Sir Mouse is on vacation with the gators and the crocs so The Redhead is on her own. And yes, I’m a day late posting since I was at my rowing/crew class last night (managed to stay afloat, somehow) and didn’t make it back to watch the Big Show in real time.

I knew I had missed something grand when I checked Facebook around midnight and saw some of my friends going ga-ga (not as in the Lady G., thankfully) over Adam’s performance. Suffice it to say, I’ve been catching up on You Tube today so I could see what all the fuss was about.

As always, when one hears a lot of hype about how great something or someone is, disappointment can follow, so I’m not surprised that I didn’t have a Big O when I watched a replay of Adam singing the 1982 Tears for Fears song, Mad World. But I can’t deny that I momentarily got the chills as I took in his impressive and understated performance.

Sitting on a stool as he sang, Adam’s taut delivery of Mad World was both haunting and heartbreaking. The guy is a true showman and his performance was a piece of theatre. The crowd was nearly apoplectic after the concluding high note, and the proceedings were now in overtime. Simon informed Adam that he would be speaking for all of the judges since they needed to wrap things up. Then Simon rose from his seat and gave Adam another kind of Big O–a standing ovation. Wow.

Has Simon ever done that before? Not that I can recall. Let’s just hand Adam the key to Hollywood now. The competition, at this point, is basically to determine the first runner-up, and most of us are just tuning in to see what Adam will do next because in contrast to him, the other contenders pretty much suck.

I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got time for, kids. From the reviews I’ve read of the rest of the show, Lil and Scott may be in the Bottom Three tonight. We shall see. For now, I bid you adieu and send good thoughts to Sir Mouse as he flirts with the reptiles and other slithery creatures down in the swamps of south Florida.

I lost my dad a few months ago. After suffering two exhausting bouts of pneumonia in a year, he died at the age of 94. He was in Hospice House those last two weeks of his life, his wife and three daughters (I’m the youngest kid) around him. He knew we loved him and we knew he loved us; maybe at the end of life, that’s what really counts.

I’ve read lots of articles and books on grief. My life partner published a memoir about the loss of his wife of 42 years. He says some wise and profound things on the subject. But while there are similarities, everyone’s experiences with a death of a loved one are different. I’d like to write about a few of mine. Why in this forum and not in a personal journal? I guess because I would like to share what I’m feeling inside. One thing I’ve learned: grief is a lonely experience. No matter the support around you or others who have suffered the same loss, when it comes to mourning, you are pretty much on your own.

If reading this makes you uncomfortable–tough. Don’t read it then. It’s amazing the number of people whose personal motto seems to be, Out of Sight, Out of Mind.

That being said, I can understand the discomfort. Sometimes when friends, both casual and close, have expressed their sympathies to me about my father, I can barely murmur a quiet, “thank you,” and move on to another subject. It’s not so much because I’m uncomfortable as it is the feelings are too deep to be articulated. Death renders us speechless in more ways than one. It’s just too damn BIG.

Big. Yeah, I’ve thought about this a lot. Every daughter is a little girl inside when her dad dies. A girl’s father is the most powerful person in the world to her until she grows up and understands we’re all fallible. Well, I knew this intellectually, but when my dad left this world that little girl raised up inside me, stunned. The thought that her daddy, still all-powerful in her eyes, could succumb was just not possible. I know. Not rational. But that four-year old kid in me doesn’t understand logic and reason and probably never will no matter how much my 53 year old adult self argues with her.

Well, if death doesn’t humble you, what will? And to be honest, I’m still too much in shock to feel humble. I knew that my father was dying. I nursed him for a month at his bedside. I proclaimed to my partner that I was “ready” for him to let go. But I didn’t get the finality of it. And I sure wasn’t ready for it. That’s another thing I’m learning about death–it’s about as final as it gets.

I knew I would feel sad when my dad died. But I wasn’t expecting to feel so damn angry and irritable at a moment’s notice. I’m really not sure what I’m angry about. I guess just the fact that people have to die to begin with. It’s all so absurd–we’re here, then poof, we’re gone.

Since I work in retail and deal with the public, my tolerance level for human idiocy gets a workout pretty often. Lately, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to hold my tongue with customers. For example, the middle-aged and slightly drunk woman I just dealt with (I’m writing from work) who wanted a book she had heard about from a friend who “really knows how to pick em.”

