Queue Wars

So, here’s the thing. Tomorrow in the mail I will be receiving Robin Hood from Netflix. Ask me which version. Which version, you ask? No clue. Ask me when I put that in the queue. When did you put it in the queue, you ask? Never. I never put it in the queue.  Would you like to know why I didn’t put it in the queue? It’s because had I tried, had I even sat down at the computer with the thought of putting something in the queue, my adorable—generally mild-mannered—husband would have had his Spidey Sense activated and would then drop whatever he had in his hands, start sniffing the air, and come crashing through the roof of the house, all in an attempt to stop me from putting a season of Mad Men in the queue and thereby forcing out Sands of Iwo Jima. A movie he has seen 7,564 times.

The battle of the sexes has moved from boardrooms and bedrooms. It is now fought in the eerie blue light of the computer screen where the Netflix queue is displayed.

I have said this before, but I really think the solution to our economic woes is to put couples on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and tell them they are negotiating for queue positions. Our negotiations generally go something like this:

ME: I’ll give you disc 1 of the new season of Battlestar Galactica and Cahill: U.S. Marshall for disc 1 of Mad Men.

HUSBAND: Fine, but I want Jet Li’s Fearless in exchange for Vera Drake.

ME: Well, by the time we cycle around, it will be the weekend, you’ll be home, and we probably both want to watch Dr. Who. So, I’ll move it up, follow it with Mad Men because I can watch it during the day and turn it back around, and I’ll give you The Guns of Navarone for the first of the next week.

HUSBAND: Okay, but make sure you don’t get any of the Battlestar Galactica discs out of order. I have my lawyer on speed dial, remember.

ME: Uh-huh. And I could replace you with batteries.

HUSBAND: You. Wouldn’t. Dare. You couldn’t. After a week you’d be crawling over to my side of the bed like you were in the desert looking for water.

ME: Give me back disc 2 of Mad Men and you’ll never have to find out.

There are many divisions of labor in our house. I do not keep the books. We would all be screwed. He does not do the grocery shopping as he doesn’t know how to buy the right kind of toilet paper. Somehow, and I’m not sure how, he’s become the Gollum of Netflix. He’s Baron Von Queue. The King of the Queue, Ruler of All Movies and Keeper of the Order of DeeVeeDee. Somehow this rather (publicly) mild mannered, lovely man who counts Housekeeping among his favorite movies has turned into THE MAN WHO WILL ONLY WATCH A MOVIE IF IT’S AN HOUR AND A HALF OF BLOWING SHIT UP. In his defense, it could be blowing shit up in WWII. Blowing shit up in space. Blowing shit up while riding a horse. Blowing shit up with zombies. His is a non-discriminatory world of blowing shit up.

Look, normally I read articles like “My Husband Leaves His Undewear on the Floor!” and want to puke. I listen to couples we know and hear stuff like I wanted us to see “When In Rome” and all he did was fall asleep! and I get all yeah, I’d fall asleep too. As a defense mechanism for not having to watch that load of crap. Don’t misunderstand that this is some girly rant against any movie with blood and gore and blowing shit up. This is about the people we turn into when the Netflix queue is in play. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You see a whole other side of your queue partner, is what I’m saying.

Tomorrow, should you want to come over with some popcorn, I suppose HE will be watching Robin Hood. I will be in front of my computer streaming It Might Get Loud.


Just spit it out, already!

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