Please Just Go to the Lobby (or to Hell)

WARNING:  RANT CONTAINING QUESTIONABLE LANGUAGE AND EXTREME ACTS OF DOUCHEBAGGERY AHEAD.


One of my pet peeves is people who talk during movies at movie theaters.  I used to be extremely intolerant, but after having my daughter (and therefore mostly only going to kids' movies where I was surrounded by very talkative children) this has lessened somewhat.  I have gotten to the point where I don't mind when someone leans over to their movie-going partner and makes the occasional comment.  What I still don't understand, however, is when teenagers and adults have full-on conversations at a very loud volume.  To me, this is selfish, unaware and (the worst of all these offenses) downright rude.  I mean, seriously, if you need to talk that much, wait for the DVD or On-Demand release (or steal the movie off the internet)--whatever will allow you to not be at the same movie theater I am.

Lest this make me sound like a curmudgeon yelling at those mangy kids to get off her lawn, let me explain something:  I love movies.  Going to a movie is a rare treat, a means of escape, a generally fulfilling experience.  I just want to enjoy it.  Such was the case on the night which inspired this blog entry.

My friend and I recently went to see Pitch Perfect 2.  She had had a rough day and needed to unwind.  Although I had already seen the film, I was eager to go see it with her.  And, hey, it was discount ticket night (and she was buying), so BONUS.

My friend chose the seats, two in the center about 3 or 4 rows back from the walkthrough aisle.  There was a couple in the row behind ours, lounging with their feet on the seats in front of them (don't get me started on that one).  When we approached, even though my friend took care not to sit directly in front of them, the guy looked annoyed.  After we were there for about five minutes, he sighed very loudly and then very obviously changed his seat.  My movie partner and I laughed, made an offhand comment to ourselves about it ("Gee, I'm sorry we've impeded you from putting your dirty ol' feet up.") and shrugged it off.  This was all before watching the previews.

I should have known this was not the end of it.  I swear I have some sort of Spidey sense when it comes to other movie goers.  I have been to enough rowdy movies to know when someone will cause problems.  Sadly, I was not wrong.  About halfway through the movie, the couple started to talk.  At first it was in hushed tones, maybe a sentence or two.  I quietly shushed them once.  Not a grouchy, annoyed "Shut up!", but a gentle release of air, like a sigh.  "Sssssshhhhhhh."  This seemed to work.  For a while.  As the movie continued, their conversations became more and more frequent, lengthy and loud.  The guy in particular had a booming voice.  Finally, with maybe 15 minutes left of the movie, their talking reached its pinnacle.

Now let's be honest here, Pitch Perfect 2 is not a movie to which great attention needs to be paid.  Nothing of great consequence will be missed if one's focus is shifted for a second.  Because the entire movie is about how the Barden Bellas are going to compete at the World Championships, however, when they actually perform at the competition, dammit, I want to hear them sing!  I can't imagine I was alone in this, and yet no one was saying anything, just sitting there suffering in silence.

So I turned around to see what was so important and special about these two people and their conversation that they had to interrupt the movie-going experience of everyone around them.  I made eye contact with the guy and put my forefinger to my mouth in the universal symbol of quiet.

Mr. Chatty did not like that.  He immediately began posturing in the Cro-Magnon, chest-beating manner of douchebags everywhere.  "Shut the fuck up, bitch!" he yelled.  Wow, over-react much, dude?

I looked to his girlfriend to see if she was going to tolerate this behavior.  Apparently, though, this was a gal who likes her men douche-y.  To my delight, she too joined in the fun, flipping me off with both hands.  "Yeah, bitch, shut the fuck up."

"Exactly!"  I said.  "Please be quiet."

At this point, the "big man" was practically jumping across his girlfriend like he was going to fight me.  Thoughts of all the misogynistic encounters I've ever witnessed flashed through my brain.  Could I tell this girl to "keep her bitch on a leash"?

"Just turn around, bitch," he said.  Then he started swiping his hand across his head in a gesture of brushing his hair to the side.  "Just turn around and comb over your hair, you fucking dyke."

OK, that one got me mad.  Even if I were gay (I'm not), is being called a homosexual some kind of insult?  The word "dyke" is insulting, yes, but the idea of being gay?  What was I missing here?  I mean, clearly all women were just dying to be with this peach of a guy so if they weren't or if they opposed him, they must be gay (or pretending to be so he wouldn't be in their dating pool).

And what made him think I was gay in the first place?  Because I have a pixie cut with side-swept bangs, that makes me a lesbian?  Yes, because of course all lesbians look alike and that is the haircut of choice.  Well, shit, someone better tell Emma Watson, Jennifer Lawrence, Michelle Williams, Ginnifer Goodwin, Anne Hathaway, Winona Ryder (et cetera, et cetera) that they should have re-thought their "gay" hairstyles.

Or was it because I attended a chick flick with another female friend?  Does that make me gay?  I guess no straight girls would ever dare attend a movie without a man present.  Better let the row of gals in front of us know they are breaking the "rules".

