I realized with a spark of joy yesterday that my favorite babysitter now possesses a driver’s license. And a car. So I called her and at 8:00 p.m., I left my house.

I wanted to see a movie–any movie, really–and so I saw “The Island.”

I hope I don’t spoil it for anyone, but here is the gist of the movie, the take-away kernel of truth:

Black pants truly are more slimming than white pants. In fact, even if you are Scarlett Johanson, your backside will look like a huge pear if you wear white pants coupled with a white body-skimming shirt.

Dear Man at the Movies,

I only moved my denim jacket off that seat next to me because I thought that curly-haired woman walking near you was with you. I thought she was your wife, actually. So, when you inched past all of those people who arrived early to the movies and sat next to me and looked me in the face and said so gratefully, “Thanks so much!” I only turned and said, “Hey, no problem!” because I thought that woman–who turned out to not be with you–was coming soon. With popcorn or something. She didn’t, though.

You sat alone. And that seat on the other side of you was empty. So why didn’t you use that armrest, intead of hogging my left armrest? Didn’t you realize that you were crowding me? Yes, you smelled good. Why? Do you always scent yourself when you go to the movies alone? I couldn’t identify your cologne, that’s not because it wasn’t strong enough. Believe me, it was.

Can we have a word about your habit of pouring a handful of M&Ms into your mouth and then crunching them loudly? You’d enjoy them more if you ate them one at a time. Trust me. That’s what I did. Did you hear me? No, you did not. That’s because I am considerate. And also because I want my candy to last through the movie.

My denim jacket made my lap so hot, but I hope you were comfortable.

Next time, sit next to someone else. I go to the movies alone because I like to be alone. And don’t try to catch a glimpse of me or linger so you can say something to me on the way out. You cannot outsmart me. If you walk slow, I will walk slower. Every time.

Just so you know.

Signed,
Solitary Near Seattle

p.s. The movie was “The Interpreter.” When I wake up, I’d like to be as tall and thin and blond as Nicole Kidman was in that movie.

I should be shot. Tonight, I was at “Million Dollar Baby,” smug as a bug in a rug, lasering snotty thoughts down to the front row where two pre-teen girls kept talking and walking and walking and talking and then: HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! began to chorus from beneath my feet. My cell phone was ringing! In a movie theater! During a movie!

In my defense, I thought I had turned it off. I pushed the button. I thought it said Good-Bye! and everything, but alas, I didn’t hold the button down long enough. I believe this was Movie Karma, fall-out from my critical thoughts last night.

Nah. Not really. It was a mistake–clearly, obviously, vastly different from shaking a popcorn bucket for fifteen minutes and caressing a candy wrapper for ten like Loud Snacker did last night. Ten thousand times different from taking a child to an inappropriate movie or shining a laser at the screen or talking out loud during the presentation.

I’ve now seen four of the five pictures nominated for the “Best Picture” Oscar. I’m not sure I’ll see “The Aviator,” because I’m just not that interested in seeing Leonardo DeCaprio act for three whole hours.

Now I must go to bed because yesterday, I mentioned to my former walking buddy that I’d been meaning to ask if she’d like to resume morning walks. I said, “But the only thing is, we’d have to walk at 5:30 a.m. because I have to be home by 6:45 a.m.” She agreed. Before we could change our minds, we decided to start this morning.

This morning, while I drove to her house bundled in leggings, exercise pants, two shirts, a fleece jacket, gloves and a headband to cover my ears, I thought, “What have I done?” Do you know the moon still glows in the sky at 5:30 a.m.? Granted, it was quite lovely to see it shimmer across the Puget Sound, but still. The sun didn’t begin to light up the sky until we were almost finished walking. When I got back into my car, I had to clear the windshield of frost!

(As I recall, when we walked a couple of years back, the sun normally rises between 6:00 and 7:00 a.m. in the summertime.)

The walk itself felt pretty good, even though we end our four mile course with several steep hills. We’d been talking about careers and she’d mentioned how she took a twenty-five percent decrease in her salary last year, losing $20,000, which was unfortunate, she said, but she stashed a lot into her 401K and retirement accounts, so it wasn’t so bad. She wants to retired before she’s 55 (she’s my age, almost) and I said, “That’s about the time I’ll be starting my career!” And then we started up a hill and I said, “Unless, of course, I die of a heart attack right now!”

That’s me. Always looking on the bright side.

But wow. Her income is the secondary income in their family. I can’t really imagine life without worrying about money constantly.

Anyway, so I have to go to bed because I thought walking before dawn every morning was a great idea. We’ll get in shape! We’ll chat! We’ll have more energy!

Oh, but one more thing.

My son, TwinBoyB, still has a touch of a stomach virus. Today, he burst into the family room and shouted, “MOM! My poop is WHITE!” I thanked him for the information. A while later, he came into the room, dramatically groaning and clutching his stomach. “MOM! I think I’m going to die!” I told him I’d miss him. Then, a while later he staggered into the kitchen and said, “I need to speak to a doctor!”

