A review of Avatar, a PG-13 movie that avoided an R rating because the female avatars, while naked, do not have nipples, and hide their cleavage with an endless supply of fabulous statement necklaces from Forever 21 .

OK, full disclosure: I’ve had an issue with James Cameron ever since “Titanic” beat out “The Full Monty” for best picture years ago. I mean, yes, “Titanic” was visually arresting, and we were all happy to see a cheeky 88-year-old actress admonish Bill Paxton as the film opened. But can you recall one scene that you held in your heart six months later? Now, think about when our down-and-out brits were standing in the unemployment line and started to dance to “Hot Stuff” as it played over the loudspeaker. You were so emotionally attached to their plight, that you wanted to dance with them in solidarity, no?

You see, I prefer stripped-down, simple movies that permeate every cell in your body as opposed to special effects, but that’s just me.

Anyway, back to Avatar. It sucked. I mean really sucked. I did not see it in the theaters, and I’m sure the 3-D was cool in that roller coaster, ‘I’m going to throw up’ kinda way. But the characters were as dimensional as the sheet of paper they came on, and the acting did little to bring them to life. The dialogue was so wooden, it was like…well, you know…wood. And the whole affair is so laden with hollywood plots I half expected Harrison Ford’s avatar to show up and pilot us into hyperspace.

But then there’s the creepy, and the just plain sad. First, the sad. Sigourney Weaver plays a potentially fascinating chain-smoking, exhausted brainiac with attitude to spare; her avatar, on the other hand, is a sinewy doe-eyed coed with a cropped baby tee that says Stanford across her perky breasts. I kid you not. Wouldn’t it have been more interesting to have a Marlboro-packing avatar in Pandora’s pristine rainforest? I think so.

Now, the creepy: During the “How to Tame Your Dragon,” “Eragon,” “Name Any Prison Movie” subplot, the male protagonist must “mate” with a dragon against the animal’s will in order to control his every move. Huh. There’s a word for that…(fingers tapping)…what is it?

Anyway, by all means, rent it, fold laundry to it, play drinking games during it. Just don’t expect any special effects, like complicated characters, gripping story lines, and out-of-work british steel mill workers line dancing to Donna Summer.

It’s time to plan a family vacation.  My kids have always found the front hall closet a fun and rewarding ‘adventure’ for a week or two.  Give them a flashlight and some Twinkies and they’re good to go.  To make it a ‘Wild Kingdom’ type of getaway, I just throw in the pet hamster and snake and watch nature take its course.

My husband thought the kids might enjoy a change of scenery this time around, however, and brought home several brochures of cave spelunking, helicopter skiing, bungee jumping and other “extreme” type of vacations.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to jump off a bridge?” he asked me.

“Every day,” I answered.

“Seriously, sweetheart, extreme vacations are a great way to bond the family and release stress at the same time,” my husband said.

I thought back to my husband’s Grammy playing naked water polo in the Marriott Courtyard pool last summer and wondered just how much more ‘extreme’ a vacation I could take.

“And extreme vacations don’t have to mean rustic.  Many are very upscale.  Look, here’s a trip to Antarctica complete with gourmet meals,” he said.

I interpreted ‘gourmet meal’ as being carried away by a polar bear that has sadly mistaken me for an oversized seal in my Louis Vuitton leather parka.

“And this one incorporates a social cause,” my husband continued pointing to a glossy picture of a family preparing fully equipped backpacks for the Emperor Penguins prior to their now famous march over hundreds of treacherous miles (couldn’t the family have given the birds a ride in their luxury all-terrain tour bus instead?).

“Or, if you can’t decide, just choose from this handy chart,” he persevered.

“I’ll take ‘Solitary Confinement’ for 100, Alec.”

“C’mon.  The kids will love it,” my determined husband said.

I looked into the backyard where the sun danced across the climbing rocks and the tall sugar maple held up the tire swing and tree house. Then I turned to the living room where our kids were staring mindlessly at the TV.

“Kids, would you like to go on an extreme vacation instead of the front hall closet this spring?” I asked.

No response.

“I can’t say they’re enthused by this, honey,” I said to my husband.

He walked over and shut off the TV (apparently embracing the extreme vacation tenet to risk life and limb).

“DAD! What are you doing?  We were watching THAT!” they cried.

“Tell me what show you were watching and I’ll give you fifty bucks,” he challenged.

“The Simpsons,” said one.

“American Idol,” said another.

“60 Minutes,” said the last, glaring at the others for forgetting their agreed-upon pat answer.

Their father calmed them down and asked them to select a family vacation destination – front hall closet (exotic pet animals and junk food included) or Parachuting in Paraguay, perhaps.

“Can’t we just watch “Fear Factor” while washing dishes for mom?” they asked, recalling a particularly favorite moment when the brothers challenged each other to eat dinner remnants out of the garbage disposal.

Their discouraged father turned the TV back on and left the room, his shoulders hunched, his chin down.  My heart ached for the good and dedicated man.  It was at this moment I decided to help him achieve what he so desired.  I vowed to push him off a bridge the first chance I got.

Dear Zen Mother,

Could you explain Karma to me?  I hear it thrown around a lot in conversation but I’m not sure I really understand it.

