In The Absence Of Julia Roberts, Will Ferrell Will Have To Do

I would like to take this opportunity to make an announcement:

I am going to the movies this weekend. AT THE THEATRE (or, as we say in Alabama, "THEEE-ay-tur").

Oh, never you mind all the bellyaching that I did here. I'm all devil-may-care-ish now. Remember, I DID go grocery shopping without a list earlier this week (I'm ZANY! And WACKY! Practically a PRANKSTER!).

See, what I've realized this summer is that I'm the weird one. I've listened to many of my friends talk about going to see this movie or that movie; I've heard them compare the film version of "The Devil Wears Prada" to the book; I've heard them discuss the, um, merits (yeah. that's it. MERITS.) of Johnny Depp's performances (yeah. that's it. PERFORMANCES.) in both installments of "Pirates of the Caribbean." I've listened to them debate if "The Lakehouse" was any good or not.

All that to say: I've realized that people do actually go to the picture show, and they do in fact enjoy it.

But me? I've just been sitting at home watching re-runs of "Designed to Sell" and "House Hunters."

So this weekend, after resolving to do better in the cinematic arena, I AM GOING TO THE MOVIES. WITH OTHER GROWN-UPS.

Now lest you harbor any notions that I'm returning to the cinema to see a thoughtful documentary about the plight of free range chickens or a character-driven piece focusing on A Tormented Artist, let me just clarify that there is only one man who could convince me to give up my regular Saturday night festivities of ironing clothes and watching TiVo'd episodes of "The Office" and "Project Runway."

That man? Mr. Ricky Bobby. (By the way, that's the third time I've linked to The Official Site, so I'm expecting a check from Sony any day now.)

And at least I'm opting for something highbrow where I won't have to wage cinebattle against teenagers who don't know how to turn off their cell phones or unruly patrons who talk back to the screen.

Ahem.

By the way, my re-entry into movie-going society is courtesy of Daphne, who has proposed a double-date of sorts on Saturday night since she and her hubby only live about an hour away. And while I have wracked my brain to try to remember the last time that Daph and I double-dated (Octoberfest our sophomore year with Bubba and Bryan, perhaps? No? No. Come to think of it, I'm not sure we have ever double-dated, which might make tomorrow night some form of Couple-y Extravaganza), I AM pretty sure that the last movie we saw together in the theatre was "Beaches," which makes me feel like I'm approximately NINETY now, and obviously since we were seeing movies about relationships when we were teenagers but are electing to see comedies about, you know, NASCAR in our 30's, we have grown up a LOT.

Veritable beacons of cinematic maturity, we are.

Daph and her hubby should probably be warned that the last time D. and I went with another couple to the movies, I was pregnant with Alex (I'm telling you - we don't get out much), and I found myself sitting in "Spider Man" behind about three rows of former students, all of whom DELIGHTED in turning around throughout the movie and saying things like, "Hey! Mrs. H.! Did you SEE that? That was IRONY!"

Or better yet, "OOOOOH! Mrs. H.! SYMBOLISM!"

They were so proud of themselves that I didn't have the heart to tell them to SHUSH IT, already. :-) Because while I think I succeeded in helping them to understand literary terms, I'd obviously failed miserably at conveying the essentials of movie-watching etiquette. And I think the latter may have been the more important of the two lessons.

So if you happen to be in our local Rave theatre tomorrow night, come find me. I'll be the nervous woman in "Talladega Nights" who's hoping beyond all hope that the movie is funny, because if it's not, I'll turn into the woman who's confiscating cell phones and glaring stealthily at all the talky patrons.

I know. I have issues.