Tucker and I lucked out big time on scary movies this weekend and only had young-people interference during the one I presumed would be too slow and staid for them to be curious about: The Lighthouse.
Nope, they sat right down, dammit.
As much as it looked like nothing was happening (as I had hoped they would believe), they realized this meant anything could happen, and they were down for that. (Spoilers.)
Beat the life out of a gull? Have an enormous battle about Willem Dafoe’s cooking? At some point the movie seemed to disintegrate into a “Choose Your Own Adventure” book where we were just reading through twenty-eight wretchedly depressing endings.
Claudia laughed at me, like really laughed, when I was yelling to Tucker (carving a chicken) about Robert Pattinson’s sweater, describing it in detail that she apparently found excessive (but which, for knitter to knitter, would just clarify things.)
Now it is just lovely Sunday night feeling with the smell of Claudia’s shampoo steaming out of her bathroom.