Super cool movie scene-300

  By Lisa Vankula Donovan | May 2, 2012 - 6:46 PM | Movie and Scene Reviews Leave a comment

Okay, so I decided that since I spend so much time doing important things like watching endless amounts of movies, that I would do a movie review on some of the best moments in cinema history — in my humble opinion.

First up is the scene in the movie 300 where King Leonidis (played by my future husband and current fantasy husband, Gerard Butler) gives a good talking-to, to the visiting Persian messenger, played by Peter Mensah (Hidalgo and Avatar fame).

Check it out, in case you’re like the one person that hasn’t seen it.

This scene is a favourite of mine for a few reasons.

1. As a woman, this is the way we want our men to act in the face of danger.  Look, I’m all for women’s rights but I’d bow down to any king that had those abs  took control like that.  And when he says, “…you insult my queen” I mean, come on.  Guys, you could actually use that exact line to a guy in a bar and although your friends might snicker, you’d be one happy man later.

2. I love how, even though he is the king, before he kicks the guy to the bottom of the gigantic wishing well, he gets the nod of approval from his wife.  Very cool.

3. And seriously, it’s just great writing.  When the messenger says, “This is blasphemy!” and out comes the now famous reply, “This is Sparta!” I think all of us were jumping out of our seats when he kicks the guy square in the meat locker and sends him flying.   Look, I don’t condone violence, but that was just pure awesomeness.  And it’s a movie, get over it.

Tagged , , , , ,

Letters from Loyal Readers

  By Lisa Vankula Donovan | May 18, 2012 - 12:03 PM | Weekly columns Leave a comment

Every now and then, I get a letter from a reader asking questions of great importance.  And by “letter” I mean hate mail left in my mailbox, made up of paper, cut-out letters and paste.

So, I thought I’d take a moment today and answer some of your more pressing threats questions.

Amanda from Zilzie writes:

“What makes you think you’re so funny?”

Amanda, thanks for your question and the nice straw doll you included.  I’m guessing you’re a seamstress judging from the pin you accidentally left in it.  I’d send it back but I’m not sure what the prison policy is. Now, to answer your question; I guess the first time I realized I was funny was when I was 12.  One of my “friends” in class asked me if I ever combed my hair and when I told her my mum had just given me a home perm, the whole class laughed…for a long time.  I’m still not certain what was so funny but boy did it light a fire in the performer in me.

David from Gracemere writes:

“How old are you in that picture you use above your column, the one with the horse?  Do you really expect us all to believe you’re that young?”

Hi, David and thanks for your question and the bouquet of flowers…although I’m not sure when you put them on my doorstep since they were dead.  In the picture I am actually 33, although most think I’m somewhere around 15.  And the girl in the picture is my groomer, Juanita.

Dennis from Valencia, California writes: “Although we don’t actually get your column in any newspaper, in any state, in any city in the U.S., Google recommended your blog, Yank in Oz, when I typed, “inane drivel” into the search engine.  Why do you think that is?”

Good question, Dennis! Since I don’t consider what I do as “inane drivel”, you would have to question the validity and intelligence behind a company that names itself after something you wear on your eyes while swimming.  But that’s just my educated opinion.  Oh, and thanks for the computer virus.  It gave me a chance to test out my new virus software!

Well, readers, I hope that sheds some light into the complex, and humorous world of the Yank in Oz.  Keep the questions and gifts coming!  Although, I don’t like eggs and some of you are really bad shots!

Tagged , , ,

Mother’s Day: A Day of Love and Swag

  By Lisa Vankula Donovan | May 11, 2012 - 10:54 AM | Weekly columns 1 Comment

So, the holiday that I love most has just passed.  Yes, Mother’s Day even trumps my birthday, believe it or not.  See, the way I look at it, you (usually) choose to become a mother; the baby has no say in when the stork brings him down from a cloud in heaven.  (This is a PG column, people.)

Don’t get me wrong; you’ll probably hear me say, sometime around the Monday following Mother’s Day, “Only twelve more weeks until my birthday!” But since becoming a mother – which I guess really isn’t a choice either because there is no way I would choose for a baby to come out of…uh, the sky in a downy white blanket – I find I really enjoy being recognized for the other 364 days of the year I spend wiping noses, bums, picking up toys, bathing slippery, wriggly little people, packing school lunches, putting on the fourteenth Band-Aid of the day on a mosquito bite that they’ve picked open but insist is an “owie” and cooking three meals a day.  Okay, some days I hide in a corner and throw chicken nuggets at them to get a moments peace but we can’t all be Super Mum all the time, can we?