I laughed so hard he asked me rather politely to stop. But, oh! The drama!

He made a miraculous recovery once his three history lessons were finished. History brings healing! Just ask my boy!

This morning, when Babygirl called out at 6:20 a.m., I said to my husband, “Your turn.” And I slept until 7:40 a.m. My husband crawled back into bed at that point and said, “Well, at least I’ve already seen Shrek this morning.”

I saw “Hotel Rawanda” this afternoon. The theater was about half-full, but I snagged myself a prime spot on the top row in the back. Two empty seats on either side of me, great view. A lone man on the left, a woman on my right. And then I saw her coming up the stairs. Loud Snacker had arrived, though I hadn’t yet realized it.

Loud Snacker carried a tray holding a gigantic tub of popcorn, two enormous drinks and candy. The man to my left stood up and the woman sat down next to him. Now there was only one empty seat between us.

And then, the snacking began. Loud Snacker was the noisiest popcorn eater I have ever had the displeasure of hearing. She rattled the bucket, she swished the kernels, she chewed loudly. She ripped the paper for her candy, she slurped her pop. I wondered if I were on some kind of hidden-camera show or a Seinfeld episode.

I peeked at her sideways. How could she be so loud? I had popcorn myself. I love eating popcorn in the theater and I seldom watch a movie without it. Yet, as I eat my popcorn, I am discreet. I am quiet. I do not sound like a trampling herd of rats while I eat.

The Loud Snacker had no respect for the quiet moments in the film, either. She seemed to be shoveling the popcorn in with two hands. Finally, the bucket must have been emptied, for she discarded it on the floor and then tore open the candy and made more noise than I thought possible with a plastic wrapper.

The movie itself was moving and thought-provoking and grim. The acting was amazing–it will be interesting to see if Don Cheadle will win the Academy Award for Best Actor. I remember reading about the slaughter in Rawanda. It’s disheartening to realize that this sort of atrocity still goes on in the world today. Where does our responsibility lie as Americans? That’s practically an unanswerable question, worth consideration, though.

Tomorrow morning, I committed myself to meeting a friend to walk four miles at 5:30 a.m. If you never hear from me again, you will know that the exertion killed me.

With all the scattering of ashes at sea and weddings to perform, my husband’s weekends have been harried. So my weekends have been exactly like my weekdays–that is to say, daily laundry, the routine of caring for a two year old and fixing food for people to eat.

Last night, then, I went to a movie. Just me. I love to go to movies alone. And not just because I hate sharing my popcorn. No. I like the solitude in the midst of a crowd, the vast stretches of time in which to think. If you are with someone, small talk intrudes and your thoughts are disrupted. I like to sit, to eavesdrop, to daydream, to ponder.

I hated to do it, but I saw “Fahrenheit 9/11”, the Michael Moore satire-disguised-as-documentary. I arrived early at the theater and sat smack in the middle, screen at perfect eye-level. For a long time, there were only a few of us in the theater–a couple behind me and over a bit and some others behind my back.

I thought, “Wow, well, I guess the theater will be empty,” and then it gradually filled until I became a Republican island in the middle of a fiercely Democratic ocean. The seats on either side of me were empty. Other than that, I was surrounded and hoped that I wouldn’t accidentally get Tourette’s Syndrome and shout out “That’s a load of crap!” at one of Michael Moore’s ludicrous, yet solemnly-intoned statements (like the one about how Iraq had never killed any American prior to the most recent war). More than once, I wanted to protest, “But that’s just not true!” but I preferred not to be lynched on a rare Saturday night out, so I kept quiet.

The crowd around me, however, laughed uproariously at things that were not funny. They thought facial expressions of people who were waiting off-camera for the cameras to begin rolling were hilarious. Ha ha ha. Boy, it’s so funny to see someone waiting to go “on-air.” Let’s make fun of how people look. How mature and fun-loving we are!

What I did not find the least bit funny was the fact that Michael Moore showed no footage from the 9/11 terrorist attack–no mangled bodies, no people burned to a crisp, no bloodied faces–yet he lingered over gruesome footage of dead Iraqi babies and severely injured Iraqi children. Uh, hello? The terrorists purposely attacked and killed Americans. These poor dead and injured children were not purposely attacked. Our soldiers did not intentionally main or kill any innocent civilians. Furthermore, how about showing a little footage of Saddam Hussein’s cronies hacking off the hands of people who dared disagree with him or his dictates? Oh, no, wait, that would actually be full disclosure of truth. Can’t have that!

I found Michael Moore to be a smarmy man with an agenda and I wondered if those in the movie theater around me were so feeble-minded that they would swallow whole whatever irrational story he fed them. And please, would someone explain to him that parents do not enlist their children in the army as if they are signing up their children for summer-camp? Furthermore, those who enlist in the army are not children. They are men and women, capable, rational, thinking people who join of their own free will.

Just saying something does not make it true. Michael Moore surely must realize that, but I don’t think the giggling, critical crowd in the movie theater last night understands that fact.