Okay, what’s the name of the book?

I don’t know. Something “surge.”

What’s the book about?

I don’t know but I really want it. It’s supposed to be great and I want a good book. And my friend knows how to pick em.

Well, is it fiction? Nonfiction…

I think nonfiction. Surge…

I do some research on the internet and come up with a number of titles about the surge in the war in Iraq. Could this be what she is looking for?

Well, that sounds familiar. Try this–”shoals.” Type in shoals!

Okaaaay. And of course “shoals,” gets us no closer to identifying the book and I’m starting to lose the thin veneer of patience I walk around with these days. What is it with these people who want you to find a book but can’t tell you its title, author, or even subject matter? The amazing thing is, most of the time, I can find the desired book with bits and pieces of information I’m able to glean from the clueless customer (I’m good), but not in this case. The woman is nuts and she’s driving me that way, fast.

Waitwaitwait. I know! It’s “The Seasons,” something…something seasons, seasons something.

Hmmm, there are only, oh, a few thousand books or so with the word “seasons” in the title.

Are you sure you don’t recall what the books is about?

Nooooo…just that it’s supposed to be really, really good. My friend knows how to pick em. Never mind. Look up Infidel. That is a great book. I want that one! I have about four copies of it.

Huh?

We don’t have the book. Well, that’s okay. She has about four copies of it already. Now what about “seasons…shoal…surge.”

But I’ve had enough. I tell her that I need more information. She says she’ll talk to her friend who knows how to pick em and get back with me. On her way out the door, I hear her confide to her boyfriend, “I didn’t think they’d be able to find it.” Lady, that is the most perceptive thing you’ve probably said all day.

Tolerance. I need more of it these days. Since my dad died, it’s been in short supply.

To be continued.

It was lunchtime on a recent afternoon (Okay, last year. It’s been a while since I posted.) and I was about to take a bite of a Garlic Chicken and Pasta Lean Cuisine when I ran into a snag, or to be more specific, my left jaw did. I couldn’t bite down all the way and it hurt. Since this was the third such incident within a two month span, I decided it was time to take action. I called a local dentist who specializes in jaw irregularities. Having acquired his name from my “regular” dental office, I figured I would be in good hands. I figured wrong.

New age Muzak wafted through the waiting area when I arrived for my appointment the next day. Gee, never heard that at a dental office before. I signed in, sat and looked around. The reading material was fairly typical: those big blue Bible Story books for kids; some health magazines; monthly Guideposts. A rather odd mix, I thought, new age music and Christian literature, but whatever works. When the mild mannered receptionist asked me to follow her into a small office, my feeling that something was just a tad strange grew a little bit bigger. Ms. Mild Mannered explained she wanted me to fill out some forms while she made copies of my drivers license and insurance cards. Okay, but why take me into a private office? I start digging my ID out of my wallet and catch myself just before I accidentally hand her my Visa card. Whoops! “Oh,” says MMM (Ms. Mild Mannered), “you may want to keep that out. Heh heh.”

Huh?

When I’m finished filling out the forms and pay the $300 fee—I was informed when I made the appointment that payment was required upfront, and desperate to unlock my jaw, I agreed—MMM ushers me down the hall to yet another small office, even tinier than the last. I take a seat in front of an enormous desk which fills up most of the room. About a minute later, in walks Dr. Drool who makes up in width what he lacks in height.

“Welcome to our family,” Dr. Drool cries, spreading his arms out wide. My jaw has relaxed by now but the rest of me begins to tense up when Dr. Drool proceeds to take a seat right next to me.

“So, what brings you to see me today?”

I tell Dr. Drool about the lock jaw and he explains the condition, TMJ, that is, when he’s not cracking himself up with dumb jokes. In fact, at one point, Dr. Drool becomes so tickled with himself that he leans over to me and actually rubs his shoulder against mine. Excuse me? Who is this guy? Dr. Drool chortles on and seems completely unaware that his behavior is, shall we say, f—ing inappropriate!

A voice inside my head starts to cry: “I want out of here!” Unfortunately, my butt seems to be as frozen to the chair as the smile is to my face. I’m too shocked to move. Dr. Drool has moved behind his desk and is showing me some bizarre looking computer graphics of the jaw and its workings.

