Papa Nut is away for the weekend, being all manly with his man-friends in an estrogen-free zone. While there are Little Boy Peanuts to care for, the estrogen-to-testosterone ratio has been diluted. The house has a subtle pink glow about it, and, it must be said - it is tidier, too!
I noticed some time ago that the male of the species claims his territory by leaving his possessions about the place. Keys on the kitchen counter mean: I live here. Socks on the living room floor say: this is my space. This is true of all ages, regardless how domesticated they may appear to be on the surface.
Surely one of the malest of male claims of territorial possession is the remote. Being in control of channel and volume gives our men comfort or reassurance of a sort that women don't need or understand. Movie selection can fall into this category as well, though usually to a lesser degree.
Because our Grown Boy Nut isn't within even an easy drive of any of the remotes in this house, the girl nuts - the Chicks - get to make the decisions tonight. It's going to be a Chick Flick Fest...a Romantic Romp Revel. Nary an explosion, car chase or countdown clock. There will be laughter, there might be tears, and there will definitely be happily ever after. Calling Julia! Meg! Sandra!
Quiet on the set! Lights...blankies...chocolate!