There’s this magical theater where all the girls go to masturbate. Elizabeth knows it well. She sits in the front row, unzipped khaki shorts, and masturbates to the hunky guys she has plastered over the unicorns on her trapper keeper. The movie is never terribly interesting mostly housewives confronting mundane situations like an ex-lover who pops up as the principal of the kindergarten or a former friend who fucked your ex now on the other side of a business deal. There are some robots that mop up the house, but the films never depicts them as more than domestic servants so Elizabeth has lost interest. Primarily the films are about sex, but not the physical kind more the weird emotional kind capitalism consumes as lifestyle. The weird fetishistic touches of consumerism she is allowed, the way her house and body are in some commune of domestic malaise that drives her to the bedroom and that’s when Elizabeth watches, when the movie gives tips on the clit and the pectoral muscles. Where to touch your husband and why. When it’s all over she goes home.