monkey business

I’ve never been a big supporter of grown women who enjoy feature length animated movies when they’re not in the company of children. In my mind, these are the same women who call their dogs their wittle angels and have never missed an episode of 7th Heaven. So it’s with some reservation that I tell you that the new Curious George movie looks totally adorable!

And along those lines, sort of, they’re coming out with Bambi II. Talk about a delayed sequel. And honestly, why? So that our kids can be traumatized by it, too? It also seems that Bambi hasn’t grown at all. May want to see the vet or forest ranger or deer developmental specialist about that, little guy.

I don’t remember being really upset by Bambi. It was sad, but it’s always been the scary things that get me. My grandfather took me to see ET and when it got to the scene in the cornfield where they all scream, I became inconsolable and we had to leave. Everyone had a scene in ET that freaked them out. Someone told me theirs was when ET was dying and turned white, and somebody else didn’t like when the scientist astronaut FBI policemen crashed into the windows of the house when it was all wrapped in plastic or something. Maybe I need to see that movie again. I might have missed some key plot points while I was having a crush on Ell-ee-ot.

And I think it was my parents who took me to see Annie, which I would come to obsessively love later, but the first time that I saw it I was horrified by the scene where the bad guys chase Annie up the ladder and big surprise, I became inconsolable and we had to leave. I hate chase scenes. I used to have dreams where the bad guys were chasing me and I’d just sit down and cry and wait for them to get me because I didn’t want to have to deal with the stress of running away and prolonging the inevitable. Not sure what that says about me, but I’m guessing I wouldn’t be the one you’d want around if we found ourselves having to escape from psycho killers. Save yourself, because I have to sit down now.

On Halloween in fifth grade, my teacher rented Watcher in the Woods for us. She had to shut it off when we were all screaming in terror, and nobody wanted her to turn it back on, even the class badass, whose name was Jesse, which is a great fifth grade badass name.

I still scare way too easily. Even the movies I’m not supposed to admit to being scared by (Scream, Blair Witch) were quite upsetting for me. When I saw The Mothman Prophecies, I lived in an itty bitty apartment that contained me, my boyfriend, my roommate, and my roommate’s boyfriend, and I was still too scared to sleep.

When I saw The Movie Which Will Not Be Named That Rhymes With The Swing, I should have left as soon as the first person that they killed off had the same name as me, and her friend whispered up the stairs: “Red…Red…are you okay?” That movie impacted my sleep for months afterward. I still can’t talk about it. I’m uncomfortable typing about it. I’m not even kidding! That’s the sad thing. Nothing is scarier than dead demon children. NOTHING.

The other night on the news they were saying that some guy knocked over a bunch of headstones, “some of which were on the graves of children, dating back as far as the early 1900s.” Hollllllly crap. That guy is SCREWED.

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