"It's not about the movies"

 "juno" (2007), directed by Jason Reitman

The phone rang while I was in the middle of refinishing a dining room chair. It was good timing because I was pretty much on the verge of passing out from the fumes (although, I’d have to say that it wasn’t a completely negative feeling).

The call turned out to be an invitation to lunch. At my age I don’t get out much anymore so I jumped at the chance. I should have anticipated the turn the day would take when I tried to order an apricot beer.

We had lunch at a restaurant called "Brewskies." It’s the kind of place that prides itself on its Reader’s Digest size menu of beer and wine. You know the type. Anyway, I tried, unsuccessfully, to order a simple fruit flavored beer. After several attempts, all ending with the waiter sheepishly informing me that they had either sold out on my particular choice or the staff had polished it off before noon, I settled on all they had left, "Boones Farm Apple Wine," vintage 1967.

About an hour later, still feeling the effects of the apparently ongoing "Summer of Love" fermenting in my stomach, I decided to see a movie to give things some time to settle down a little. So, I bid my friends goodbye and walked to the local Super Duper Maxi-Plex. "Twenty five theaters and nothing to see," I thought to myself as I wound my way through the cattle shute to buy my ticket.

One ticket for "Rambo," I said.

"I’m sorry, the 4:50 showing is sold out."

Why was I not surprised?

"Alright, I said, how about a bottle of apricot beer?"

"What?"

"Never mind. Are there any other one-word-titled movies playing here?’

"Well," said the ticket seller, "’Juno’ starts at 5:00."

"I’ll take it," I said, wondering what the heck a "Juno" was.

Finally, seated and relatively comfortable, I watched as the opening credits began. "Fox Searchlight Pictures" exploded on the screen with great pomposity.

Oh, no, I thought. This is one of those precious little "independent" films. And here I thought I was going to see a real movie. Even worse, it’s distributed by one of those self-important subsidiary companies that rose out of the ashes of Miramax’s crash and burn a few years ago, a Weinstein wannabe.

I needed something to eat or I’d never make it through this, I thought, and with that I jumped out of my seat and headed to the snack bar.

With arms overflowing with popcorn, nachos, an industrial sized coke, and a box of Junior Mints tucked under my arm, I was headed back to my seat when it hit me. I couldn’t remember which of the twenty odd theaters I had come out of. Since my hands were full, I couldn’t get to my glasses in my purse so I was unable to read any of the marquees over the theater entrances.

I took a chance and chose the first one I came to. It turned out to be a wrong choice. Some movie with George Clooney was playing. At first, I thought that maybe another sequel to "Ocean’s 11" (Ocean’s 18? or 19?) had opened and I hadn’t heard about it. But, no such luck, it turned out to be some boring "lawyer" film and if there is anything I can’t stand, it’s lawyer films, even with Clooney in them.

I tried another theater and ran smack dab into a film about animated vegetables. I was tempted to just sit down, figuring that even a talking cucumber had to be better than pretty boy Clooney playing a shyster.

But, I decided to press on, in and out of different theaters. This went on for quite a while. I had long since spilled my nachos in someone’s lap, ditto the popcorn. The coke was long gone, the Junior Mints had melted and my armpit now had a quite refreshing minty aroma.

I decided to cut my losses and just head home.

What a day! And to think…it all started with a chair.