Avatar in 3-D

For weeks now, Anthony’s been anticipating the release of “Jennifer’s Body” in the cinemas, as he is a huge fan of Megan Fox. Although he appreciates the subtlety of her acting skills, he can’t, from time to time, help being distracted by the nubile young actress’ shapely figure. Unfortunately, I end up being the one to give him the sad news: “Jennifer’s Body,” due to its unconventional contents involving teenage cannibalism, will not be released in theaters in Australia. Luckily “Avatar 3-D” is, which temporarily quelch the inevitable whining. Anthony and I plan on arriving at the theater early to purchase our tickets, only to find out from Tony upstairs that the film is already generating enough buzz to garantee really bad seats for people who didn’t have the foresight to order tickets online. Our plans change immediately and we procure our spots on the internet and selecting the best possible seats (there aren’t many left). The V-max theater does not have a sit-where-ever-you-like policy and the teenage ushers are pretty on top of things in there.

Armed with a large and mostly empty bag, Anthony and I head into the supermarket to select our contraband candies and chips before trotting over to the theater to claim our tickets. We have saved our free 3-D glasses from a previous movie session…and a good thing we did too since now they’re charging money for it. The movie theater franchise certainly has a way of ensuring your viewing pleasure is marred by incidentals. Unfortunately the glasses have been carelessly tossed on the kitchen counter and has accumulated more grease than an Irish fry up. Anthony spends most of the pre-movie time cleaning the lenses, using the patented huffing on the lenses and wiping it vigorously with concession napkins.

I did not enjoy “Titanic” at all even though I appreciated all the efforts put into recreating one of the world’s worst human tragedy of all time. This is largely because I have seen the more historically accurate Broadway version of “Titanic: The Musical” prior where all the characters were based on real people. Although the musical was excellent, the actual crash into the iceberg was depicted by a 5-inch long and 1 foot high model of the boat and so the disaster itself didn’t really resonate, which was why I gave “Titanic” the movie a pass because of the incredible filming of the crash itself. With this said, I was feeling a bit iffy about “Avatar,” especially after finding out that Cameron has written the screenplay all by himself. But you can slap a pair of 3-D glasses on me and I’ll sit through the third installment of “Spy Kids” without making snide remarks—that’s how much I enjoy a showing of a movie in three dimension. When someone shells out $100 million bucks to make a movie, bad dialogues be damned.

Well, I thoroughly enjoyed this movie, especially knowing nothing about it (that’s the trouble with not getting my dose of Entertainment Weekly). The special effects does reflect the millions of dollars put into the film and the storyline, although reminiscent of “Pocahontas,” and  “The Wild Thornberries the Movie,” does not disappoint. I am also not going to complain about the Roger Dean-esque sets (oh, you Yes fans out there knows exactly what I’m talking about) because it’s simply a treat for the eye. The film is so thrilling, in fact, that it received applause from the oftentimes highly critical teenaged audience at the end.

“It’s not ‘Jennifer’s Body,’” I tell Anthony when it is over. “But it does the job.”

“Blood oath,” he concurs.

We then wander bleary-eyed out of the theater as the movie is so exciting from beginning to end that we have not blinked once through the nearly three hour feature. We pass a bin asking the moviegoers to trash the 3-D glasses and ignore it. Although I am too cheap to pay for yet another pair (albeit grease-less) glasses, I have originally saved it in the first place as an act to add one less thing to the landfill. After all, it’s movies like “Avatar” that has taught me to respect Mother Earth, no matter what planet you’re on.

How to Pretend You’re a Gourmet Chef

When I was younger, my mother used to assure me that I won’t have to lift a finger when it comes to planning my own wedding. “You can plan your own children’s wedding,” she has said repeatedly, “but I’m doing yours.”

Some daughters might view this as some sort of threat against their own creative bridal freedom, but I just laughed it off because A. I didn’t think I was going to get married to any ol’ icky boys and B. I was soooo not the type to drool over bridal magazines and pretend to walk down the aisle on my Most Important Day. The only thing I’ll fight her on is the cake. That is the only aspect of the wedding I will meddle in. When my friend and I were play-acting, as girls of 14 years of age were wont to do, I always volunteered to be the hillbilly groom while she opted to be the pregnant bride (this is what happens when your play partner is an only child and watches a lot of soaps). Although I am now happily engaged, the notion still haven’t sunk in completely and I still haven’t made the beeline for the bridal mags at the newsagents, what with Modern Tattoos being more interesting reading material. I do have an excuse for putting off “wedding researches” because I still have to weather through Anthony’s upcoming expedition to PNG first.