So I said the first thing that came to mind, "Oh please.  I have sucked bigger dicks than you."...and turned around to watch what little was left of the movie.

I'd like to say this emasculating comment about both his personality and potential size of his penis shut him up.  It did--momentarily at least.  Unfortunately, as I was taking deep breaths to calm down from Hulk mode, he started talking again, if only to prove his "superiority".

What happened next was beautiful.  Everyone around him started shushing him.  Not gently either.   The trio of older people in front of him.  The couple behind him.  The family next to him.   Finally, his slag girlfriend said (and try to read this in as snotty a voice as possible), "Uh, let's go."

HALLELUJAH!

My friend and I applauded as they made their walk of shame and douchebaggery down the stairs.

"Don't procreate," I muttered.

Later when I recounted this story to some friends of mine, I expressed delight that others finally began to speak up.  One person I told said, "Well, of course they did.  You made it possible for them to do so."

So there's the moral of the story, Lovelies...If you are personally affronted, PLEASE don't just suffer in silence.  Be brave and speak the hell up.  There may be many others too afraid to use their voices until someone else does.  Sure, I was absolutely terrified that he would be waiting to pummel me in the parking lot, but safety in numbers.  Most importantly, DOWN WITH THE DOUCHEBAGS OF THE WORLD!!!

Hey, I think I found my mission in life.  And I'll be fulfilling it one movie theater at a time.  Ha.

Until next time, Lovelies....

Art in Imitation of Life (or: The Blooming Season)

A few weeks ago I acted in a show called Any Given Monday for a local theater company.  A dark comedy about what happens after a woman leaves her husband, suffice it to say, I have spent the last couple of months amidst swirling emotions.  Although not exactly my own story, the similarities brought up a lot of feelings with which I thought I’d already dealt, implanting them once again into my consciousness.  I even dyed my hair brown for the show, a color I later realized I haven’t had since I was married.  I have been wistful, introspective, impatient and occasionally weepy (although that could just as well be from watching Grey’s Anatomy marathons on Netflix).  Sometimes it really sucks being such an emotional creature.  

Anyone who knows me (or who has read my previous blog entries) may remember that my marriage ended after my ex had an affair with another woman. Sure, we tried therapy, but by the time we did, it was futile.  I never believed he had any interest in fixing the marriage or even any remorse about the affair, barely even recognizing it as such.  People always talk about life-changing events.  The divorce was one of mine.  I had been rocked to the core...and I apparently still feel the rumblings.  

Why then was I drawn to a play which would dredge up such emotion?  Am I simply a glutton for punishment?  Ha.  Perhaps.  In truth, however, I have always been attracted to projects and experiences from which I will learn something or grow somehow.  I’d hoped that this show would be cathartic--even if only by giving me a chance to work on a show not involving kids, Shakespeare or monologues about vaginas.  

I was not disappointed.    

Part of acting is becoming comfortable with the uncomfortable.  And, whew, was this play uncomfortable.  In the play, the wife leaves her husband for another man, yet, when she realizes her mistake, she returns home and begs to be taken back.  While there are other circumstances that force this decision, she admits the folly of what she had done.  Her husband forgives her and they are able to move forward, their relationship stronger than ever.  Reinforced by the casting of the actors as my husband and daughter (whose portrayals were eerily similar to the personalities of my own ex-husband and an older version of my daughter), is it any wonder that this play perhaps offered the resolution I never felt I had?  And it was nice being married again--even if only in two-hour increments (and to someone who went home to his real wife).

Sigh.

I know there is no time limit to grief or personal growth, but I couldn’t help but also be agitated by all the re-emerging feelings associated with doing this play.  I just sometimes feel so stuck in my progress and unable to move on--a sentiment solidified by the sad fact that I am still single, still struggling, still...well, just STILL.  I know there have been some changes, but every once in a while I feel everything so keenly I can’t help but think, “Seriously?  This again?”

Yet I keep pushing through it, attempting to keep the Blue Meanies* at bay.  I keep challenging myself (like with this play) and working for change, yet as I do, I often wonder, “Is it enough?”  Which of course is followed up with:  “Will it ever be?”;  “What else do I do?”;  “Is there anything I can do?”;  And the old chestnut, “What the hell is my path?”  Further and further down the rabbit hole, into a deeper, darker place...

And then I see this quote on, of all places, Facebook (which apparently does some good sometimes):  “Sometimes when you’re in a dark place, you think you’ve been buried, but actually you’ve been planted.”  

So there it is.  An explanation for all of my struggles:  I have been planted.  I am just waiting for my time to bloom.  And then I am going to spread out all over like a creeping rhododendron...or a Passion Flower.  Everything’s coming up roses and all that.  Just have to wait for my season.

Man, I hope it’s soon.  Maybe I'd better go get my “petals” ready and dye my hair pink again.  Can’t poke my head through as a flower in the same color as the dirt.  

Until next time lovelies….

*The Blue Meanies is a reference to the villains in Yellow Submarine. I use it as a metaphor for cranky (non-clinical) depression. This is not a state in which I prefer to be around other people.