“Well, you’ve heard enough of me (I’ll say, buddy), so now I’m going to show you a little film. Watch this” Dr. Drool commands and flicks on a small TV. Suddenly I have double-vision. There’s Dr. Drool—TV celebrity—talking with a local news reporter about TMJ and his miracle cures. Hello? I’m sitting right across from you, pal, why do you need to play me a promo?

Dr. Drool is really having a good time, watching himself on TV and all. The voice inside my head is getting louder: Get away from this nutcase! But then the video portion of what is becoming quite a freak show ends and Dr.-Drool-in-the-flesh begins to speak. First, however, he comes over to sit next to me again.

“That’s a cute haircut,” he grins.

Uh, thanks.

“Now. Let me ask you. How do you deal with stress?”

(Uh, I have a lot of sex but don’t think for a minute that I’m going to have it with you, mister.)

What I really say: “I run. I’m training for a half marathon.”

Eyes me up and down. “Yes, you’re in good shape.”

Okay. I’m getting out of here. Really this time.

I’m about to move out when Dr. Drool whips some forms under my nose.

“This is my fee. Are you married?”

Yesyesyes!!!!!

“Well, get ready to have another man in your life for a while–wink wink.”

Moving quickly, Drool proceeds to show me how much it’s going to
cost—upfront, of course—over the next 12 months (!) of treatment. It ain’t pretty.

I tell him I’d like to talk with my husband about this first.

“Oh, you can call him right here and we’ll discuss it together.”

He’s kidding right?

Doc picks up the phone.

No. He’s not.

I say I really want to talk this over—in private—with my husband.

He’s not happy. “Well, okay. But I explained in my introductory letter to you that you should bring your significant other.”

Letter? Hello, I just made the appointment yesterday. It is now the next morning and unless he sent it special delivery, I don’t think the mail works that fast.

Dr. Drool clucks his tongue. He’s getting the idea that I’m not coming back so he trots out the big guns. Actually, it’s only a single gun whose name is Pat, a no-nonsense looking woman with grey hair and a slight brown mustache.

“Pat will take your check.” Dr. Drool takes in a massive breath and gives me a hard look. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.” Drool pauses, swallows, then says: “Your condition will NOT improve without this treatment.” With a dark cloud of doom floating above his head, Dr. Drool turns and waddles away.

Pat says, “I can take Master Card or Visa.”

They really want my Visa card! I reiterate that I want to talk this over with my husband. The cloud of doom floats back into the room. All right, says Pat, “but you won’t get better UNLESS you come back and see the doctor.”

I’ll take my chances with lock jaw, lady. I (finally) make my exit with my Visa card still firmly tucked inside my wallet.

A few days later, I receive a letter from Dr. Drool stating that he has forwarded my file to my regular dental office. Little problem. I signed a form permitting this however Dr. Drool has sent my records to the WRONG dentist. I read further. Drool informs me in bold typeface (I’m surprised he didn’t use all caps as well) that “your condition will not improve without this treatment.” For good measure, he repeats his warning two more times before concluding with—

Have a blessed day.

Oh, I will all right. I’m counting my blessings that I won’t be rubbing elbows or shoulders or anything else this shyster may be planning, ever again. And when it comes to the TMJ, I’ll just take smaller bites.

Imagine the scene: A toddler falls into the backyard pool. His mother discovers him, rushes him into the house and calls 911. Police and rescue workers arrive. As one of the officers tries to assist, she slips on the wet floor and falls hard on her knee, breaking it. As a result, the officer is out of commission for two months while she receives physical therapy. That’s a pain. However, the boy who fell into the pool didn’t fare as well. He’s severely brain-damaged, breathing from a tube and spending his days and nights in a nursing home. His family is, as you might imagine, devastated. Things couldn’t be much worse for them.

Oh yes, they could. Nine months later this police officer, a 12 year veteran with her department, decides her pain and suffering has just been too much. So she does what any upstanding American does in such a situation—she sues the boy’s family. Why? Well, I mean, really—they should have cleaned up that puddle of water from the floor. Didn’t they know the officer might slip and fall?

Ladies and Gentlemen…you have got to be kidding me. What was the frantic mother supposed to do? Haul out the mop since “company” was arriving to try to save her child? Maybe she should have brewed coffee and baked cookies, just in case the rescue workers got hungry.

