[Note: Ok, so I wrote this last night and, admittedly, I MAY have had one too many fury-tinis. In the light of day, I am not feeling quite as explosive. Aaaaaaand PROCEED]
I’ve had enough.
The ads for Bride Wars have got to stop. I mean it.
Ok, take a deep breath. Not every Hollywood executive is under the impression that the only movies women will pay to see revolve around an obsession to get married. Right? Right???
Thank God for the small screen. Instead of muffling my screams at the multiplex with fistfuls of salted, buttery popcorny goodness, I can instead just pretend I am Fiona the Spy.
Instead of being forced to swallow yet another reflection of what a bunch of middle-aged white dudes with Botoxed brows believe are my top priorities (mainly, humiliating myself at every turn to Get the Guy- cue food fight, falling off things, ripping someone’s hair out, running anywhere montage), I can instead slink through Miami in a series of sundresses and platform heels that double as a deadly weapon.
Rather than obsess over whether he’ll call and if I should call him or is that too needy, I can plant a bomb under some drug runner’s boat and set it off with my sleek little cell phone.
Oh, yeah. It’s almost February and I am in that kind of mood. Let’s blow some stuff up.
Season 3 of Burn Notice starts Thursday (1/22) at 9/8c on USA.
Catch up here. You’re welcome.