A Familiar Foe

Though the last two weeks of October were spent preparing for Halloween and insanely taking on a freelance writing gig that ate up every free moment I had, I did manage to get out to see Sicko at the Movies for Mommies.

Movies for Mommies is a great program. The sound is loud enough to hear, but not so loud it ruins the ear drums of little tiny babies. Being in the Beach and costing $8.50 a flick, the audience is primarily comprised of white, upper-middle-class women with babies who are small enough to sit still during a two hour movie. Not really "my people," but since I don't have to hear them talk, I can look past their Bugaboo traffic jams in the aisles for the pleasure of seeing a film in a theatre while inhaling fresh baby head.

I go with my new mom friend, J and her baby Frances. (Yes, the same J who made up the "no sex if no orgasm" rule.) I love spending time with J. She's a kindred spirit. A positive person with just the right amount of sarcasm. She's really helped me with the transition to two kids and our husbands and kids get along famously. She is definitely "my people."

This time, before the movie started, there was a woman giving a presentation at the front. Wearing a far-too-eager smile and an all-too-familiar puppet on her hand. Gymbo. I fucking hate Gymbo.

While she forced the audience to participate in her ritualistic chanting of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, she walked around making our babies stare into Gymbo Jones' eyes. Thank God Lucine was asleep. "Whatever," J said, "We don't have to sing. Let's just talk." This angered Gymbo's messenger, making her come over and ask us if we had any questions about their useless company. "We teach children how to slide down a slide properly." Whoopdee fucken doo -- last I checked, that was my responsibility. Are we fucking too busy checking our Blackberrys to teach our kids how to slide down slides people? We need a class for this?

Then the right hand of his Gymboness began to enforce a sort of "white night" by repeatedly blowing bubbles in our faces. And she had our number. The more we waved bubbles out of our faces and away from our children, the more she blew in our direction. Fuck. Did I mention I HATE Gymbo?

Anyway, the movie was everything you want from a Michael Moore movie and a nice break from the usual chick flicks they show at these things. (I refuse to pay money to see John Revolta in drag. In a fat suit no less! Ew. How do you get from Divine to Vinny Barbarino? But tomorrow, they're showing Enchanted... McDreamy...? I could do that.) I still can't believe you lovely Americans are opposed to socialized healthcare. Sure, we've got waitlists, but by the time your HMO approves your treatment (IF they approve it) you're waiting forever anyway. At least our system doesn't bankrupt you. Sure, we don't have many Bill Gates, but everybody chips in and nobody goes without. If that doesn't make sense then you might as well elect Gymbo to be your next prez. He couldn't be any worse than the clown puppet you have in office now.