I have mentioned before that my friend Debs has gotten engaged shortly after me and has gone into full-on planning mode before her finger even warmed the ring. I’ve only just receieved an email from her recently telling me that the “pain-in-the-neck” portion of her wedding is now over and she can concentrate on the “fun” part. I can only gloat about the fact that I won’t have to do any of that and that Anthony and I will only have to show up at whatever venue my mother has booked. Anthony might be talked into getting a hair cut (although, knowing him, he won’t settle for anything more than a trim) and I’ll probably won’t be allowed to hand-stitch my own dress. Still, it’s a small price to pay for a stress-free wedding, right?

In any case, Debs also goes on for a bit about becoming a married woman and the grime behind the glamour. Single girls can’t usually see past the glitz of the wedding day, but Debs is sensible enough to know that married life isn’t going to be easy. She knows her strength doesn’t lie in the kitchen and whines in her email to me about being responsible for meals. As this is a dilemma for many of my single gal pals, here’s a little advice I can dispense…but only heed it at your own risk.

The trick to fooling your mate into thinking you’re a gourmet chef is the sauce. You can botch up the meat any way you want, but it’s the sauce that will save it. Luckily the supermarket sells these ready-made sauces where the instructions usually goes along the lines of “heat up sauce. Add onions.” If you don’t have time to follow a recipe through, just chop everything up, heat up the pan, toss everything in, and dump in the sauce. To make your mate anticipate the glory that is to be dispensed on his plate, ALWAYS cook the onion and garlic first. The smell will permeate the rooms and while that’s going, you can worry about how you can shave the suspicious-looking gray spots on the chicken cutlet.

After a while, I assure you that you’ll get good at the chopping and the sauteeing and you can even talk a blue streak while you’re frying up those potatoes and stirring noodles at the same time. It does help tremendously if you have some loud showtunes playing in the background. But that’s just me. You can listen to Britney Spears if you want.

What Choo Gonna Do When They Come For You?

CRUNCH! BANG!

“Someone’s crashed up their car!” Anthony is immediately alert. He darts out the door.

I used to live right by Francis Lewis Boulevard, where, car crashes are a common appearance. Idiots seems to think the long strip of uninterrupted boulevard is an ideal place for drag racing so I’m not as alarmed as Anthony. But then there’s another crash, and the distinct scent of burnt rubber comes coasting down the road. I abandon my paints and run outside.

“Someone just did a hit and run,” Anthony informs me and rushes back into the house to get his phone. He has the most scute sense of civic duty I’ve ever seen. He will witness someone breaking some traffic offense, pull up next to them, and shake his head vigorously and loathsomely at them, oftentimes earning himself a finger or two. I’m not the least bit surprised to see him getting himself involved in this hot mess. He grabs the phone, runs out of the house barefooted, and demand to know where the four teenagers he’s spotted running out of the crashed car have gone to. They have all split up, trying to look casual, but one girl has unwisely put herself in a bright pink T-shirt that morning, not knowing she’s going to be involved in a police car chase and a hit and run. She was quickly absconded by a large bald man who’s seen the whole thing, flanked by Anthony, who ran up the road, screaming at her for her wrongdoing. A police cruiser comes careening down Riviera and Anthony and Baldie immediately flagged it down. With an accusing finger they point at the girl, who was immediately apprehended by the cops, who easily went fro 40 mph to about 100 within a space of 2 seconds.

“I’m going to get you!” she screams at Baldie, Anthony and me as she was thrown into the backseat. I am glad to see the cop slamming the door shut in clear disgust. One cop runs up the beach to nab the other two felons, who are both caught almost immediately. A woman comes out of her driveway and informs me that she saw a guy scaling the fence into the resort behind her property. This has the cops doing more running.

As the guy is still on the lam, Anthony decides to help out by hopping on his bike and apprehend the felon on his own.