And don’t all of us mothers have dreams of diamond tennis bracelets (one diamond for every hour of labour pain we endured), homemade macaroni signs that say, “Mum, I love you!”; dinner at our favourite restaurant, gift certificates for beauty treatments and horrible breakfasts in bed courtesy of the littlest chefs?

I know I sound a little greedy and some of you may be asking, “Lisa isn’t being a mother the best gift in the whole world?  Why do you need these expensive and time-consuming shows of love?”

And here’s my answer:  A few short years ago I used to sleep until 2pm on a Saturday, get up, make toast and beans for myself, eat it uninterrupted, use the bathroom uninterrupted  (not necessarily in that order), watch entire movies and not miss a single word and never had to wonder whether the spot on my shirt was chocolate or something more sinister.  And this people, is how my husband currently lives.  So yes, I’ll take that diamond tennis bracelet, thank you!

Tagged , ,

A gardener’s work is never done…until everything’s dead.

  By Lisa Vankula Donovan | May 4, 2012 - 11:59 AM | Weekly columns Leave a comment

Some people have a green thumb when it comes to plants.  I have whatever the opposite to that is; we’ll call it The Exterminator thumb.

I have good intentions and aside from my complete inability to keep anything alive for any longer than it takes for the front yard to need mowing, I still get excited walking into a nursery to look for new victims…I mean, plants.  And I could be being paranoid but I’m almost certain I saw a Lilium cover itself with ivy as I passed by during my last visit.

See, I love the idea of plants and wish I was the type of person who had a little garden shed with all of the necessary shears, hoes and phalanges…those are for gardening, aren’t they?  And I’d have a certain day, like Monday afternoon when the kids were in school or napping, that I’d go out in my little floral gardening gloves and matching sun hat and I’d spend a few hours just carefully weeding, pruning and watering until everything looked like a Monet painting.

But what normally happens is, I pick these beautiful (and most importantly alive) plants, take them home with my bag of bargain top soil (I mean, dirt’s dirt, right?), search everywhere for my one plastic (and again, bargain) gardening spade only to find one of the dogs used it as a toothpick, grab a large serving spoon from the kitchen and begin my re- planting.  See, we rent so I don’t want to put my beautiful finds in the ground and then move, so I put them in bigger pots to give them room to die…I mean, grow.

Then after every pretty little flower or plant is snug as a bug in its new pot, lined up on the porch and the lawn has been mowed to give everything that “straight out of a magazine about people who obviously love gardening” look, I completely forget to ever water them again.  I take that back; when the plants are so close to death that I think I can actually hear their little thirsty cries, which usually corresponds with someone visiting and saying, “Wow, looks like those plants need a bit of water,” that, my friends,  is when I water them.

And you make fun, but I’ll bet I can tell you which plants are the hardiest – and it isn’t those damn cacti, I can tell you that.

Tagged , , , ,

Cars and guys with huge…egos

  By Lisa Vankula Donovan | April 27, 2012 - 1:02 PM | Weekly columns 2 Comments

The other day I learned an important lesson; when waiting at an intersection, if a guy in a supped up car is turning in front of you should give him at least a ten-foot space in front of your car so he can use your lane, as well as his own, during the turn.

I did not realize this and, stupidly, didn’t leave the ten-foot space in front of my car and boy, did I get the mean mug.  Sorry, “guy who spends more time making his car look good while avoiding the giant beer belly in front of him”…I forgot that you owned the road.

What is it with these guys whose cars are usually in better shape than their houses or relationships?  That’s assuming they have a house.  If you have a car with rims that are worth more than the car itself and live at home, I’ll say what your mommy and daddy won’t, “Get a job and move out.”  And by “job” I mean one that doesn’t involve a possible felony conviction.

Kind of like the old saying about how girls really dress for other girls, my theory is that guys sup up these cars for other guys.  I could care less how much horse power your car has, or how loud it is when you speed past my house at, at least 30mph over the marked speed limit in a child-friendly neighbourhood.  And it does not impress me one iota that you can leave black rubber marks on a road by wasting the tread on your tires…again.

What impresses real women are guys that go to work, respect their parents and partners and have a really large…heart.

And honestly, you have to question the intentions of a girl that may think these types of guys are cool.  Supped up cars are sort of the ‘fake boobs’ of the guy world.  Is she checking you out or your car?  Does she think you’re cute or just like the way you look in a tight sweater…I mean, car?

