This is Not An American Girl Production

I thought I had escaped the latest American Girl juggernaut when my sister volunteered weeks ago to take Thing 1 to the "Kit Kittredge" movie. My little scheme, however, was thwarted when the appointed day to pump more cash into Barbie's pseudo-profound (and naturally, more expensive) cousins came and the flick was no longer in town.

Because I love my daughter and, in place of my real name, her birth certificate lists the father as "sucker," I hit Movietickets.com. Matinees were playing at three multiplexes in the area, provided you define "area" as within the Eastern Time zone.

"My Love, these are my choices," I said, seeking her infinite wisdom. "Each theater is roughly the same distance from here, time-wise. We can go to Burpport, which is easy access right off I-95 but … it's Burpport. We could very well miss a turn and find ourselves in midst of a Blood/Crypts rumble. Next is Ritzfield, which requires me to rough it on 26 different back roads and risk hitting a nanny goat in panties. Or, there is Snorethorne, which requires me to cross state lines -- always a risky proposition when I am without other adult supervision."

She contemplated via a sip from her glass of the house red, Smoking Loon.

"Snorethorne. I'd rather drive on the parkway than battle the trucks and nuts on 95."

She, as always, was right. Moreover, Snorethorne is bucolic like Ritzfield but without the funny looks from the locals because the minivan bumper doesn't have multiple Cape Cod off-road permits stuck to it.

"I love you," I said. "Can I take you right now? Here, on the granite countertop?"

"Stop it. It's Wednesday."

Next morning, I loaded Thing 1 and a Scooby Doo movie into the minivan and off we went.

It took three tries and four extra miles to gain entrance to the parkway. Each normal path was blocked and detoured because of road resurfacing. Must be an election year.

When we finally hit the parkway, we cruised at 55 for a whopping 18 seconds before we hit bumper-to-bumper traffic. This day, the state had decided to finally chip up all the dead tree branches that fell along the road in the storms we had … back in January. Is the frickin' governorship up for contention this year, too?

When we reached the state line, we encountered five miles of bumps and Jersey-barrier narrowed lanes. It's 10:46 in the morning and this theater better have a full-service bar with cocktail waitresses dressed in "I Dream of Jeannie" outfits or else there will be blood.

We arrived at the Snorethorne Multiplex. At 11:15 on a Thursday morn for a G-rated flick, I am the sole male among a half-dozen moms and grandmoms with two-dozen female spawn in tow. This, I can handle.

Not so much the world's slowest concessionaire. He talked like and had the same hair and cheesy mustache as the flair-pushing restaurant owner in "Office Space." He made you repeat every item in your order twice and then repeated it back to you as he took his sweet, minimum-wage time fetching it. He snapped opened every popcorn bag with a Pete-Townshend-style arm windmill. He counted your change back to the penny -- very carefully. Then he asked if you wanted a receipt.

"Enjoy … the movie … and come back … again."

Finally, we were ensconced in our seats. The lights dimmed. The previews commenced.

Here, I jest not, are two of them:







Now, I appreciate a good threesome as much as the next guy (at least in concept and from what I know from late-night pay-per-view). I also don't believe in putting my kids in a hermetically sealed box. For example, Thing 1 is a big fan of "My Name is Earl" which, I believe, teaches the values of being kind to others as well as serving as a sociological exploration into the mores and fashion stylings of the trailer park crowd. However, even I was a little concerned about these previews, though I'm pretty sure each will later appear in our NetFlix queue.

"Hunny bunny, hold my popcorn. I'll be right back."

An outraged red-haired mom of three had already beaten me to the lobby and the manager.

"I can't believe this! What is going on with you people! This is a film for little girls! Making love! Going to bed! Women kissing!"

"Yeah," I said, now in mock indignation because this was one of the people causing the concession stand experience to be even more tortuous by making snack and drink substitutions in each of her three kids' value packs, "Brad Pitt just said 'screw the pooch,' 'shit' and 'dickwad.'"

"Shit and dickwad!" outraged Red said. "Well, the damage has already been done."

Apparently, they had sent us all to the wrong theater. We were quickly ushered into the one next door and treated to previews of a crappy DreamWorks' animated flick about flies going to the moon and then, finally, "Kit Kittredge: An American Harlot."

Maybe not. Nevertheless, it's nice to think that it could of ended that way.

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