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Martha Petteys

‘I have to tell him how I feel the best way I know how ... with gingerbread.”

I am no dialogue crackerjack, but even I gagged a little at that one.

I want to love Hallmark movies. Everything about me says I should go nuts over the things. I’ve got low-budget chick flick written all over me.

The plot lines are easy to follow, most involving a female in a profession that sounds like something my 7-year-old made up, like “aspiring ice sculptor.”

On this particular evening, I tuned in to watch an “ambitious gingerbread house baker” try to win the “American Gingerbread Competition” while hotties are popping up in her kitchen right and left.

“I didn’t enter this contest to win a trophy, I entered to win you,” said Alex (or maybe it was Nick, or Jacob) pulling a ring from a rather mediocre gingerbread jewelry store.

It was a lunchtime conversation with a friend that prompted me to give Hallmark another try. She said there was no better way to get in the holiday spirit than a feast of subpar acting and weak storylines. My 81-year-old father, who was having lunch with us, disagreed.

“What I want to know is, ‘what are the police doing?” said my dad, with the sort of passion one usually reserves for something that really matters, not a Hallmark storyline.

Dad was explaining the premise of the Hallmark movie he had recently watched involving a famous author who was in a car accident and got amnesia. She, of course, had no wallet, as people with amnesia never have wallets. The town adopts amnesia author, while ruggedly handsome bookstore owner suffers from an inability to recognize the famous author noodling around his quaint storybook town.

This movie is not to be confused with “A Christmas to Remember” (2016), which is basically the same movie, only swap out “aspiring author” for “aspiring TV personality.” Or with, “A Gift to Remember” (2017), which is the same thing again, only she works at the bookstore and he loses his memory.

Dad would have none of it. If he had been there when any of the above veered off a country road, he would have taken care of business.

“Seriously, they’ve got her car, why don’t they run her license plate?”

“Or look at the VIN number?”

“Or just open the glove box and pull out her insurance paper! You don’t exactly have to be Dick Tracy to figure this out,” said Dad, who said he didn’t watch the movie to the end, but I totally don’t believe him.

I have discovered a few things about Hallmark movies.

Besides the amnesia thing, there are lots of snowstorms. And lots of Vermont (the state is seriously overplayed). And every movie must include either a baking competition, a handsome fireman or an angel that grants wishes.

I am not ready to give up on Hallmark. Maybe I just haven’t found the perfect female lead.

Perhaps I’ll find it in “Lizzie, the professional Christmas decorator” or in “Andy, the professional parade float builder” or in “Hannah, executive at Aunt Sally’s Christmas Cookie Company, which is located in the the small town of Cookie Jar.”

No, I am not making that up. Neither is my 7-year-old.

Now let the movie watching begin.

Martha Petteys writes a weekly column for The Post-Star. Write to her at petteyshome@gmail.com or visit her on Facebook.

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