Wednesday, June 20, 2012

People Of AMC

No photos. Sorry. It's kind of hard to take them inconspicuously in a darkened movie theater.

The Pony and I went to see Madagascar 3 this morning. Cheap seats, people! Four bucks a head. Of course, he would rather have seen the 3D version, but it was only showing at 5:15 and 10:30. And we are not evening movie people. Can't say as I was sorry to miss out on the nine dollar tickets, either. We had waited too long for this one, and Thursday is the last day. So no weekend 3D for us.

I must say, the ticket-taking and concession staff were in excellent form. Polite and helpful. Conscientious. Even the post-picture refills were ample. Sinks drained, toilets flushed, soap dispensed, paper towels shot out when hands were waved, and TP was present. No ceiling fan chain infringed upon the screen. The temperature was Goldilock-approvable, the floor was clean, the seats unbroken, the movie started on time, but...you can't choose your audience.

This was ten o'clock in the morning. I would estimate twenty people in our theater. Which was about eighteen more than I expected. Everything was fine. Except for one lone patron. The dreaded SCREAMER.

I know that children will be children. And it was a kids' movie. But really. Parents need to realize that their little angels may not always be on the same page as an adult. There were ten well-behaved youngsters who delighted in viewing this movie. But that one bad apple did her best to ruin it for the bunch. I'm not talking about a toddler who might talk out loud, or squeal with delight or fright at certain parts. This was a SCREAMER. She was probably a new two-year-old. Small enough to sit on a lap. Big enough not to want to. So unless Mama let her run up and down the main aisle, she screamed. I wanted to stand up and shout, "Take her out already!" I'm sure the other viewers would have given me a standing ovation. But I'm not the type to make waves. I'm the type to get revenge on my blog.

Towards the end of the movie, Mama grabbed up that screamer and I thought we were in the clear. But no. She sat down against the back wall, right in front of the doors. A distance of, perhaps, ten feet from our seats. And SCREAMER still screamed. So I don't know how this was considered effective. Finally, Mama drug SCREAMER out those double doors. And stood there. Right outside the double doors. Um. Where the screams were still loud and clear. Like she was pinching that poor child. Which I would have liked to do. Though I'm not a child abuser. But the kid was already screaming. So what difference would it have made. Except to make me feel better. In a momentary lapse of screaming, Mama carried her little darling back in. And they stayed until the credits. Still screaming.

You know, don't you, that children this age take a daily nap? They are up with the chickens, and running on fumes by ten o'clock. My boys used to take a morning AND afternoon nap. I planned my errands around naps. Farmer H and I went two solid years without seeing a movie. And when we took the #1 son to his first, it was early evening. I remember it like it was yesterday.

We lived two blocks from a movie theater. Hillmomba blocks. It's not like we could just push him up there in a stroller. We're talking a crossing of a major thoroughfare (by Hillmomba standards), and nowhere to park the stroller inside the theater. So we drove our Ford Aerostar with the child seat. The movie was MouseHunt. It was really entertaining. Nathan Lane, outsmarted by a mouse. Of course, I don't know how it ended. Because with about fifteen minutes left, #1 became fractious. So we warned him that we'd have to leave if he couldn't stop whining. Then we left. Simple as one, two, three.

I've also left a cart full of groceries in the middle of The Devil's Playground. He pays people to put stuff back on the shelf. I'll be darned if one of my kids is gonna get the better of me in a power struggle in public. Not gonna happen. And they learned, my wayward young 'uns. That Hillbilly Mom means business. And if you don't straighten up, you're gonna find your butt strapped into a carseat, on the way back home, no new toys, no new snacks, no colorful people of The Devil's Playground to look at while HM does her shopping.

Snap out of it, people! Adults are the ones in charge.

6 comments:

Sioux said...

Someone I knew used the blow dryer to dry her son's bottom after every diaper change (and wiping down). She said, "He likes it."

An 18-month old baby has no idea what they like. It's up to the adult to determine what the kid likes based on what the grownup is willing to do.

You're right. Adults rule.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Sioux,
An 18-month-old baby in my AMC theater likes screaming. Which doesn't mean she should be allowed to enjoy herself to the tune of my displeasure.

Kathy's Klothesline said...

Really, what is wrong with these people who let their children dictate their lives? I don't care that they let their kids mess with them, but when they take them out in public and expose ME to their shenanigans, I have all kinds of things to say. Like you, I removed mine from the presence of others when they were out of control and I expect no less from others. I am always disappointed ....

Hillbilly Mom said...

Kathy,
We need to organize. Like the Guardian Angels, but for movie theaters. Take back our movies!

Chickadee said...

That's a big reason I don't have children. I know I couldn't handle the screaming misbehavior without ending in jail.

It's alarming how many adults are "friends" with their kids and just let their children rule the roost and the results are disastrous. Self entitled spoiled brats.

All I can think about is that these are the kids that will be taking care of me (or abusing me) in a nursing home some day.

Hillbilly Mom said...

Chick,
The abolishment of teenage social media and texting would go a long way towards solving the problem. All they need is a basic phone, like a Jitterbug, to call parents for a ride. Everything else is gravy. Totally unnecessary. They need to learn REAL social skills.

Just my opinion. As one who slogs through the trenches with them every day.