“Put your shoes on, for the love of god!” I shout at him as he runs back into the house, letting out little yelps as the self-heating asphalt under his feet burns into his skin. Why Aussies don’t wear shoes I have no idea. It’s probably because of the lack of No Shoes No Shirt No Service signs on storefronts.

Helicopters are summoned, as is the channel 9 newsvan.

“Ooo! We’re going to see this on the news tonight,” I say. “How’s my hair?” It’s in a granny knot, but I can feel several wayward pieces already escaping and doing some kind of dance to invisible disco soundtrack. Great, I’ll be known as that crazy-haired-American-at-the-scene. I decide to stay clear away from the squad car and the newsvan.

Anthony returns after 20 minutes or so, saying that the fourth guy, clearly the mastermind of the high speed police chase prior to the hit and run, has not been found yet. He won’t be hard to spot. How many guys are out there wearing only a pair of boardies and a bum pack? Hopefully we will see the outcome on the news tonight.

All the hoopla eventually dies down and the trio of offenders are driven away. Anthony limps back into the house and proceed to spend the rest of the afternoon moaning about his injured feet and trying to guilt me into making him a sandwich. I make sympathetic sounds but mostly ignored him. Guys can be such babies when they’re injured or sick. The only reason why the Great Organizer of the Universe gives only women the monthlies because It knows that if men had to deal with it, they’ll probably all commit suicide after experiencing the first cramp.

I am beyond impressed by the athleticism of the cops here. The ones I’ve seen are tall and built and don’t have mini orbits circling around their mid-section. The way they run and up the streets (and it’s a hilly one) under the blistering sun without collapsing or drawing their guns is commendable in my book. The two cops that I knew in NY won’t last for half a block. It’s really no wonder that cops in the States are usually associated with donuts and inhalers.

Well! I must be off now. It’s nearly time for the 9 Gold Coast News. I’ll know once and for all what the hoopla up the street today is all about!

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

This will mark my second Christmas here on the Gold Coast and I’m sorry to say, I’m still not feeling it. There’s just something wrong with seeing guys wearing nothing but a pair of boardies and a smile hanging up Christmas lights on their houses. Or seeing mall Santas parading around in a very light-weight polyester suits with a two-inch wide white cotton trim (you can almost see a built in fan oscillating under their beard, like those people trapped in animal costumes at Disneyworld). It’s true that I don’t observe Christmases as obsessively as people seem to believe, but all feelings of chestnuts roasting on an open fire that I used to harbor at this time of year has completely dissipated. It’s just another thing I find I have to give up along with my old life on the other side of the equator, I suppose.

I miss my mother’s obsessive need to bake inordinate amount of rum cakes to appease friends and neighbors. The house, at this time of year, is usually filled with the heady scent of sugar and rum. And she uses Dad’s good stuff too. I miss welcoming students into my classroom because I know at least 89.7% of them will come bearing gifts. I miss having stacks of Ferrero Rocher chocolates within reach at various points in my classroom and I miss the unofficial staff holiday party in Ms. McClung’s snug little apartment where hard liquor are swilled and spilled as we get merrier and merrier. I miss making extra money proctering at LaGuardia high school and knowing that I’ll get a nice fat check in January when my Christmas expenses are tallied by the Visa and Mastercard people. I miss hiking out to Maplewood and indulging in more gluttonous merriment at my friend Lara’s holiday soirees. I miss getting in line for whatever tickets being sold at the Carnegie Hall so my parents and I can present ourselves on Christmas day and be thoroughly entertained by Handel’s Messiah or the Vienna Boys Choir. Or, if I can’t score any tickets, we’ll just drive ourselves to Mitsuwa out in New Jersey and stuff ourselves with some Christmas Curry. I miss wandering around in the Christmas stalls out on Union Square and sampling hot apple ciders and gingerbread cookies. I miss chomping down on the apple cider donuts and debating whether or not I should buy reindeer antlers for Bo. I miss making dozens of Christmas cards by hand and posting them. I miss buying Christmas wreaths made out of red hot chili peppers and hauling it home and convincing Dad that it’s not for his soup, but for ornamental purposes only. Most of all, I miss buying useless presents for my parents and watching them opening them on Christmas mornings before quietly stowing them in the back of closets or cubby holes around the house. I miss making sounds of dismay when I discover that I have once again, forgotten to sit down and watch “It’s a Wonderful Life.” (I still haven’t seen that movie). I miss the 24-hour marathon of “A Christmas Story” airing on TBS and I miss shoving all sorts of goodness down my gullet because we all know that Christmas calories don’t count.