So, to sum up: Real women could care less about your badly-wasted college fund; revving your engine and squealing the tires is really only appealing to other men; fake boobs look great in tight sweaters…or something like that.

Tagged , ,

Kiss me — I’m 1/512 Irish

  By Lisa Vankula Donovan | April 13, 2012 - 1:04 PM | Weekly columns 3 Comments

Blame – meaning to ‘assign responsibility for a fault or wrong’.  People blame things on other things all the time.  Take, for example, that time I drank a bottle of wine and ended up joining that fundamentalist cult.  I can now say, after five years and ten kids, it may not have been the wine’s fault.

Anyway, it seems these days whenever people have a personality trait or behaviour that they deem ‘unacceptable’ by society’s standards, they blame it on something else; like their heritage.   And usually it’s a heritage, that without the help of a year-long genealogical dig that dates back a century (if at all) you (and they) never really knew they had.

Take me for example; my paternal grandfather’s, mother’s, great-grandfather’s, sister was straight off the boat from Slovakia.  So, whenever I’m at a gathering and someone mentions how much I seem to like potatoes or say, how much my personality seems to sway so easily between loving and murderous, I say, “Well, it’s just the Slovak in me.” And everyone nods in confused unison.

I’ve also noticed that people blame their bad temper on ‘being Irish’ or because they have red hair; which must be a huge insult to real Irish people and blood nuts*.   I mean, if you’ve got red hair and a temper, more than likely it’s because you were picked on growing up.  Kids can be cruel, I should know; I had blonde hair, growing up, and we all know that stereotype.  But boy did I have the last laugh when a kid in my elementary class told me that fourteen was too old to be in the sixth grade.  And I said, “Ha, ha.  Jokes on you, I’m only thirteen.”

And it seems everybody claims really cool heritages; like the Irish, or Scottish.  Every person can’t possibly be one or the other.  What about all the other countries out there?  I’ve never heard anyone say, “My, those six toes you have are lovely.” And the person replies, “Oh, thank you.  That’s just the Latvian in me.”

So, I think what we learned here today, is that if you have a bad temper, bad teeth, are thrifty to the point of miserliness or drink more than the Catholics at Oktoberfest, we need to place the blame squarely where it should be placed…on our parents.

*carrot-top, ranga, bluey, ginger

Easter, sneaky grandmas and Paris Hilton

  By Lisa Vankula Donovan | April 6, 2012 - 10:58 PM | Weekly columns 3 Comments

I’m standing in the aisle contemplating, when I spot it…the last pink bunny wearing sunglasses holding a chocolate-egg filled guitar.  And by the way the woman next to me manoeuvred her cart in front of mine, she had spotted it too.  Taking a chance, I ditched the kids, darted left between Sneaky Lady’s cart and Confused Husband staring at the array of baskets, reached out my hand and promptly grabbed the wrist of Even Sneakier Grandma who was obviously faking the need for a cane.

Ah, Easter was upon us.  Over-priced hollow bunnies (whose chocolate quality really left something to be desired anyway), over-the-top baskets that would eventually find their way to the top shelf of a closet along with Easter baskets from years past that we had forgotten we had, and everything from stuffed bunnies to teddy bears dressed as bunnies priced in the double digits that would find their way to the bottom of the toy chest the next day anyway.

And like most holidays these days, I knew the reason for the holiday but couldn’t even begin to imagine how the symbolism came about.  How did we go from the resurrection of Jesus Christ to a giant rabbit (that sometimes prefers a nice top hat apparently) that hides eggs for children?  And believe me when I tell you, rabbits are not that smart.  I owned one.  The only thing it ever did was poop and eat veggies.  Unless you count that time it ate the arm of the couch.

For all we know, rabbits could be the smartest animals on the planet – just really confident and don’t feel the need to advertise it; kind of like cows and Paris Hilton.

So, although now would normally be the time I would have done my research and found out the origin of the Easter Bunny and relay it on to you, my loyal reader (thanks for reading, Mom) I just couldn’t muster up the holiday goodwill to even care.  Maybe it was the seventeen-pound chocolate rabbit I consumed while crying over the credit card bill or just plain happiness that the next big holiday is Mother’s Day, but right now, I’m just glad it’s over…oh, and that I hid some caramel eggs behind the broccoli.