The motto is “Protect and Serve.” Let’s look at that word “serve,” shall we? In police work it means putting the citizen’s safety above your own, and excuse me, Officer, but sometimes that means accidents (or worse) happen. I’ve never even heard of an officer suing because he/she was shot at a crime scene. But to sue because you fell down and went boo-boo because of a wet floor?

Our lawsuit happy society needs to get a grip. There’s such a thing as taking the responsibility that comes with the risks of a job…with the risks of living one’s life. I caught the flu last year, probably from someone sneezing and hacking in my doctor’s office. Am I going to sue that person? The doctor? The maker of Kleenex for lack of protection? No. Like the adult I am, I know that sometimes shit happens. That’s life. Try as I might, sometimes things go wrong…sometimes when you’re just minding your own business like that poor kid.

The police department has since placed the litigious cop on leave. They did the right thing. Now the complainant needs to drop the matter and move on. If she wants something to cry about, she should visit that boy and his family at the nursing home. She might walk away with something she very much needs: Perspective.

Turkey and I have engaged in quite a bit of pontificating recently about health care, doctors, and their maddening practices (or lack thereof). Today I introduce a new topic into the discussion, one that isn’t necessarily about doctors or their practices but one which cannot be ignored. In this case, “the clinic,” as I shall call it, serves as the backdrop for some of the most inappropriate and arrogant work behavior I have ever encountered.

First I want to make clear—a private business owner can do whatever he/she wants with his business (within the law). I understand that. So please don’t bombard me with arguments reiterating this. The right of the employer is a priori. But the thrust of this blog will be about the appropriateness of exploiting certain philosophies and beliefs in the workplace. In this specific case, I am talking about religion.

The staff members I work with are all of the Christian persuasion. How do I know this? It’s not hard. I overhear them talking about their churches, pastors, and biblical names of their newborns, ad nauseam. Not long after I began work there the owner of the practice remarked that while it was tough for him to have faith that his employees would correctly perform their job, he had no doubt that “Moses parted the Red Sea.” (He later acknowledged he had a slight control issue, but that’s another matter.)

At first, I didn’t allow all this holy talk to bother me. I liked the job, and for the most part, the people. The patients are all pretty nice, but lately I noticed they all share a similar quality. One day a pleasant young woman asked me if I had met ___________ at church. Uh, no. It then struck me that most of the patients go to the same churches as the clinic’s owners. I began to realize I was surrounded.

None of this is particularly harmful, sure. But since there are only eight of us who work at the clinic, me being the only non-religious person, I’m aware that I am often viewed with pity. Not only do I not refer to “my church” after each breath, but I live “in sin,” with a man who is some twenty years my senior. These folks, no doubt believe I am headed straight for Hell. Not that I have ever mentioned my religious beliefs nor have they attempted to proselytize to me (yet), unless you count the office manager’s efforts to harangue me into shopping at Wal Mart. No, I didn’t really start to have a problem with any of this until one morning I went to pour myself a cup of the battery acid they call coffee and encountered Jesus on the microwave.

There He was, in all of His glory, quoting Scripture (well, I guess He wouldn’t really be quoting, would He?) on the 365 pages of His day-by-day calendar. Tear off a page, get a new bible verse (New Testament, natch)!

Up until this discovery, I had turned the other cheek as the office manager, let’s call her Marion, hummed along to the Christian radio station (I might add that the station plays, dare I say, some of the most god-awful “music” I’ve ever heard). She kept the station at low volume, so I figured, what the hell?

After I was there a while, Marion began leaving at noon each day so I could take over at the desk. Great! Except that practice turned into yet another “God Encounter.” You see, Marion’s home page on the Web is a lovely site devoted to all those followers who desire to walk the fundamentalist path toward their Creator. The Enlightened are treated to such articles as “Should we curse those who hate Him,” “Be a Christian hedonist,” “Human Beings don’t deserve Him,” and my personal favorite, “Abortion = Racism,” (huh?).

I took it all in stride, even made a game out of trying to type in a more work-appropriate website (Google, for example) before Marion’s Jesus page automatically popped up. Sometimes I even won!