But I can always turn on both fans, pop in a video of Yule Log, suck on a candy cane, and it’ll be a wonderful life after all.

Cyber Collage

I took up collage when, one year, my bursitis got too hard for me to do anything useful. Matisse had the right idea there, when he couldn’t paint anymore, he gathered a legion of assistants and had them cut things out to his specifications. Since I didn’t have any assistants, I resorted to getting my ephemera from the internet and had quite a collection.

Unfortunately, they are still in New York, and I can’t start up a new collection here because of limited storage space. To my delight, however, I found a fabulous website where I can indulge my collaging needs. The best thing about this is that I can’t leave trails of glue everywhere, or yell at a piece of cut out because it’s not the size I need. With the wonderful and magical tools of the computer, I can reduce or enlarge everything to my specification.

Another worthwhile way to pass one’s time. It certain does beat playing online games all day long, don’t you think?

“Tea Time”

One of my first attempts at putting together a “Classic Lolita” look.

“Let’s Bake!”

I love the Blythe dolls. This set’s inspired by my awesome Re-ment miniature foods collection…which I am only bequeathing to a living relative if and only when I’m deceased, Eric Ho-Wang!

“Green Thumbs”

Oh, I just can’t get enough of those Blythe dolls!

“Behind the Attic Wall”

This set was inspired by that wonderful children’s classic “The Little Princess” wherein Sara Crewe woke up in her attic room one night to find it transformed into a vision of delight (albeit no magician in the world could cover up the grunginess of the walls themselves).

“School Daze”

I remember hating school until I was presented with the colorful array of fun by the Trapper Keeper people.

Gobble Gobble!

My favorite time of year is here again, but without the brisk autumn air, the pile of  camphor-scented sweaters replacing the T-shirts and tank tops in my closet, and the sound of leaf blower resonating up and down the street, I don’t feel the slightest urge to go out and secure a turkey. But that’s all right, I can still give thanks anyway. I am thankful that the oncoming summer is helping my hives go away. I am thankful that I have discovered a website where I can watch streaming videos of shows currently airing in the US but not yet in Australia. I am thankful that there IS time in the day for me to do some reading. I am thankful that I can make a 30 minute meal in 20 minutes. I am thankful that the moth situation is going away, and I am thankful that even after all this time and seeing me at my worst, Anthony is still willing to put up with the likes of me.

Little Irene (mee mee mee)

It’s been so blinkin’ hot these days that I’ve been dragging myself around the house, listless and surly. The only time I express an iota of joy is when I plant myself in front of the computer and embark on a fashion page editor site provided by the geniuses of polyvore.com.

While I am busy compiling a page of Harajuku street fashion (I make sure to include a Hello Kitty rice cooker with the miscellaneous accessories. Really, you can spend DAYS on this website), Anthony comes bounding into the house and says that we’re going to Pacific Fair after lunch. This is a surprise. Ever since we’ve discovered the mall in Robina, we’ve been avoiding Pac Fair like a plague. Although it’s a really nice shopping institution, most of it is located outdoors and away from the comfort of regulated air conditioning.

“We are going to sort out your medicare card today,” Anthony proclaims. He has gotten an email from the woman overseeing my visa application saying that I can go for the Australian medicare even though I haven’t been approved yet.

I gasp at this announcement. “Finally! I can get that thing on my head lanced off!”

“No, no…you can’t do that yet. This just means you can get the swine flu shot for free.” He goes on to explain the intricacies of the medicare system, but I’m already dreaming of the day when I won’t be subjected to the ridicule of having an unformed twin attached to my head.

It really isn’t an unformed Siamese twin. It’s just a tiny spot resting on a rather unfortunate spot above a hairline which makes it hard for me to conceal its existence when I have my hair pulled back. This spot was  once biopsied, declared harmless, and promptly forgotten…that is, until a few years ago when I was in a car with my brother and he happened to look over.

“What the hell is that?” he inquired and pointed to my head.

“What? Oh, that. Dr. Wong said it’s just a follicular malformation,” I say. “It’s basically just a wad of oil with some hair trapped inside.”