 

 

 

 

 

Tagged , , ,

Run Lisa Run

  By Lisa Vankula Donovan | April 3, 2012 - 11:24 PM | Ask Healthy Helperton, Weekly columns 6 Comments

Sometimes I come across an inspirational story, blog post or fortune cookie that I simply must share.  This blog post here —–>http://runpexrun.blogspot.com.au/2012/04/hurt-locker.html?spref=fb not only inspired me in my newfound love of running, but also in my writing.

I suggest you read Sean’s blog post first to get an idea of the running world I have immersed myself in.  Now, I may not be as “fit” or as “experienced” as Sean, I may not be able to “run over ten minutes without breathing like Tiger Woods at a blonde convention”, but I feel we are kindred spirits, me and Sean (or is it Sean and I?)  Cut from the same cloth, if you will.  Athletes.  Brethren.  Strangers who probably have nothing in common except for the love of great shoes and shirts that make our chests look good.

So, with that in mind, please pull back the curtain and take a peek into the world of elite athletes, like Sean…and me.

Sunday, March 31st 9:00am

Entering the gym I can feel the energy in the air.  That energy you only get when in the company of fellow athletes…meaning, like me…an athlete.

Anyway, I first noticed my favourite treadmill was taken.  And judging by her Dunlops and pocketless running shorts, I knew she wasn’t serious…not like me.  So I waited.  I figured I could kill a few minutes doing some stretching; not that I needed to, I was limber as a one of those people in that one show that can touch their toes to their nose.  Whatever they’re called.  Yep, that’s me.  Course, I have to sit when I do it but six of one, half-dozen of the other, if you know what I mean.

So, after Dunlop Lady decided she’d worked off that double frappe, mochachino and got off my machine, I was ready to roll.

I did a couple last minute calf raises before stepping on.  I’m not sure what calf raises do but when the girl on the ‘walking’ treadmill saw me do it, I swear she started going faster.  Pushing the program button to my usual 30-minute, “Rolling Hills” workout, I popped in one ear bud (I want to look relaxed but ready, in case any trouble breaks out) and started my warm up.

I missed the three-minute mark to start my run but I blame that on the television being set to The Bachelor and I’m sorry, watching a bunch of sorority girls vie for the attention of a mediocre-looking rich guy that has little else going for him besides his bank account, is just good TV!

Anyway, when I realized my mistake at around minute nine, I stepped up the speed a bit and started my run.  All was going well until around the 1 kilometre mark when I noticed my shoelace was dragging.  “Damn,” I thought.  “Forgot to make the bunny run around the tree.”  Not wanting to look like an amateur that couldn’t tie her shoes, I  decided faking a leg cramp was best.

I must have done a good job because one of the gym instructors came over and asked me if I had properly hydrated.  When I informed him that I didn’t understand what my showering habits had to do with leg cramps, he handed me a bottle of a sports drink and explained I probably needed electrolytes.

“What are those?” I asked.  Only half interested but boy, did he have great arms so I didn’t mind the chit chat.

“Well,” he began, “electrolytes are minerals that your body loses naturally when you do things such as work out, sweat, etc.  And this drink gives them back.”

How those scientists ever thought of that, I’ll never know; but I’m sure appreciative of all those electrolyte donors that gave of themselves so we can have this miracle drink.

So, taking a few sips, I excused myself to the bathroom to secretly double knot those bunny ears because I knew I had to return to that treadmill and finish what I started.  If for no other reason than to prove to Dunlop Lady, I meant bizness.  With a ‘z’.   Mainly because I’m not sure how it’s really spelled.

Anyway, back on I went.  I cranked the speed up since I knew those little miracle worker electrolytes were now coursing through my veins.  But again, around the 1 kilometre mark, my calf muscle started cramping again.  Well, this time, I was ready.  As I was running and my calf muscle was getting tighter and tighter, I started guzzling the e-juice.  Eventually I’d have so many of those little buggers in me that my calf would have to wave the white flag.

But a funny thing happened as I limped my way to the 2 kilometre mark; apparently if you drink too much while running you either a. throw up or b. pee your pants.  So, with my calf muscle the shape of an orange and my bladder beginning to pull the rip cord, I didn’t even notice the vomit creeping up.

By then…it was too late.  And since I hadn’t attached the “Newbie Alert System” red cord, when I slipped, the treadmill kept going and flung me off the end and straight into, you guessed it, Dunlop Lady who happened to be chatting up Arm Guy — check and mate, Dunlop Lady, check and mate.