I should also mention, that in prominent view atop Marion’s desk, leaning against a dictionary with a copyright date of 1955, rests a bible. But it doesn’t stop there. When in conversation with Marion, she’ll always find a way to mention:

A. Church
B. Her bible
C. Church

It usually goes something like this: “I was making dinner the other evening and had to put down my bible so I could stir the sauce,” or “I was walking across the room the other night with my bible.” You get the idea. Recently I had the honor of having some of my creative work shown at a public venue; I invited Marion who informed me that she would love to come but “I have bible study.” Oh, too bad the exhibit falls on that particular night for you. Oh, you have bible study EVERY night. Um, okay, never mind.

Yes, Christian ideology is everywhere at the clinic, and so is the simple-mindedness that goes with good fundamentalist thinking. For example, not long ago, one of the clinicians told me that “all things in life work to the good.” Oh, you mean like the “good” that came about when those six million Jews were gassed during World War II? Or do you mean the “good” that is coming out of scores of Iraqi civilians being blown up nearly every day in Baghdad? That’s really working well for them!

So when I wandered over to the kitchen area that morning and found the Jesus calendar staring up at me, well, I guess you could say that was my tipping point…so I tipped…the calendar over…face down. Later it was resurrected and is now firmly in place next to the radio. Well, at least it’s sitting up high atop a file cabinet, and not within my direct line of vision.

What’s my problem? How about the fact that the workplace is not an appropriate locale to bring your Jesus paraphernalia everyday? Maybe your co-workers aren’t Christian. And by the way, this goes for any religion. I don’t want to be force-fed Islam, Eastern mysticism, or Judaism on the job either. Leave your religious texts at home, and turn off the Christian pop station. You want to sing “Jesus Loves You,” join the choir.

That brings up another point. Your clients. Sure, some of them come from your church. But what about those who don’t? Do you really think they want to hear Marion humming along with Amy Grant? Or commenting on how, once her daughter graduates from college, she’s got to “get her married,” because that’s what good Christian girls all do?

There’s something rather sad and pathetic about someone who has to bring reminders of Sunday School with her to work. I guess it’s not enough to carry Jesus in one’s heart–one also has to carry the Jesus Calendar.

Yeah, yeah, if the boss approves of Marion’s actions, he—and she—has the right. I mean the boss broadcasts Fox News all day on the TV in the treatment room. But the religious thing–that’s just going too far. Religion and politics are both personal, but religion more so. Unless you work at a church or synagogue, constantly harping on your religious beliefs to your co-workers and clients is unacceptable. If it takes bringing Jesus calendars and bibles into a secular workplace each day to get you through life, maybe your faith needs a little more muscle.

So hey, Marions of the world, if you must listen to religious music at work, why not try a crossover artist like Bach (and improve your taste at the same time)? Leave the Jesus calendar in your kitchen, at home, He’ll forgive you. And please, tell your church friends to stop calling work about the bake sale—this pagan has had her fill.

Addendum: Since composing this blog several weeks ago, I’ve felt very conflicted about leaving it up on the N.T. I’ve taken it down twice. Now, re-posting it a third time, I’ve decided to let it be. You see, generally speaking, I like the people at the “clinic.” They are not mean-spirited and have shown me kindness. I also understand that we all need someone or something to lean on. In that way, few of us are all that different from the Marions of the world. However, I maintain that the work place is no place for religion.

Proving this point, I have been let go from the clinic. My boss informed me that he desired someone with more experience in the field. I don’t disbelieve him. But I also believe that if I had been a nice, church-going girl instead of a left-leaning, NPR-loving humanist, I would still be employed at the clinic, at least for a little while longer. I admit, I’ll miss the place. But it’s not good to be where you’re not wanted. And I don’t think I could have put up with the Jesus calendar much longer.

So, into the job market I go. My best to Marion. I hope she receives the comfort she desires. And I hope I find a work place that’s a bit more sensitive to its employees’ religious and political preferences. Wish me luck!

Ah, summer nights. A time for leisure and relaxation. For having fun. Hot summer nights are made for going to the movies. Happy people hanging out. The air smells like hot dogs on the grill. The Fourth of July is just around the corner. It’s time to take your place in line at the box office to see the new thriller, romantic comedy or action picture. So, let’s go to the show!

Sounds great, doesn’t it? Well, it used to be. But the fun of going to the movies, I’m afraid, has come to an end. Why is this? Let me tell you about a recent Saturday night when my partner and I set out to see a movie.