So, here’s what I thought when I sat in the theater last night:

1) I am outnumbered.
2) These people obviously have not read what Christopher Hitchens has to say on the matter.
3) Our country is in serious trouble if people think this is funny.
4) I am smarter than everyone here.
5) Is this movie almost over? This is so boring. I probably should have seen Spiderman, even though I hate action films.
6) Michael Moore is an idiot and perhaps he’d like to spend a little time living under a despot like Saddam Hussein and get back to us. Now, that’s a documentary I’d like to see.

You might want to skip this if the use of a swear word will sear your ears. Or if you think Ben Affleck is a worthwhile human being–no, I mean “actor.”

I went to see “Jersey Girl” tonight. How did I pick this movie? Well, I read one not-terrible review and it was the only show starting at 8:30 p.m., a time I could manage.

The movie theater I like is quiet on weekdays. Normally, I see other middle-aged folks there. Of course, tonight, I was seeing “Jersey Girl” and what middle-aged adult in her right mind would choose that movie? That’s what I’m asking myself now.

As I walk down the hallway to the theater with my bucket of popcorn (the main reason to see a movie, really) and my jug of Diet Coke, I realize I’ll be passing two teenaged (college-aged?) boys who are loitering outside theater number 5. I’m heading towards theater number 7. I find myself suddenly back in high school, having to pass boys who are just watching and making smart comments about girls like me who are obviously not cheerleaders or party-girls. I’m deep in my self-consciousness, walking by as briskly as possible, hyper-aware of my gigantic snack and my capri pants (should I even be wearing these in April?) and after I pass these two boys, one says, “Oh, that’s all right, don’t say hi to the nigger.”

Uh, excuse me?? One of the boys was black and had raucous hair. He was the one who made the comment.

I turned my head around, kept walking and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were talking to me.”

And then I entered the theater.

What a couple of numbskulls. Like I’d actually not speak to a strange-looking young man loitering with his friend because of his skin color. Good grief. I didn’t speak to them because I figured they were mocking my advanced age of 39 (although the ticket-counter boy asked if I was a student, which was clearly delusional on his part) or because I figured they were mocking my advanced weight, or I figured they were exchanging algebraic formulas. Okay, not that last one. But still. I was just trying to get past them without embarrassment.

I guess the only way not to be considered racist is to be vigilant about friendliness. Next time, I shall thrust my hand out and introduce myself to all young men who lurk in movie theater hallways. I shall ask them if they are having a pleasant day and I shall make small talk and compliment them on their oral hygiene.

Or not.

But the movie. Oh, the movie. Here are a few comments I am compelled to make.

1) Brain aneurysms caused by pushing a baby out during labor are rare. Have you ever known anyone to die during childbirth from an aneurysm? No. If a childbirth death was what they were looking for, perhaps they could have done a little research and had her hemorrhage to death. Or die from complications caused by an induction and epidural use.

2) Children are not smarter or more compassionate than adults. Since when are children the moral compass of the universe? When did children become the ones to teach lessons to really dense adults?

3) Using the word “shit” in a scene does not make it funnier nor more emotionally wrenching. Ever. It does make me think that the writers share one undersized brain which contains a tiny version of a vocabulary and one miniature sense of humor.

4) Liv Tyler would never be working in a video store, doing a thesis on porn. Why is porn so mainstream these days? Why is masturb*t**n the topic of a first date in a movie rated PG-13? Does this mean it’s appropriate for a thirteen year old to discuss? How did Liv Tyler even say her lines with a straight face?

5) Oh, back up a minute. Ben Affleck talks for paragraphs to a four week old baby, finally expressing his grief and loss over his wife . . . no one, nowhere would talk to a baby like that. A good actor would express all of that with his actions, with his eyes, with his expressions. Hello? Did you see Sean Penn in Mystic River? Sean Penn didn’t grandstand and say every word out loud so we would understand his emotion. He actually acted and we could sense his emotion. Stupid Ben Affleck didn’t even pick up the baby during his speech.

6) Uh, Ben? Sweetie? Rolling your eyes to the side as a main acting technique is not working. Purposely grinning with only one side of your unnaturally white teeth, not working. Levis . . . well, those are working, but don’t spoil everything by opening your mouth.

7) Movies which insert dramatic elements that don’t make sense deserve scorn. Ben Affleck running, literally running, through town to reach his daughter’s play in the nick of time . . . um, have you heard of detouring around a street closure? Have you heard of rescheduling an appointment so you don’t have a conflict?

8) Alcoholism is not a funny running gag.

9) Liv Tyler offering to have casual sex with Ben Affleck–and actually saying, “I just want to have casual sex with you . . .”–wrong, wrong, wrong in so many ways. Wrong in so many obvious ways.

10) People in movie theaters who clap and laugh out loud at this kind of movie make me think that civilization is, indeed, declining. I am a movie snob, I guess.

Two thumbs down. This movie was . . . well, to use the “s” word . . . stupid.