So, as I cleaned up the treadmill and handed in my membership card, I reminded myself that athletes like myself (and Sean) prefer the feel of the road, the black thunder, the thin strip of cement that separates the boys from the men, or women, or something like that…but cooler sounding.

And, one day, when I hit that elite 3-kilometre mark and when Asics or Nike design a velcro-close running shoe, I’ll return to that gym and I’ll show Dunlop Lady and Arm Guy just what a true athlete is; someone who doesn’t give up over a little vomit and urine.

Tagged , ,

Gyms, black socks and the co$t of being cool.

  By Lisa Vankula Donovan | March 30, 2012 - 2:06 PM | Weekly columns 2 Comments

So, after recently realizing that it had been a while since I utterly humiliated myself, I decided to up my chances considerably and joined a gym.  That’s right, yours truly is a card-carrying, sweat-band wearing (those are still in, right?) member of the local rec club.

You wouldn’t think things could change much at a gym, but let me tell you that in the last twenty plus years they have become more confusing than teenage text messages; or, (if you’re a teenager) more confusing than making change without the cash register telling you how much.

In the old days, gyms consisted of one weight bench, some free weights, one gigantic mirror spanning the length of the room and a roomful of men in tank tops and Zubaz competing for the ugliest weight-lifting face while staring at themselves in the mirror.   Women were rounded up into one corner in colourful leotards and leg warmers to do aerobics and smoke cigarettes.

Today, gyms are full of computerized machines that keep track of everything from your reps and weight to your fears.  (Cockroaches and never becoming a ballerina, in case you were wondering.) There are cords and levers, buttons and pedals on nearly everything and rules to follow, as well.

Here are just a few:

  1. Unless you are over the age of 70 or recognizably physically disabled in some way, you will lose 10 ‘Cool Points’ off your  membership for attaching the red ‘Emergency Shut Down’ cord to yourself on the  treadmill.  Found that one out the hard  way.
  2. If you work out between the hours of 6am and 9am  (prime hot person hours), you must have on proper gym attire.  E.g. expensive, brand name clothing specifically  designed for maximum buttocks and chest viewing.  Those without the proper wear will not be  allowed to interact with others until their dress is remedied.
  3. Black socks with cheap running shoes are grounds  for immediate expulsion from the gym.  I’m  really going to miss my husband.
  4. And, membership is in ‘probationary’ status  until you can immediately recall the calories found in all junk food so you can  reprimand everyone you know about what they’re putting into their bodies.  Knowing your body-fat percentage and how much  you can bench is also critical.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting at the gym.  Said we needed to have a talk about my leg warmers…

 

Tagged , , , ,

Swimming my way to 40…

  By Lisa Vankula Donovan | March 16, 2012 - 12:48 PM | Weekly columns 2 Comments

So, with a  mere one hundred and forty-three days left until I turn 40 – the age that makes 80-year olds wistful and 20-year olds shudder) I’m keeping to my “I Must Be Fitter Than I’ve Ever Been in My Life Before I Turn Forty” workout plan and have taken up swimming.  Now, if you’ll recall, my early outings saw me run head first into the side of the pool.

But, I’m now regularly swimming one kilometre a few times a week; which sounds like a lot, especially if you were to do it non-stop in say, a lake or something.  But, with the  Lisa Donovan workout plan you get to have breaks in between whenever you want, chat with annoyed fellow swimmers in the adjoining lanes and up your karma balance by saving random bugs from certain death.  And, may I just apologize to the nice man I tried to save, when I wrongly assumed he was drowning when he was actually just doing the butterfly.

Now, unless you’re a serious swimmer like me, you may not know that there are some rules to swimming.

  1. You must own a cool, razor-back bathing suit that makes you think you look like a female version of Ian Thorpe but actually makes your thighs look like your mother’s.
  2. You need a pair of goggles with a rainbow, reflective material on the lenses that makes others not be able to see your eyes.  This does two things: It makes you look super cool when talking with others about your lap times and also allows you to check people out underwater without them knowing…from what I’ve heard.
  3. After coming to the end of the lane, you must look up at the time clock and give a slight but satisfied smile like you just beat your best time.
  4. And finally, you need to landscape – if you know what I mean.  It takes seconds (perhaps minutes, for some of the hairier among us) off your time and let’s face it, this is not the ‘70s and your fellow swimmers do not care about your personal stand on feminism.

So, the next time you’re at the pool and notice a slim swimmer with amazing form that seems like she should be on the Olympic team, switch pools – I hate swimming next to people like that.

 

 

 

Tagged , , ,