We were up for it. Had read all the reviews. Knew we were on to a good one. We were feeling psyched. Then we pulled into the parking lot and the excitement began to fizzle.

First of all, forget your “local cinema.” These days it’s the multi-plex featuring approximately twenty screens. The theatre is usually grounded in the middle of one of those BIG STORE “malls.” That’s fine and dandy except for the small detail that there is no damn place to park. So my partner and I have a plan. He drops me off at the box office where I proceed to buy the tickets while he drives around (and around and around) to find a space to park. Once he succeeds he joins me at the door of the theatre where I have tickets in hand.

Let me say something about those tickets. Since it’s later in the evening, the prices are higher. Okay. We expected that. What we didn’t expect though was to pay NINE DOLLARS for one general admission ticket. Since my partner is officially a “senior,” his ticket was only six-fifty. All total, that’s over fifteen bucks for two tickets to see a movie that is one hour and thirty five minutes in length.

Being the gluttons that we are, we proceed to the concession stand. One large diet coke and medium-sized popcorn later, we are out approx. ten bucks. That’s a lot of money for a soda and popped corn kernels. Of course, a “medium” size is actually a large, and a “large” size is actually the right amount if you’re, say, a giant. These gargantuan sizes are a scam so these junk food makers can charge more money. As a result, your waist line expands at about the rate of their bank accounts.

We proceed to the theatre, one of those stadium size jobs. We actually like this feature because it insures us that if someone wearing a cowboy hat sits in front of us, we’ll still be able to see and won’t be forced to sit elsewhere (or have a confrontation with said cowboy). We’ve gotten there early, in plenty of time to find good seats. But really that’s not so good because then we are subjected to the “pre-show,” twenty minutes of loud, obnoxious ads, B movie previews, and vanity interviews with the stars. Oh yeah, there was also an animated short in the guise of a “cartoon” which was really just an ad for the Cartoon Network. I won’t go into to how vulgar it was. Suffice it to say, I really miss Bugs, Daffy and the gang.

Finally the ear-splitting “pre-show” is over. The lights dim and we sit back ready for a couple of previews for A-list movies. Well, we get previews all right. About seven or eight of them, one after the other. On about number six, my partner wonders aloud if we’re ever going to see the film we have paid good money for. About ten minutes later, we get our wish.

Oh, did I mention the fact that the previews for these upcoming summer blockbusters did nothing but convince us that (a. We never want to see the movie, and (b. We don’t need to see the movie now because all of the important plot points were given away in the preview.

After the movie ended, my partner and I felt better. It had been an enjoyable ninety or so minutes. The audience was well-behaved because its members were older and the film was on the serious side. No screaming teenagers and crying babies to ruin our viewing. Being the good patrons that we are, we threw the remainders of our concessions away. The popcorn, by the way, was pretty bad. How hard can it be to make good popcorn? The movie theatre is the place where one used to be able to find good popcorn! It was the pinnacle of popcorn making all of us amateurs strived to achieve before we gave up and bought the microwave stuff.

We walked out into the warm evening. People were milling about, sucking on root beers and frozen yogurt sticks. This was good. Unfortunately, the walk to the car was more like a hike since my partner had to drive to the outer banks to find a parking space. Oh well, we needed the exercise after our junk food feast.

On the way home, we talked about the movie and agreed we liked it. But we also agreed that the theatre and movie industries need to make a few changes:

1. We don’t pay nine bucks a ticket to watch ads. Previews of coming attractions are fine. A Pepsi advertisement to the tune of “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” is not.

2. We don’t need supersized sodas and popcorn bags. Obesity in this country is a serious problem. Decrease the size and lower the price.

3. Bring back movie ushers. We were lucky that there were no loud talkers during our movie. But that’s the exception. We need ushers to remind people that a movie is made to watch–in silence.

And to the movie studios: Stop with your ridiculous re-makes of old movies and TV shows. Use some originality in your scripts. Quit turning out stuff that only the dumbest teenagers want to see. You might also join with theatre owners to make going to the movies a pleasurable experience again. Until then, we’ll stick with Net Flix where we can see a good movie in the comfort of our home, for a lot less dollar price. We can park in our own garage without hassle. We can fast foward through the coming attractions. We can place the DVD on “pause” when we need to visit the bathroom.

And our homemade popcorn is a whole lot better, with or without the butter.