A CRAPPY SITUATION

“I bought an extra seat so no one sits next to you,” Patrick said to me gently, as if delivering a terminal diagnosis. Our daughter stood by, casting a glance at me that said, "You brought this upon yourself.” They exchanged judgmental looks, acting as if I had done something wrong. I was chagrined! “That’s ridiculous,” I tried pooh-poohing their idea. “Why would three people buy four movie seats?” Oh, how they laughed. I stood there, contemplating what to say next, as I thought, “How did this happen?”

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Ah, the allure of the silver screen, with all its irresistible bells and whistles, had me at hello. My love affair with the cinema started long before I was old enough to understand the nuances of a good plot twist or appreciate the brilliance of a well-executed character arc.

It began in the ’70s at the local Drive-In theatre. Picture this: five-year-old me, locked in a car trunk with three of my cousins. Terrified? Yes. But shortly thereafter, I was forever transformed by the magic of moviemaking. There’s something undeniably special about watching a story someone wrote come to life on the big screen. But it’s not just the stories on the big screen that I love; I love the ritual of it all. The smell of buttery popcorn when you enter the theatre, the trailers before the movie starts, the satisfaction of hearing that first boom of surround sound, and the endless possibilities of what could happen once the lights dimmed. Getting dolled up and heading to the theatre is one of my favorite things to do, right up there with dining at Michelin-starred restaurants, traveling, and splurging on things I absolutely can’t afford. But the cherry on top? The pure joy of being around other people without the pesky obligation of having to talk to them. The movie theatre is the perfect place to masquerade as a functional unit of society. “See? I’m not socially awkward; I’m here, blending in with the masses,” I lie to myself.

Luckily for me, I married someone who shares this cinematic obsession. My husband, Patrick, isn’t just a fellow movie lover; he’s my partner in storytelling, someone who revels in analyzing every detail just as much as I do. And our beautiful daughter has joined us in this passion. One of our favorite family pastimes is going to the movies together, sharing in the joy of storytelling and seeing our emotions mirrored on the big screen.

From our earliest dates in dimly lit theaters, I knew I had found a partner in Patrick who shared my passion for a good flick. It started in the early ’90s, back when we were a starry-eyed duo. On our first date, we saw the movie Sister Act in the exotic locale of West Covina. Who knew Whoopi Goldberg dressed as a nun could spark a lifelong tradition?

Over the past three decades, we’ve consumed more popcorn than any sane person should, visiting theaters in every corner of Los Angeles. From the suburbs to the beach, we’ve been there, done that, and spent a small fortune doing it.

There was that memorable evening in Manhattan Beach circa 1998 - Wesley Snipes was on the screen slicing and dicing in Blade, while seated behind us loomed the ghoulish presence of none other than Marilyn Manson. Seriously, the man has a face that could scare Michael Myers. I spent the entire film trying to figure out which was more terrifying: the blood-soaked vampires or Manson’s eye shadow. It was a close call.

In the early 2000s, we ventured into the hipster haven of Los Feliz to a vintage theater called The Vista, a single-screen relic from 1923. The kind of place where you could practically hear the ghosts of Hollywood past whispering, “Remember when going to the movies didn’t involve remortgaging your house?” It was there, during the third Matrix installment, that the seed for our podcast, Red Pilled America, was planted. While Patrick wept openly over Trinity’s demise, I contemplated escape. There’s something about a man openly sobbing in public that I find very unsettling. Yet, here we are, decades later, with Patrick still the leading man in our ongoing drama of matinee misadventures…and a B-list podcast to boot. Who’s crying now? Spoiler alert: Me.

When our daughter came along, it was only natural that we would bring her into the fold of our movie-watching traditions. At first, it was more about the experience of seeing her eyes widen at the colorful animations and hearing her giggles echo through the theater. But as she grew older, we started introducing her to the classics…the films that shaped our own love for the cinema. Watching her discover the joy of storytelling, seeing her emotions dance across her face as she experienced the highs and lows of a great movie, has been one of our greatest joys as parents.

As we moved up in the world, our Friday date night became all about Arclight Cinemas in Hollywood and Sherman Oaks, respectively. Going to the Arclight in the mid-2000s was an experience. We had entered the deluxe phase of our movie-going career: dinner, drinks, and then off to the theater, where the seats were plush, and the wine flowed like we were in some kind of movie-watching utopia. One particularly unforgettable evening, we bumped into Larry Elder at the bar - after I’d indulged in a third glass of wine. My usual set limit is two glasses…but I was living dangerously that night. Normally, I’m calm, cool, and dismissive around celebrities. For years, the morning drop-off at my daughter’s elementary school included the likes of Jason Bateman, Melissa McCarthy, Steve Carrell, and other well known “celebs” - and none of them excited me in the least. But Larry Elder at the Arclight? Now that was exciting! He’s lucky I didn’t pull out my phone for a selfie and plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

Once our daughter got a little older, we decided to leave the bright lights of the city behind and settle into a quiet life with a picket fence in the suburbs. However, leaving Hollywood meant bidding farewell to the beloved Arclight, and finding a replacement was tougher than finding a good sequel. Once you’ve experienced first-class movie watching, the regular theater feels like coach on a budget airline. Non-reclining seats and no wine in sight? Netflix at home suddenly seemed like the better option. But fear not, we eventually stumbled upon a local gem...

