2001-03-25 - 05:11 p.m.

When my mother says the name of Ang Lee's latest in English, it comes out as "Crunchy Tiger, Hidden Dragon." I'm sure I sound just as funny saying "oh fu tsang lang" in Mandarin in spite of her coaching on the phone this afternoon. Of course, this means I'm now craving shrimp tempura, and we do have a sack full of prawns in the fridge, but they are destined just to be boiled, and then schlepped over to Ter's living room with a bowl of cocktail sauce and a loaf of French bread. Ter's invite was titled "gladiators never stood a chance against crouching tigers"; we shall see. The only things certain about tonight are that Ter and the BYM will mock the affectations of the nominees and the presenters; I will provide unkind commentary on said luminaries' fashion choices, especially on anything that glows in the dark; and Ter's parents will admonish us for being so awful but find it a hoot anyway.

I'm not sure where giggling in church falls on the Scale of Awfulness these days. There's no question that Ma and Mary Ingalls would have been absolutely appalled at me this morning, but when a jumbo robin crashes against one of the sanctuary windows (with an ENORMOUS thud) right as the minister begins her sermon on "The Wisdom of Wild Things," that's just too much irony for me to handle.