Stop Hating on Barbra. That's why the zombies ate you first.

Larry and I (and others we love) enjoy going to something called Rifftrax.  For those of you who know what MST3K is, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  For those who don’t, your life is incomplete.  Google one of these two strange looking non-words and start living, for God’s sake. 

  

Basically, we go to a movie theater to watch a movie whilst 3 gentlemen broadcast live from Nashville making jokes at said movie’s expense.  They used to have a TV show on Sci-Fi and….you know what, you have the internet, like I said.  Go, then come back. 

Anyway, last night’s was Night of the Living Dead, which is awesome not just because it gave birth to the zombie craze, which is really just a metaphor for the epidemic of complacency and consumerism, but because it was made in the 60s and stars a black man, and at no point is the fact that he’s black pointed out or made an issue within the movie.  In fact, George Romero interviewed that this guy was a friend of his, and he hadn’t given it much thought beyond that.  Awesome.  But not the point of this particular blog.

We expect the theater to be close to full.  It usually is for Rifftrax.  I don’t hate this.  Or I do, but I can’t control it (yet) so I try not to waste energy hating it.  What I DON’T mind wasting energy hating are people who come in late.  I don’t believe for a second that this is a one-time occurrence for these individuals.  They do it all the time with a blatant disregard for the people around them.  I hate it even more when they climb over people to randomly grab a seat right next to me and have the F**KING NERVE to say, “I’m sorry.”  Are you?  ARE YOU???? (ß TIP: I have responded to these inconsiderate mongoloids with this, or I have said, “GOOD.”  Both responses are very surprising to said people and typically, they just give you the hairy eyeball and shut their stupid faces.) 

But this woman.  THIS WOMAN, YOU GUYS.  She and her man friend walk in at least 5 minutes after the show has started.  They climb over others to sit right next to me.  When she sits, she turns to me and says, “Hi.”  Now I’m the one with the surprised look on my face followed by a hairy eyeball.  I guess it was better than, “I’m sorry.”  They start talking to each other in regular voices about how they are happy to be at this show.  Like you do when you are the center of the universe.  Then it actually gets worse.  She laughs at everything.  Everything they say, she laughs.  Her laugh sounds like George McFly’s only through a blow horn.   Now, I know I can’t condemn someone for something they can’t control.  (Unless it’s, like, serial killing.)  That’s what her laugh sounds like.  Fine.  Then she starts repeating the joke.  Every single joke.  Like her man friend only understands English when she speaks it.  YES, THAT WAS THE JOKE.  WE ALL HEARD IT BECAUSE OF THE SURROUND SOUND AND ALL, BUT THANK YOU FOR REINFORCING.  I want to ask her to keep it down, but I don’t want her to think I mean her laughter.  I know she can’t help that, but explaining to her exactly why she is an asshole will just make ME the annoying woman talking through the movie.  Do you ever just meet someone and have the immediate need to murder them?  Do you wish you could “Zool” people?  You know, ask if they are a god and when they say no, electrocute them with lightning from your fingertips? Is it just me? (NOW who doesn’t even have the right to condemn serial killers, eh?)  

My wonderful husband could see me trying not to commit murder, and said we should just move, even though we would have to move to the very front.  This is wonderful of him because he prefers sitting all the way in the back corner next to the homeless guy who found $10 on the street and needed a warm place to nap.  (That last part of the sentence is just another mile marker I passed on my way to hell, which would scare me if I believed in it.)  We move down to the front row.  We can still hear her, but it’s much fainter, so she won’t be murdered.  By me, anyway. 

I got really lost in my head at that point.  I don’t laugh at every joke.  I am filled with rage that I direct at total strangers.  Do I not enjoy things as much as other people?   Was there more of a reason I hated her in particular?  Am I really the bitter hag that I joke about being?  This woman was having the best day.  I’m pretty sure she pooped a little at one point.  And she probably made a joke about what a jerk I am for moving OH, I HATE HER SO MUCH YOU GUYS SHE IS THE WORST.  I can’t stand to watch an animal be harmed in any way in a movie, even though I know it’s fake, but I can watch Freddy Krueger stalk and murder teenagers (and they’re mostly girls, but I’ll get to that part) all day long.  It brightens my spirits. 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately (more than usual, and that’s saying something) about the way women see each other.  I’ve gotten really sensitive to jokes on TV about things that are “girly.”  According to movies and TV, being “girly” means that you show emotion and enjoy things, and that is bad.  As a teenager, I was the girl who claimed to prefer hanging out with boys, “to avoid all the drama.”  It wasn’t that I didn’t have girlfriends, because I did, still do, and they are some of the greatest and strongest people I know.  Hi, ladies.  I love you.  (Hi, Mom and Sis!  You are why I’m on this tangent!)

Now when I hear girls say that, or especially grown women, it makes my ass twitch.  We are our own worst enemy.  We will go so far as to turn on each other so we are not seen as “girly” in order to impress men.  I mean, come on, why else would we act that way?  It is ingrained in us from a very young age that we need to be paired off with a man to have value, so we turn on each other without even realizing that that is what we are doing.  It is ingrained in men that if they show any vulnerability, they are acting like women, and this is bad.

I got way off topic.  I still hate this woman.  She ruined my night, not just by being obnoxious, but by making me question whether I was the problem for being so bitter.  To question whether it was easier for me to hate her because she was a woman being an asshole instead of a man.  I allowed her to get to me.  That was my fault. 

So, your assignments for today:

Women: Call a girlfriend and do something girly.  “Girly” covers a broad spectrum of activities according to the media, so it should be easy.  Try not to hate any women around you.  Girly is good.  It isn’t bad.     

Men:  Make yourself vulnerable.  Get excited about a puppy you saw on the street.  Carve a pumpkin.  Bake cookies.  Tell your best friend or your brother or your dad that you love him.  (Add, “man” if you have to.  I don’t care.)  Kiss your son.  Ooh!  Get a cat!  They are great and get a bad rap because of the whole “girly” thing!

I’m going to try to go this whole day without hating anyone, man or woman.  I work in downtown Chicago, so it’s going to be a challenge, but I can do it.

When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child...

When I was small, my parents quit smoking and took up jogging.  Not back to back.  My mom first, then Dad.

I remember my mom participated in some sort of marathon (probably 5k, really, but it seemed pretty extreme to me when I was, like, 5).   I’m from a small town, so the route went right past our house.  My dad made sure we were out on the boulevard waiting for her to pass by us.  A gaggle of people jogged by before we saw her, and my dad scooped me up so we could wave and cheer her on.  Red-faced and sweating, my mother laughed and shouted, “Anybody behind me, John?”

I don’t remember his answer, but mine was an enthusiastic and earnest, “Nope!”  

Sarcasm is learned, not inherited.

It’s a memory that springs into my thoughts so often, I’m writing it down.