Last night, after going out to dinner with some friends, Jerry and I decided to do what we do best: change into our pajamas, crash on the couch underneath our giant down comforter and watch a movie while Toby sits between us, licking his butt with such intensity and duration that he leaves a disgusting wet spot on the blanket almost as big as he is.
We discussed the possibility of stopping at the video rental store, but decided that was too much work with the whole parking, getting out of the car, walking around looking at videos, paying, getting back in the car thing. Not to mention having to return it. Bleh.
So we took a risk that something good would be playing through our cable company's On Demand feature. Because the click of a remote is so much more reasonable.
But when we finally got settled into our butt grooves, fate stuck out its tongue at us. We got an error message saying that On Demand was down for the night. Balls.
What's worse is that is was the smoothest video selection of all time. Normally Jerry and I have a lengthy debate, each of us making a case for our respective choices -- him for his action flick, me for my romantic comedy. We usually spend so much time arguing our points that by the time we're done, we could've watched both movies.
Not this time. Jerry suggested "Pirates of the Caribbean" and it sounded good. Neither of us had seen it and I'm always up for a little Johnny Depp. Add in a dash of Orlando Bloom and I certainly won't decline. (And before you guys go shaking your head, I guarantee that somewhere in Jerry's little brain just saying the movie title aloud sparked a flicker of excitement at the thought of seeing Kierra Knightly in tattered pirate-wear. So there.)
Instead, we got the error message. And while I threw up my arms in defeat, waiving a white flag to the universe, Jerry gallantly offered to change back into a respectable outfit in order to go back out into the snow and rent it for us.
And while I praised him up and down for being my hero, I also capitalized on the fact that he would be walking through the kitchen and asked for a glass of water. With ice.
By the time he got back, I was fully invested in this week's episode of "Ugly Betty" that I hadn't gotten around to watching yet on the DVR. So, in the sweetest voice I could muster, I asked if he wouldn't mind watching the end with me.
Being awesome-tastic, he agreed.
But what happened next made me feel like a complete loser. A complete loser who was uber thankful I had made a sad attempt at Wife of the Year by washing Jerry's dirty underwear earlier that day.
Because when he popped the movie in, what I thought to be a preview trailer of "The Devil Wears Prada" turned out to be the actual movie. He had sacrificed Kierra Knightly in pirate-wear so I could watch Merryl Streep's Golden Globe-winning performance about the fashion magazine business.
"ARE YOU SERIOUS?! YOU GOT 'THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA'?!"
"Shh ... yes ... I think you just made my ears bleed."
"YOU ARE THE AWESOMEST!"
"Again ... bleeding."
"WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS?!"
"I knew you really wanted to see it, and you've passed it up a few times so I could watch stuff like 'Lucky Number Sleven' and 'The Illusionist,' so just enjoy it."
"Yeah but those movies were incredible. You're going to hate this!"
"We're probably halfway through the movie by now ... just watch it."
So with a heart full of appreciation for his thoughtfulness, I watched the movie version of a book I read years ago. And it was excellent. But not as excellent as Jerry.