than I'm probably capapble of.

"'The Family Stone'," she said. "Claire Danes, Diane Keaton, Sarah Jessica Parker, Luke Wilson, Craig Nelson..."

"Chick flick," I snorted as I rolled my eyes. Sometimes I enjoy getting Holly's goat.

"Oh it is not either," she protested.

"It's been on for 5 minutes, and I haven't seen a pistol, a fight, or a man pounding his fist on a desk and declaring that the main character with the Celtic-sounding name is out of line, yet. 'Damn it, McDermitt!/Damn it, Callahan!/Damn it, McBane! You've gone too far, this time!' None of that."

I drank coffee, got my uniform ready (I'd stayed there today) for work, and ate some of Dad's guiso, and the movie wound down. "Well one thing's for sure," I said, "at no point in a guy flick does the audience clap her hands and exclaim 'the bus is stopping to let her out to come to him!'"

"Screw you."

"I'm just saying..." Sometimes I enjoy getting Holly's goat.