“That’s gross,” my oh-so-sensitive brother proclaimed. “You should have that cut off.”

I peered at it from the sun visor mirror. “It’s not bothering me.”

A few more years later, the spot has taken on the size and shape of a Volkswagen Beetle and even I wasn’t able to fully ignore it now. I had to warn whoever that was cutting my hair what’s lurking underneath all that hair lest they’d be faced with a sudden confrontation. The thing is so large now that it made me wonder if my brother had been right after all. I presented the newly improved growth to my brother, who had dabbled in the medical profession. After making all sorts of sounds of distaste, he decided that it really should be lanced off.

“We’ll put some newspapers down on the bathroom floor,” he said. “I’ve still got my scalpel set, and I’ll cut it off. It’ll be our weekend project.”

“I was hoping you’d ask one of your doctor friends for the surgery,” I said, my voice high-pitched with fright.

“I can do it,” he said. “Didn’t I used to pop your water blisters?”

“Yeah, and you also used to try to cut off my circulation with the tourniquet,” I said, shuddering at the memory of that particular boy scout skill he was honing. “You’re not coming anywhere NEAR me with that scalpel!” I said with finality. “I bet you won’t even give me any anesthesia.”

“Fine, but that thing on your head is just one season away from talking.”

I poked at my malformation now and again with interest. I’ve seen that movie “How to Get Ahead in Advertising,” a British flick about a man who had a boil on his neck which gradually morphed into a second head and proceeded to take over his life. Would Little Irene, as my brother dubbed the growth, aiming to do the same? After all, the thing had over two decades to sit around and brood on ways of doing me in and then becoming the puppet master to my body. Would Little Irene be good or evil? Sometimes, late at night, I thought I could hear a teeny voice going, “Mee mee mee!”

My health insurance was almost always non-existent. I either fall into employment that didn’t provide health care cover, or I was unemployed and couldn’t afford such a luxury. For a while I was on medicaid, but I had so many things going on that needed fixing first that Little Irene was shoved to the back burner. I hated being on medicaid. The doctors there probably all interned at Auschwitz and had the bedside manner of a toad. When I finally qualified for legitimate health coverage for that one year in all my years of teaching, I quickly made dentist appointments, which resulted most unsatisfactorily.

Unlike most people I know, I had a good rapport with my original dentist. I understood he was going to inflict pain on me, but I also understood he had tanks of nitrous oxide and a prescription pad. Dr. Chung’s interest in me didn’t extend to just my teeth, but my overall comfort while in his chair, and my ability to fashion wisdom teeth into necklaces and proposed a business partnership. He had removed all of my wisdom teeth and allowed me to choose various manner of zonk-out drugs. When I at last chose the gas, he put on Pink Floyd and in my hallucinatory state I envisioned him as a Chinese Paul Kantner asking me if I was feeling “psychedelic.” He was a scream.

When I couldn’t afford to go to him anymore, I was first sent to a newly established dentist who examined my X-rays by holding it up against the window. Then, Dr. Sadist, who made sure I lose a pint of blood through my gums. My favorite was Dr. Ghost, who had his dental hygienist do all the dirty work first, then descended upon me like some kind of Dental Ghost, stuck a finger into my mouth and poked around a bit, said, “Good teeth,” and swiftly disappeared. Hell, if I knew dentistry is that easy, I’d have set up an office, slap on a glove, and poked a finger up someone’s mouth and collect $200. This is the kind of health care you get from an insurance company that uses a menacing cobra snake as its logo.

I happily follow Anthony through a maze of avenues in the mall, basking in the airconditioning and into the Medicare office. There is a wait, but neither of us mind, not on a hot day like this. The application process takes all of 5 minutes and we are set free. Anthony then decides to take me to the private health care office, which, if I am under their care, I can have an organ transplant whenever I want opposed to being on a mile-long waiting list. Again, there is a wait, but, dizzy with the idea of finally getting rid of Little Irene and not having to pay an exorbitant price for a two-minute procedure, overrides any feelings of annoyance.

I can’t say I’ll be sad to say goodbye to Little Irene when the time comes even though she’s been a part of me for 24 years, but I bet I’ll miss the little voice going “Mee mee mee!”

