Now before my guy readers sneak off to laugh at me, let it be known that I am an outstanding judge of chick flicks. I have already made sure these movies cannot be shown while I'm in the room: Beaches, anything that combines director John Hughes with Molly Ringwald or Andrew McCarthy, or any movie where someone dies from a long bout of cancer (except My Life or My Life As A House, which are right up there with Brian's Song for movies where it's acceptable for a guy to cry at the end).
I should receive an award for my ability to pick movies for my wife's feminine sensibilities without reaching too far into the drum of syrup. Tommorow night my wife and I will enjoy:
Toss in home-cooked meal and some caramel popcorn, and I think I'm going to be pretty popular for awhile.
UPDATE: I forgot to mention my wife will be able to sub out any of these movies for Muriel's Wedding or Say Anything, but I think we've worn these out. She will not be allowed to put in Love Actually, a charming movie that is better saved for Christmas. I'm still up in the air with About A Boy; Hugh Grant has a declining rate or return for me, and I think we've filled up our Hugh Grant consumption this past month.