Our new spot has it all: gourmet food delivered to your reclining seat, surround sound, and a bar serving white wine so good it might earn its own Michelin star if that were a thing. Our daughter always sits sandwiched between Patrick and I, a precautionary measure that's been sacred since she could join us for movies. It shields her from strangers and oddballs - but leaves me open to attracting them like a magnet. And attract them I do.

The eccentrics and undesirables don’t just like me; they adore me. I'm like a flame to the weirdo moth. I have no clue what that says about me, and frankly, I’d rather live in blissful ignorance. For some inexplicable reason, the loons and socially awkward flock to me like I'm the last lifeboat on the Titanic. It’s as if the universe looks at them and says, "She’s one of you!” Misfits gathering around me has become such a common occurrence that I've composed a song about it - well, it’s more of a jingle, really, but it’s very catchy.

Going to the movies somehow magnifies this phenomenon. It’s like stepping into an alternate universe designed to test my patience. Every theater trip is an opportunity for a new disaster, each one leaving a special brand of humiliation on my poor little family. But nothing compares to the epic tale of one fateful night in February 2022.

On that night, after a family council that involved more negotiation than a UN summit, we settled on seeing "Uncharted," starring Mark Wahlberg and Tom Holland. My daughter is firmly Team Holland, Mark Wahlberg is, or rather was, Team Me, and my husband is Team “I’m here for the candy.”

Seemed like a solid plan. An easy, fun-filled family night at the movies, right? Little did I know, I was about to star in a real-life unscripted drama that would make even A-Lister Mark Wahlberg want to quietly exit stage left.

After we ordered food - to be brought to our glorious reclining seats - and I secured my 12-ounce glass of white wine, we made our way to our assigned seats. Naturally, we adopted our usual formation with Patrick and I bookending our daughter. I was just beginning to relax into the previews, wine in hand, when I noticed two older boys, clearly brothers, heading towards me. They looked like a mismatched pair of Disney’s Goofy and South Park’s Eric Cartman, but with a bit more melanin. Instinctively, I knew they’d be sitting next to me, and I was somewhat relieved. They seemed harmless enough. “I’ll be able to enjoy my movie in peace,” I naively assured myself. Little did I know that “harmless” was about to take a serious nosedive into “catastrophic.”

Goofy, was probably between 17 to 20 years old, while his little brother Cartman couldn’t have been more than 14 or 15. I noticed they had contraband in the form of a brown paper bag that read “BURGER KING” - completely disregarding the unspoken movie theater law of sneaking in outside food discretion. “Kids these day,” I thought to myself as I rolled my eyes. My mind drifted back to my childhood trauma of sneaking affordable munchies into movie theatre’s. “Is it actually illegal to sneak snacks into the movie theatre or is it just frowned upon,” I pondered. My thoughts were interrupted by the loud tussling of the brown paper bag and an antsy-pantsy Cartman squirming in his seat . “Calm down, little piggy, your food is coming,” I thought as I tried not to drool at the aroma of freshly fried fries. Goofy, bless his heart, was meticulously arranging his brother's burger and fries on the tray in front of him - yes, the theater tray, a standard item for the bourgeoisie who dine on fast food at the movies.

I caught Cartman’s eye at that moment, and he shot me a look that only another fatty could decipher: “I know you want some of my fries.” This was quickly becoming more of a distraction than I had bargained for. Still, I figured once the food was situated, they’d settle into the movie. Boy, was I wrong.

Something was off with these two smugglers, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. They kept exchanging nervous glances, and Cartman was wiggling like a hoe shaking her booty up in the club.

I nudged my daughter and gave her a subtle head-tilt toward the smugglers. “What, Mom?” she mouthed back, the picture of teenage indifference, as if my survival wasn’t on the line here.

“Patrick,” I hissed, trying to catch my husband’s attention. “Patrick!” But he was deep in movie bliss, oblivious to the cinematic disaster unraveling beside me. Suddenly, a smell hit me - something so vile, so insidious, that I wondered if this was how I’d go. “Her cause of death was nasal homicide,” my eulogy would read.

My daughter leaned in and whispered, “I think the kid next to you is farting.” Eureka! Finally some of that private school education was paying off.

