Brief Mild Thematic Elements

Yesterday, a friend of mine and I saw the charming film, Marley and Me, while I was visiting in Austin Texas. I had read the book last year and cried, so I was prepared for it when I saw the movie.

Wrong!

I was just a big ol’ sobbing puddle of goo.

Anyway, while we were watching the half-dozen previews before the actual movie began, we both noticed that one of the upcoming movies was rated PG. Now, whenever a movie is rated something besides ‘G’ there’s always a disclaimer to say why it was rated a certain way.

For example, if a movie is rated ‘R’ they’ll say something like “Contains graphic violence, nudity, and strong sexual content” or something like that. A ‘PG-13’ movie might say “Contains strong language and brief nudity.”

This PG-rated film said it contained, (are you ready for this?) “Brief mild thematic elements.”

Could anything BE more vague?

What the hell does that mean?

I can just see it now – a young couple trying to decide if their 10 year old kid should be allowed to see Marley and Me because it’s rated PG.

Wife: Honey, do you think we should let Cooper see Marley and Me? It’s rated PG because of brief mild thematic elements.

Husband: I don’t know, honey. Didn’t we agree that he wouldn’t be exposed to thematic elements until he was twelve?

Wife: Well, it really is a cute movie. I read the book last year and I didn’t notice any really strong thematic elements in it.

Husband: Well, I guess it’ll be okay. After all, it did say that the thematic elements were brief.

Wife: And also mild.

I really wonder what the Motion Picture Association of America meant by this description?

Hmmm. Come to think of it, most of the dates I go on contain nothing more than brief mild thematic elements.

Oh, by the way, when you go see Marley and Me, there’s a scene where the lead character played by that blond guy (I can’t remember names) is surprised with a birthday party. While the guests are singing Happy Birthday, one of the guests is none other than Dave Barry, the humor columnist from the Miami Herald.

I thought that was pretty cool.

Book Review -- "Marley and Me"

I cannot think of enough superlatives to describe John Grogan's, Marley and Me: Life and Love with the World's Worst Dog.

I had just finished a really tough week at work. During two days, I had interviewed thirteen people, back-to-back. I was drained.

I had been reading Marley and Me here and there on the train, but settled down to read most of it this weekend. I don't know if it was because I had been interviewing so many people and having been so exhausted, but the poignancy of this book hit me like a ton of bricks.

I had a good old cry. Not just misty eyes, but one of those good-old, home-style, boo-hoos.

It was great.
Get the book!

I could relate to the book because I often doggie-sit for Portia, a chocolate Lab, who happens to be the World's Best Dog.
Really. She is.
You'll never find a more loving, giving, happy, intelligent, dog than Portia.

In Marley and Me, the author recounted the many misgivings and misdeeds of Marley. At one point he mentioned, "At least he didn't eat feces."

Well, dear Portia does.

It's one of the little proclivities of the breed, but they do eat droppings. I think it has something to do with canine breeds from northern and Arctic climes (like Labrador.) Something about being fed a seafood diet, and sporadically at that. So, they eat poo to compensate.

Anyway, when taking Portia out to do her business, you have to stay right with her with the plastic bag. Otherwise, she'll gobble that steaming pile right from the snow as if it were the most prime cut of filet mignon. Then it makes her sick or gives her diarrhea and, well, a never-ending story ensues.

So, one time I had her for a couple of weeks at the house where I used to live. A friend of mine was over and I had just taken Portia in the back yard for her daily offering which I had neatly
deposited in the "poo-bucket" on the back porch.

My friend's car wouldn't start, so we were in the garage getting it jump-started. It was taking quite a while since I'm about as adept with a pair of jumper cables as a two year old. Portia was only-too-happy to be out and about while this activity was taking place.

Afterward, I was watching TV all nice and couch-potatoey. Portia was behind the sofa, fast asleep.

Then, I heard it. . . .

Gaaaack! Glorpp!

I was afraid to look. . . .

The last time I'd heard that sound was when Portia had gotten under the bathroom sink, ate a whole bar of Dove soap and hurled up a slimy, albeit slightly perfumed mess all over the stairs.

This time, it was much worse. . .

Apparently, while we had been in the garage, Portia had gotten in the poo-bucket and had helped herself to an enormous All-You-Can-Eat buffet.

And threw it up.
In the house.
On the carpet.

Out come the Playtex gloves, a dustpan, many cleaning supplies, carpet cleaner. Frankly, what I really needed was a realtor to just sell the place.

So, yes, I could certainly relate to some of the misdeeds that a Lab can present. But the happiness and pleasure that Portia provides far outweigh any and all Lab-related mishaps.

And as you can see, that can be a lot.