Five movie clichés that make me want to chew my own arm off with my grandmother’s dentures.

Like lots of you out there, I love watching movies.  I love funny films, drama, quirky, action – you name it, I’ll watch it, however, there are instances in a lot of movies where I cringe and think, ‘Not again.  Why, oh why is this happening?  Please stop, now!”  Here are my top moments in films where I want to slap the director about the head and scream.

5.  Maybe it’s just me, but why does the gorgeous, twenty something woman with a hot body, awesome personality and face to die for, always fall in love with the fat/old/bald/emotionally retarded guy who was a loser but manages to win her anyway, thus making him into a wonder guy.  Is this reality?  The majority of times, in reality, this only happens if the guy is rich or famous (or both), period.

4.  I love a good gunfight, but in some films the enemies have machine guns and let off thousands of bullets.  Destruction abounds, cars explode, shop fronts shatter, birds drop out of the sky (well almost), but do you think they can hit the hero?  Does being the lead in an action film render the guy with the power to blink in and out of existence when a bullet comes near?  I just don’t buy it, so unless it’s a comedy can someone please be shot occasionally, they don’t have to die, just bleed a little.

3.  I know I might be harping on this, but the portrayal of women.  In how many scenes do we see a woman who has just woken up or emerged from a stressful situation (insert car chase, giving birth, running from a maniac, surviving one of those gunfights) and she looks perfect.  The hair looks just-blow-dried, the makeup is pristine – not a puff of powder out of place, and her clothes don’t need adjusting (she may even have done it all in heels without falling over too).  I don’t know about you, but in any of these scenarios my hair would frizz, I certainly wouldn’t have had time to put make up on and I would be in no state to be in front of a camera – unless it was a wildlife documentary or reality show about frazzled parents who require a total make-over and a decade to catch up on sleep.

2.  In scary movies or thrillers – and you might have guessed this one already – when they hear a noise outside, even at 1 am on a windy, stormy night, they must unlock the door and go out, unarmed and half naked.  Why would anyone do this?  I would be grabbing my mobile and calling 000 (911 if you’re in the US just so you don’t get confused) then let the police get eaten by the zombie or stabbed one hundred times by the psychotic stalker, I don’t want to die.  I mean, haven’t they watched scary movies before, shouldn’t they know what’s going to happen?  On the flip side, maybe they deserve to die because they are so bloody moronic; I know I’ve never cried after one of these idiots has met their fate.

1.  Ok, this is my number one, pet peeve in movies, and the one that happens all the time, without fail.  Every time I see this I want to turn off the tv and abstain from action movies forever.  Drum roll… The fistfight at the end!  They’ve been toting guns, bazookas, shooting out of helicopters and jet-boats, they may even have toyed with the idea of unleashing a nuclear device, but what happens at the end – the freaking fist fight!  This can only happen because when the bullets fly no one gets shot.  It could be because they are such bad shots, or maybe it’s the blinking in and out of existence (as discussed above) but in the end they duke it out with their fists, punching each other into oblivion until our hero (possibly fat, aged and balding) finally and triumphantly delivers the final, movie ending blow.  Maybe this part should just be cut out altogether and they can have letters in large font appear on the screen that say, “INSERT FISTFIGHT HERE.  THE END.”  They could pay the actors less and finish filming sooner.

Well thank you for letting me get that off my chest, I feel a whole lot better now.  I may even have the courage to watch Die Hard again – or maybe not…

A Creepy Interlude

Husband and I were in the car, me driving.  I had just helped him move his dinghy and been pushed into a bush; no biggie, right?  We were on our way to a friend’s place via a busy road with no lanes in which to pullover.  I felt something delicately feather my ear so I went to move my hair, which I remembered was in a bun and was not touching my ear.  OMG!  The ‘hair’ that I’d tried to brush away ran on eight furry feet, all the way across my forehead!  Shit, shit!  I flicked at my head to remove the massive huntsman, all whilst trying not to swerve out of my lane or crash into a telegraph pole.  One of my flicks brought success and he flew into the passenger side near my husband’s legs, which were now kicking in a mad frenzy.

Both of us freaked out until we arrived at our destination, my husband, all the while, watching the floor of the car, where the spider had disappeared.  We didn’t find spidey again, well not that day anyway.

Night time.  Driving home by myself.  What do I see, but the same forehead-stomping spider from the week before, sitting in the middle of my windscreen, inside the car.  Ok, calm, poise, revenge.  I spotted a tissue box on the passenger seat.  I deftly picked it up, and without changing speed or going out of my lane, squashed my hairy nemesis with a box full of silky soft tissues.  I have learnt that I am calm in an emergency and skilled with a tissue box.  To all you arachnid admirers, I will non-regretfully acknowledge that yes, a spider was harmed during the making of this story.

Lucky Dip Laksa

Hello, how is everyone?  Today I’m talking about takeaway food, you know, the sort that is prepared and cooked by somebody else, in a place you have no control over.  How safe is it to eat takeaway or café food?  How do you pick where it is safe to eat?  I’m not too sure, and if my experiences are anything to go by, I’m not great at picking.

One day at work I was contemplating what to get for lunch, as you do, and after much consideration I picked a small Asian food place that I had never gotten food from before.  I think I had been turned off by the orange bird carcasses hanging from hooks in the window, but they had been marinated and I knew they were supposed to taste sweet and savoury, something that can be quite yummy.  Bird carcasses aside I went in and ordered one of my favourites – chicken laksa.

The person serving me was a tired looking, middle-aged man in a white singlet: I should have seen the signs, but I was young and inexperienced.  He disappeared out the back, cooked my aromatic laksa, and returned, wherein my mouth watering, I paid.  My anticipation on the way back to the office was palpable; I couldn’t wait.

I set myself up at my desk and fielded comments from co-workers as to how nice it smelled.  I told them I had braved a shop I wouldn’t normally inhabit, but who was I to be judgmental, and I was proud to broaden my foody horizons.  I removed the plastic lid from the container and inhaled the chilli infused steam, mmm, yum this was going to be good!

My spork (spoon fork combo) parted the orangey coconutiness of the broth, and I scooped up some chicken and ate.  Mmm, it was so good!  My momentary self-congratulations on picking a new and fantabulous place to eat was short lived.  The second dippage of my spork produced horrific results.  Along with the chicken was an unwanted condiment: a used bandaid.  That’s right, used!  OMG, shit! Oh no, I ate some laksa that had been infused with a stranger’s germy refuse, argh!

When I recovered from the shock there was only one thing to do: return the food and get my money back.  Why does life have to be so complicated?  I only wanted lunch and now not only did I fear an unlucky hepatitis contraction, I would have to argue with someone to get my money back.  At least the bandaid had cured my hunger.

I took my infected laksa to the man in the shop.  I was young and uncomfortable with complaining but determined to get justice.  “Um, excuse me?”

He looked at me with the same monotone look he probably gave everyone, “Yes?”

“I just bought this laksa,” I said as I placed it in front of his face on the raised counter, “and there was a used bandaid in it.”

His lack of expression confirmed exactly how much this worried him, and his reply has stayed with me for the twelve years since it happened, “What,” he enquired in his accent, “You no like bandaid?”

‘Are you kidding me?’  I wanted to scream, ‘of course I don’t like the effing bandaid,’ but I contained my outrage and answered simply, “No, I don’t like the bandaid and I would like my money back please.”  He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, gee what is it with some people, and gave me what I asked for.

Having undergone this life-altering experience, I saved lots of money by making my own lunch for quite a few months.  So, peeps beware, there could be a surprise lurking in your next take-away; don’t say I didn’t warn you.