The Ants Go Marching One By One

I like to sleep in on Sunday mornings because I have come to discover that, when Anthony gets bored waiting for me to get up, he’ll clean the toilet and wash the floors. It’s a little racket I’ve got going which benefits the both of us. We’d have a pristine toilet, I’d catch up on my sleep, and Anthony feels a sense of accomplishment that can only come with completing a household chore.

Unfortunately, he also starts making coffee at 4 in the morning. Since the walls are made out of styrofoam, I can hear every single thing going on in the kitchen. This morning, however, I have a good reason to wake up at that hour. I knock on the wall to get Anthony’s attention.

“You rang?” Anthony appears like a butler at my bedside (sadly without a glass of mimosa.

“Will you please take the bacon out of the freezer?” I whisper hoarsely and get ready to roll back to sleep. Anthony has now come to expect a couple of Eggs Benedict every Sunday morning. He says it’s the only thing that makes him want to get on with the new week ahead.

“No worries,” he responds. “Oh, I have terrible news for you.”

“What is it?” I immediately sit up. “Has the toilet flooded again?” Crap! Would I have to wee in the yard now? “Did the TV explode?” My livelihood! My world! Gone!!! “Oh no! Something’s wrong with the car again!” Goodbye, Cheap Ass Tuesday and money in the bank that will go into the deep pockets of Daryl the Mechanic.

“No, it’s about the muffins,” Anthony says sadly.

“You didn’t eat all of them, did you?” There were about 5 muffins left, all of them loaded with saturated fat and other figure-ruining goodness.

“No. The ants has got to them,” he said. “I guess the plastic wrap wasn’t enough to keep them out. There were thousands and thousands of them, swarming at the muffins.”

I stare at him unblinkingly. This isn’t the first time Anthony’s played mean tricks on me. Serves me right, since I’d been planning on eating his share of the muffins this morning and making him believe he’s the one who’s had them.”You’re lying,” I say finally and lie back down on my pillow. Ants. That’s a new one.

“I was in the kitchen, and out of the corner of my eyes I saw the muffins move,” Anthony tells me. “Then I look over and there were masses of them coming through the window and going at the muffins.”

“Are you sure you didn’t eat them all?” I say, still suspicious, since this is the kind of story I’d come up with to explain the missing treats.

“Of course I didn’t.”

“Ohhhh….” I groan, deeply disappointed.

“I’m upset too,” Anthony says forlornly. “I was looking forward to having a couple this morning with my coffee.”

“So what did you do?” Knowing him he’d leave the plate out to placate the ants. He gets upset when I tell him how I’d chase lizards and dragonflies and moths out of the house because he believes all God’s lowly creatures are his friends…except for cockroaches, that is.

“I had to carry the whole thing out into the trash bin. They were crawling up my arm!” he sighs. “I mean, there’s no point in brushing them off. If it was just one or two…but there were thousands of them!”

“You’ll have to give me a thousand dollars and some de-worming medicine for me to eat muffins ants have trampled on,” I tell him even though I’d been known to eat a pretzel off a New York city sidewalk once. “Where are all the ants now? The ones who didn’t make it on the plate?”

“They haven’t gone home yet,” Anthony says.

“They’d better be home by the time I get up,” I grumble as I roll back to my usual sleeping position (fetal). “If they’re not, then they will know what hell on earth is.”

“Go back to sleep,” Anthony says soothingly. “Sweet dreams.”

I do eventually go back to sleep, but my dreams are filled with crawling ants, all of them eager to cart me off into their ant hill and have me bake them dozens and dozens of muffins.

Lobster Girl

Halloween in Denver featured my niece Leah dressed as one of her parents’ favorite edible crustacean: Lobster.

Of course, being the sadist that he is, my brother had to include a few accessories, namely a large cooking pot. Luckily his wife refused to let him film the Lobster Girl project on the stove.

My brother and sister-in-law’s efforts were well-worth it. Leah won $300 for a children’s charity in her boiled lobster costume!

Irene’s Flora

“Irene’s Flora” is what Jean-It calls her tattoo.

The only other time I’ve been so touched in my life was when one of my graduating students gave me a shout out in his speech at the commencement ceremony.

Thanks, Jean-It for being brave enough to ask me to do you a design and then for going through it!