All of a sudden, Cartman shot up like someone had lit a firecracker in his ass. Goofy muttered something I couldn’t quite catch as Cartman hightailed it out of the row, leaving a trail of mystery and, presumably, something far worse. Marky Mark who? I wasn’t watching the movie…I was locked in on this real-life drama.

After Cartman had been gone for ten minutes, Goofy started to worry. He began a periodic stand-and-scan routine, glancing behind us with increasing desperation. Fifteen minutes in, he pulled out his phone and started a frantic cycle of calling, texting, and re-calling, as if his very life depended on it. Twenty long minutes later and still no Cartman! Now I was getting worried too. What if Cartman had been kidnapped? Or worse, what if he’d gotten arrested after raiding the concession stand to satisfy his piggy-boy cravings? I felt like I was in the middle of a bad telenovela. Any minute, I expected myself to slap Goofy across the face and scream, “Go look for your brother, estupidito!” in a thick Spanish accent.

Just as I was about to throw myself into this drama and offer some unsolicited advice, I spotted Cartman waddling back toward us. But something was different about him. His white hoodie was now tied around his waist…a red flag if ever there was one.

The moment Cartman took his seat, the olfactory assault resumed with a vengeance. To my horror, this scene was being broadcasted in 4-D - sight, sound, and smell. I knew then: Cartman had poop’d himself.

“OH MA GAWD! The kid next to me crapped his pants,” I tried alerting my daughter. She offered me the same indifference as before, so I turned to my husband, my last hope. Surely, after twenty years of marriage, this man would have my back. I leaned in and whispered, “You’re not going to believe this, but the kid next to me poop’d himself!”

“That sucks,” he said, with the emotional depth of a puddle.

Et tu, Brute? It was like a dagger to my heart. I’d given this man the best years of my life and this is how he repaid me?

“THAT SUCKS? Trade seats with me, then!” I shot back. But he just went right back to being lost in the movie again, oblivious to the olfactory nightmare I was living in.

Apparently, my family was so engrossed in the film that they couldn’t be bothered with my crappy situation. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me! Worse still, no one cared. I was going to have to go it alone. Should we leave? Where was the glory in that? The smell, however, was pushing me to my limits.

“I can smell it,” my daughter finally relented, like she was doing me a favor.

“And I hope you choke on it,” I internally shouted, mentally shaking my fist at the universe.

I glanced over at Cartman and Goofy, who were both doing their best to pretend the looming stench didn’t exist. Ah, denial - a skill I wish I could master in moments like these. But I am my mother’s daughter.

My mind wandered to all the times I poked fun at my mom for her unwavering ability to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong. And I was about to learn firsthand that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

“You poo’d yourself, didn’t you?” The words flew out of my mouth.

Cartman gave me a bewildering look. He feigned confusion. “What in God’s name are you talking about lady?” his expression said as he violently shook his head no.

“Not me,” he mumbled, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. But the smell said otherwise.

“Yes, you did. You poo’d yourself,” I countered.

“Who? Me?” Cartman continued the charade.

“Mom! Stop it!,” my daughter pulled at my arm, mortified at the scene unfolding next to her.

Oh, now she cared? I returned volley by ignoring her.

Goofy, catching wind of my interrogation, looked at me and meekly shrugged his shoulders. He knew that I knew that he knew too.

“Your brother had an accident, honey. Let’s not pretend. You need to take him and clean up the situation,” I said firmly, channeling the authority of a seasoned FBI Agent. Listen, kids can’t be left to their own devices…they need direction. Clearly. So, I did what any responsible mother would do if she were there - except I wasn’t their mother. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Goofy sheepishly nodded, sighed deeply as if carrying the weight of the world, and signaled to his brother that it was time to make a hasty retreat. Cartman, however, was still in full-blown denial, planning to take his dirty little secret to the grave. It’s as if he believed that the stench was a sixth sense only a select few could detect.

As the boys made their hasty exit out of the theater, I tried to refocus on the movie, but the plot had become as confusing as the situation beside me. Was I watching a high-stakes adventure or a horror film? I honestly couldn’t tell anymore. I spent the remainder of the movie in a state of high alert, terrified of what unspeakable horrors might have been left behind on the seat next to me. Goofy and Cartman never returned, which only confirmed my worst fears: this wasn’t just any ordinary mishap - it was a full-scale, code-brown catastrophe.

The ride home was a blur of laughter - at my expense, of course. “We can’t take her anywhere!” they chuckled, as if I had been the one to soil myself. My daughter, through fits of giggles, suggested, “Maybe we should start buying an extra seat so no one can sit next to her.” Oh, how they laughed, like a pack of hyenas on a comedy safari.

And that, dear reader, is how we came to be a family that buys four movie tickets for three people. Because when it comes to movie outings, you never really know when a crappy situation will rear its ugly head.