I took my niece and nephew to the movies this weekend to see “Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit.”

There was a guy sitting in front of us with two kids -- one was a girl about 5 or 6 years old, the other a boy about 9 or 10. The kids talked throughout the entire movie. Correction: They didn’t talk; they screamed. “Why did he do that?!?” “What does that mean?!?” “That’s funny, isn’t it? Isn’t it?!? It’s funny!!”

Now, I know kids will be kids, but the “father” (and I put that in quotes because the girl kept calling him “Tony” instead of “daddy,” so who knows?) was just as bad. His responses were equally as loud, and he did nothing to quiet them down.

And when they left (early, before the movie ended, thank goodness) they left their popcorn bags, sodas, candy by their seats.

What happened to teaching kids proper etiquette? My niece and nephew (she’s 7, he’s 3 -- three!) didn’t talk, cry, complain, etc. They sat there and watched it, silently. The few times my niece wanted to say something to me, she whispered it in my ear.

And had I said something to the guy, I would have been given dirty looks or, worse, screamed at or accosted. Because that’s what people do these days should someone question their behavior.

I’m sick and tired of it. I try to be courteous, but even I find myself getting testy after having been treated like crap time after time. I mean, if everyone else does it, why can’t I?

And let’s be real; everyone says they treat others nicely, but there obviously have to be people who are doing it, because we’ve all experienced it.

I say all the well-raised people should band together and start a movement -- bring shame to those who want to ruin our movie-going (or shopping, eating, etc.) experience. Any ideas?

(The movie was really good, by the way.)

I went to a karaoke bar Saturday with a couple of friends, and I had to relay this exchange I had with the person sitting next to me:

Brain Surgeon: “I’m Spanish.”
Me: “Oh, really? From where?”
Brain Surgeon: “Portugal.”

Sigh.

Ok, so let’s just get this straight. People from Portugal are Portuguese, not Spanish. Just like people from Germany are German, not Italian. Oh, and also, people from Mexico are Mexican, not Spanish. Same goes for all the other Spanish-speaking countries. Notice how I said “Spanish-speaking,” not “Spanish.” There is a distinction, folks. We do not eat black beans and rice, plantains, etc., in Spain. The first time I had Mexican food was on my 23rd birthday, at Chi Chi’s.

I’m not saying one nationality is better than the other. I’m just saying they’re not the same.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go drink a caipirinha and listen to mariachi music.

I went to yoga class last night. I’ve done yoga before, but mostly by watching a DVD or in small breaks while doing kickboxing – never a full-length, one-hour class.

So here I am, in the tree position, about 35 minutes into the class, when I feel my stomach doing stuff it should only be doing in the privacy of my own home. I know what’s coming, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent it. Oh, I try, alright. I clench my butt, I pray to the sphincter gods -- to no avail.

I mean, yeah, I should have known better than to eat black-bean soup that day. And I know that yoga relaxes you … all of you. But man, there should have been something I could have done to turn the sucker around.

I tried to pretend it was the woman in front of me. I made a disgusted face when I smelled it, but it was fairly obvious that I was the progenitor of said stench.

How embarrassing! Oh well. I guess I now have an extra hour of free time on Wednesdays. Maybe I’ll take the spin class. At least then I could contain it with the bicycle seat.

I don’t know about you, but I love a good chick flick. There are a handful of movies you can count on for those days that you just need a good cry: “Beaches,” “Steel Magnolias,” “Bridges of Madison County,” “Bride of Chucky.” Ok, I’m kidding on that last one.

But I saw one this weekend that trumps all other chick flicks: “The Notebook.”

Based on the Nicholas Sparks book, “The Notebook” follows the story of Allie and Noah, who meet as teenagers and fall madly in love but are forced to separate when Allie’s rich parents disapprove of Noah, who works at the local mill. The movie is told in flashbacks, as an old man reads the story to an old woman in a nursing home, sort of like “The Princess Bride” on Paxil.

So about an hour into the movie, I started crying. I still haven’t stopped. Seriously, I have never cried so much at a movie. And if you know me, you know I cry easily. There’s this one wine commercial that kills me every time.

I don’t want to give anything away about the movie, so I won’t mention any more about what happens, but if you love a good cry, trust me, rent this movie!

Now, I know when I say this kind of stuff only happens to me, it’s a little hard to believe, but seriously, this stuff only happens to me:

So I ordered TiVo last week. As of yesterday, I still hadn’t gotten it, so I called for a status update and, after many conversations back and forth between TiVo and UPS, I finally find out that they delivered it to the wrong place (438 instead of 436).

No big deal, right? They can just get the package back from the person at 438. Except she won’t give it back.

Yes, that’s right … When they went to get back the package back, the lady at 438 said “No.” When they explained that it wasn’t hers and was delivered to her by mistake, she said “No.” Now she won’t even open the door.

So not only is my neighbor a thieving biotch, but I am still without TiVo.

I feel like such a moe-ron.

At acting class tonight, our instructor, Deborah, made us do a "trust exercise." Sigh. You know this is not going to turn out well...

So this is how it went: I had to stand at one end of the room while my classmates stood at the other end. I then had to close my eyes and walk towards my classmates, without hesitation and with the full knowledge that they wouldn’t let me walk into the wall.

With the exception of Sarah, I don’t know my classmates all that well. But I do know this much: They will not let me walk into the wall. Because they’re normal human beings. Like me. Ok, I take that back. I’m a freak.

I knew I was going to have a problem with this. When I previously took a class with Deborah, she made us do the exercise and I totally freaked out. So my hyperventilation really did not come as a surprise. What did sort of surprise me was just how scared I was. Before she even called on me, I started crying. I could barely lift my legs from the ground to start walking. And when I did, I kept my clasped hands up by my chest, scrunched up my face out of fear, and just kept chanting "Please don’t let me hit the wall. Please don’t let me hit the wall." Seriously. That’s pathetic.

I am going to practice this until I conquer the fear. Er, scratch that. I know my friends and family. They’ll just trip me. Or push me into the wall. Oh, please. Like you’ve never met them (or are one of them). You know it’s true!