I finished reading Wicked: the Life and Times of Wicked Witch of the West a couple of days ago. I probably shouldn’t have admitted that, because now Girlie and Ben will now gang up on me insisting that I write the review for ASif!, but that’s not going to be too hard (when I make the time) because it is brilliant. Brilliant as in, I think I have to pass it on to the second reviewer so I might buy myself a copy.
Anyway, watch out for the review… but since that might take a week or so, just go and buy the darn book. That’s what the review will say anyway, just in more words.
I watched The Mummy a couple of days ago, and The Mummy Returns tonight.
I’d really like to be able to say that I watch and enjoy them because of my joy at seeing archaeology and egyptology on the big screen, getting a cool rep; for the awesome FX; and for the manic action sequences.
Part of that is true – I leave it to you to figure out what’s a big fat lie from that statement. But the truth is, I like those movies for the same reason I like the original Star Wars movies.
Yes, it’s partly the action and the explosions – particularly in Star Wars. But the reality is, I watch them for one main reason: Rick O’Connell (Brendan Fraser) and Han Solo (Harrison Ford), and their relationships with Evie/Leia.
This is my big guilty secret, that I am trying to come to grips with, and which outing myself here will hopefully help: I am a sucker for romance. It has to be surrounded by action, and explosions, and preferably lots of cool FX and a scifi bent; the heroine has to not be a wimp and the hero has to be a real hero (being a rogue helps as well) – and I love movies with no real romance, too – but, still, a bit of romance done well is not something I object to.
I’ve spent a lot of time over the last decade or so building up an anti-romance persona; it hurts to tear it down! And there are certain friends to whom I will never admit this, ever. Because they will never let me live it down. Like they still tease me for getting married, after saying I never would (six years today). Kate – stop scheming right now!
The back story:
I experienced asthma as a kid, although never badly; it seemed to disappear in my teens. When I moved to Melbourne, I got wheezy in winter when I got the sniffles. Then, about 5 years ago, it came back with a vengeance: one time I didn’t think I’d make it from uni to home. That was, oh, about 300m. Maybe 500. Anyway, it was scary, and I’ve since got paranoid about carrying ventolin (my husband would say not paranoid enough).
The actual story:
Last night we were at a BBQ at a friend’s place around the corner (literally; we cross no roads to get there. So cool). We left just as the Aussies were coming on to bat in the Twenty20 match.* I jogged home – in my thongs – knowing that I would regret doing so, because a month ago that would have had me reaching for the ventolin when I got back.
No ventolin! No wheezing! Lungs acting like they ought, instead of trying to murder their owner! This is pretty small stuff, I know, but I am so excited. It must be because of the jogging I’ve done over the last few weeks – this is an unexpected, and quite wonderful, side effect.
* BORING. What and average game that was!