Mimi from Massachusetts

Dear Mimi,

Well, according to my Eastern Religion for Dummies handbook, Karma encompasses both cause and effect by looking at all your deeds from the past, present and future, including things you have done in previous lifetimes as someone or something else. In other words, Karma is the Sanskrit word for “you’re screwed.”

Before you dismiss this notion as a whole lot of hooey, here’s a recent experience I had with a psychic, or as he prefers, perpetual life coach.

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked.

“You tell me.  You’re the psychic,” I said, elbowing him and snorting at my own humor.

“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before.  OK, Mrs. Z, if you want proof of my clairvoyance, here goes.  You left the house with kids in tow at 7:55 a.m. except one of your boys was still in the bathroom washing the dog with his toothbrush. Later you went grocery shopping only to realize in Checkout Lane #7 you were still in your pajamas, flannel with flying pigs – cute. You returned home to work on your next column, due yesterday, but instead turned on the TV hoping you hadn’t missed “Judge Judy.” Would you like me to go on?”

Humbled and embarrassed, I said no.  “Umm, could you tell me about my past lives instead?”

I expected him to burn sage, light a candle, and fall into a deep meditation, or deal a series of Tarot cards in front of me, but he simply stared.  His eyes became critical and his mouth revealed a disapproving sneer.  I straightened up, lifted my chin and crossed my ankles, hoping this would help release my past life as Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. I waited.

“You were an avocado,” he said, finally.

“Pardon?”

“A-vo-ca-do.” The word dripped from his mouth like venom.

“What is that…a joke?  You think you’re some kind of comedian?”

“It’s not a joke, but don’t worry, you reincarnated as a flea in 504 B.C.”

“Oh, you’re a riot.  I suppose next you’ll tell me that I was once a goat.”

“Well, yes, but it took you a while to earn that life.  Some of the decisions you made as a flea were questionable.”

“What about my sister?” thinking at least I could get my money’s worth by wallowing in one of her past lowly existences.

“She was Audrey Hepburn.  That’ll be $175.  No personal checks.  I know what’s in your bank account.”

I couldn’t speak. I’d just spent $175 to be insulted and demeaned.  I rushed out of the psychic’s office and across the street, reeling from the experience. 

“Wait!” I heard him yell.  “You forgot your purse.”

He stepped out from the entranceway, tripped and stumbled into a pedestrian who pushed him to the curb where a bike messenger bounced him into the street.  The psychic then jumped to his left to avoid an oncoming Prius…only to be run over by a produce truck coming from the other direction.

Hmmm, I thought to myself, I guess there is something to this karma business after all.  I walked over to where he lay, picked up my purse and went home to watch “Judge Judy.”

I’m not writing a column today.  My head’s in a vise and someone installed wall-to-wall carpeting on my tongue.  My eyes resemble the dead fish in our aquarium.  My bones crackle when I move and my palms are sweaty.

My husband “the doctor” is not understanding at all. “Get out of the house,” he says. 

“You get out!” I say. 

“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” he explains.  “Activity is good for what ails you.  You should do something.” 

So I kill him, which is really unfortunate because someone needs to walk the dog.

I call my kids together and tell them to stay out of trouble while mommy gets some rest.  This is absolutely the wrong thing to say to children under any circumstance, but my head is filled with cotton and there is a little man with a power drill behind my left ear. My kids love it when I’m sick.  Their eyes light up and their little cupid lips curl at the corners. It’s their opportunity to do things I would never allow them to do under normal, healthy conditions.

“Mom, can I take fifty dollars out of your wallet, bike down the high speed lane of Rt. 1A with Joey the school punk and shoot paint balls at convertible BMWs?”

“OK,” I mumble from under my pillow.  “Be home in time for dinner.”

My husband, eerily resurrected says, “It’s the common cold.  You’ll live.”

“There’s nothing common about it,” I say, swallowing half a bottle of Benedryl and chasing it with some liquid Tylenol. 

“It’s just the sniffles,” he persists, so I kill him again.  But this time I wait until after he takes out the garbage.

I crawl downstairs to watch TV but run out of steam halfway there.  I curl up in a nice, dark corner of the front hall closet, my head resting on the Electrolux.

A vision of my husband opens the closet door.  “Why is it that when men are sick, you women say we are the biggest babies in the world and when you are sick it is the sickest sickness ever?” he asks.

“God, die already!  Who are you, Rasputin?”

“Why don’t you put on a coat and go for a walk,” he says.

Still crouched in the closet, I search for his black cashmere dress coat and blow my nose on its sleeve.  “Because I’m sick!” I tell him.

My husband pulls me out of the closet and tries to smooth the tangled hair in the back of my head.  “C’mon, I’ll walk with you,” he says and leads me to the front door.  His arm is steady and his chest is warm.  He smells of cinnamon and pine.  I breathe in his chivalry and embrace his kindness.  This is what I need, just a little TLC from my soul mate.  I agree to go but not before grabbing an ice pick from the bar, just in case.

So I am not writing a column today.

Dear Zen Mother,

I’m very concerned about cutbacks in education so I’m considering home schooling my children.  Do you think this is a good idea?