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Whenever my husband and I sit down to watch TV, we're always at odds. We have completely different interpretations of entertainment. Such as the other night. He wanted to watch "Silence of the Lamb." I wanted to watch "My Best Friend's Wedding." A happy little no-brainer.

"I'll be asleep in five minutes," carped my husband. (He won't watch anything with Julia Roberts, Meg Ryan and Hugh Grant.) That's a rule in our house. Under penalty of moose-like snoring by the first commercial.

"And I'm not in the mood for cannibalism, with or without Chianti and fava
beans," I argued.

Why are men and women so different? I positively hate violence. Cringe at the mere inference of blood. My husband, on the other hand, will stay up until three in the morning, watching, "Full Metal Jacket." See "Deer Hunter" nine times. But God forbid he watches something with violins or a piano playing in the background. He's unconscious in five minutes.

Guys love what I call, "Bombs Away" movies. Any war movie will do. With or without plots. Doesn't matter. As long as there are hand grenades hurling. Machine guns blaring. And small fishing villages being blown up.

When there are no war movies available, they opt for the History Channel. That's a given. Can't get enough battles. The bloodier the better. Or he'll watch a murder mystery. Providing there's not much dialog and at least two or three people are killed.

We recently saw a really dumb, really predictable movie the other night. Can't remember the title. That's how good it was. Anyhow, it was about a woman who was being stalked by a madman and tells her husband it's perfectly okay to go on a fishing trip. Even though five other women in her neighborhood, have been brutally stabbed and disemboweled. So he leaves her vulnerable and unprotected, to
catch rainbow trout, which he can get at the fish market for $12.99 a pound. Then, of course, she forgets to lock the windows. Leaving one opened. And proceeds to enticingly parade around stark naked in front of the curtainless window. Brilliant.

That night, she hears someone creeping around the house. And does she call 911? Of course not. She bravely goes downstairs to investigate. Carrying a toilet brush to protect herself. Then she begins swinging open closet doors, looking for the intruder. What she would do if she actually encountered a six-foot-two hundred and fifty man with a gun, she hasn't yet decided. Perhaps smack him in the face with her Bossy the Cow oven mitt.

Then there's the killer who never dies. He gets shot six times. Thrown though a closed window on the twentieth floor. Hits the pavement and cracks his head wide-open. Where upon a steam-roller plows over him, rendering him as thin as an envelope. And five minutes later he's up and running with a meat cleaver in his hand. That reminds me of "Fatal Attraction." When Glen Close is under the water for what seems like an eternity, her eyes wide-opened in a death-like stare. And then she suddenly forgets that she's dead, jumps up and lunges at Michael Douglas. What is she? The Little Mermaid?"

Gimme a break.

Learn more about this author, Marie Tomas.
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