Because I have a kidney stone floating around in my bladder, and am generally miserable in that ever-increasing wrist-slitting inner-dialogue kind of way, and also because the cats are actually lesbian whores who will not let me so much as sit down to watch a little tv without coming up to show me their assholes and lay down next to me, rubbing their horny little lesbian cat faces on my arm and trying to get in my lap, I decided to get out of the house and go see a movie yesterday. Also, I had Legitimate Work and Things To Do that I needed to avoid.
So, I hit up Little Caesars for their cheese pizza and crazy bread, took that home for a few bites, checked movie times, then headed on over to the Most Ghetto Theater to see Something Borrowed because it has John Krasinski, who is lovely in The Office with his shirt sleeves perpetually rolled up on his forearms to just below his elbows, and because it was a romantic comedy and, I figured, why not torture myself?
I'm supposed to be drinking lots and lots of water to encourage the kidney stone to come out, which is something I don't actually want to happen but hear that it is necessary, so, water it is. I took a bottle of water with me in my purse to sneak into the movie theater, which I didn't feel one bit bad about because I did intend on making a purchase of their highly overpriced snack items: popcorn and a box of Goobers.
Ah, Goobers are lovely.
But anyway, I get to the theater, and I realize I didn't get the cap on my water screwed on very well and my pocket book is drenched with water. I get my ticket and head to the bathroom, where, of course, it being the Ladies', there is a line. I scrunch into the corner to wait my turn. Some older ladies come in and have no idea of my existence, as I am scrunched over in the corner. They get in line ahead of me. They joke about there being a line in the Ladies' room. I seethe.
In the bathroom, I leave behind my water bottle and throw into the little metal trash (Do boys know we have those in our bathrooms? Do they have them in their bathrooms? If so, what for?) the unused sanitary pad I had in my pocket book that is now ruined.
I've never been to the Most Ghetto Theater on a Sunday. I picked Sunday because I'm hoping that nobody will shoot me there on the Lord's Day. I didn't realize that everybody else in this city would be out for a (hopefully safe(er)) movie viewing as well. So, after going to the bathroom, there was no time to get my popcorn or my Goobers because the line for overpriced snacks was so long.
No water bottle, no popcorn, no Goobers. But I still have John Krasinski to look forward to.
A word about the bathroom first. I hate using the bathroom with other people in there because of my shy bladder/bowel but also because of the peer pressure to wash your hands afterwards. They don't know what you were doing in there, and I don't like the assumptions. I could've been pulling out a wedgie (without going down my pants), or twisting my bra to a greater level of comfort, or flushing drugs, or who knows but you don't always have to wash your hands when coming out of the stall but OH no, HELL no, you gotta wash your damn hands because it is expected because everybody is such a damn smarty pants they assume what you are doing in there. Like it's gotta be one of two or three things. And, furthermore, I highly suspect I'm picking up more germs by washing my hands and touching the faucet knobs where other people who've been touching their genitalia have touched rather than, say, wiping my own damn genitalia whose bacteria I know and am perfectly comfortable with and flushing with my foot, but whatever. I do what I have to do to keep everybody's comfort levels in tact. That's what's important.
So, anyway, to the movie theater with my kidney stone and wet pocketbook, the contents of which I promptly dumped out onto the theater floor when I tried to retrieve my cell phone in order to turn the volume on it down. Everybody's comfort levels in tact.
The movie was good, I identified with the smart, shy, take-the-back-seat-kind-of-girl character with the mousy brown hair who was not Goldie Hawn's daughter. And the girl, the shy one, gets the guy she wants in the end. Good for her, but here's the thing:
Besides not appearing in the movie as much as I had wanted, John Krasinski's character, a writer named Ethan (ie a total nerd-girl heart throb) totally gets shafted.
Sorry if that's a spoiler for you, but he doesn't get the mousy brown-haired shy girl that it turns out he loved, not just friend-loved but loved-loved all along. And it sucks. It sucks bad. The movie just completely leaves him in a lurch as mousy brown-haired shy girl struts off into the sunset with GQ guy who, quite rightly, chooses her, and she is just thrilled to pieces but FUCKING ETHAN WHO ALWAYS FUCKING LOVED HER and fought for her and was there for her giving her really brilliant, quotable advice that could only come from someone who really loves you is stuck in London to be a writer and get drunk and fuck all the London girls who he wishes were mousy brown-haired shy girls like the one he loves. And maybe that's not so bad for him, but still, this RomCom really fucked him - I mean his character - the fuck over.
Fucking romantic comedy bitches.