Clearly, I am never going to finish my Oscar post for a lot of reasons including shame, failure, and general ineptitude.
Issue 1: Can’t find my notes, and pretty sure I couldn’t read them anyway. During the very special “fond farewells” segment, we had to take a drink every time we had never heard of someone, or had heard of them and forgotten they’d died. Not sure, I forget the rules. I think I also forgot how to write legibly. I do remember putting a star by Colin Firth’s name and “CUTEST” in all caps, so clearly you’re not missing any major insights.
Issue 2: Shame. Eric and I were in a contest to pick the most winners and somehow, I got spanked. Why did I think that just because I was a girl and had seen more of the movies that I would automatically win? Where did I go wrong? With my gender and fake intellect firmly in hand, I flew too f***ing close to the sun. Did I really pick Winter’s Bone as best picture? Why did I put my faith in Australia over and over again? Who knows. But I owe someone dinner, and don’t want to relive the embarrassment of my 95% incorrect picks to death.
Issue 3: Laziness, pure and simple. But I can sum up my emotions about the show itself pretty quickly here. Basically, the Oscars are like my Superbowl, and it’s not just because I love the clothes, I actually love movies, a lot. Anne Hathaway was like the annoying “Bud Bowl” logo that always seems to be floating over the scoreboard and getting in the way of what counts at exactly the wrong time. Too many costume changes made for a particularly disjointed show… like when that creepy couple that owns ABC came out and renewed their vows? The very special tribute to Gone With The Wind on its 72nd anniversary that in no way related to anything else on the show? The children singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” hand in hand in the finale was just the insanity icing on the crazy cake. Sure, I ate a slice, but four days later I still feel like barfing. I really wish someone in Hollywood would put me in charge of this s***. I could run the world quite well, if I weren’t so bad at life (more on that below). Regardless, I would have had
five six segments celebrating the Best Picture winners in 2001, 1991, 1981, 1971, 1961, and 1951, giving Annie plenty of time to scamper backstage and fulfill her duties as sacrificial lamb at the altar of couture. Is it too much to ask for a little continuity? I demand it in movies, so, TRY HARDER Oscars.
Speaking of being bad at life, I got to see former President Bush yesterday and shook Bill Frist’s hand, kind of by accident. I don’t know who was more embarrassed, me because I was so taken aback, or him for realizing he had just introduced himself to a nobody. He was very gracious though… I guess you don’t get far in life making people uncomfortable. The good news is, the portrait of Frist is quite good I think. Having met the man up close and seen the painting, I can say with authority that it’s a dead ringer. Personally when they unveil my portrait I hope it looks like a bad Chagall rip off. I want to be fiddling on the roof of the Capitol while cows and chickens float over my head. Too bad the closest I’ll come to that is a Polaroid stapled to the bottom of my desk when I get fired for knowing too much. Or not knowing enough. Oh well.
It was quite a mad house around the Capitol though. My first big event there and I tell you, it’s really something to see. I do not know how I managed to Forrest Gump my way through this life, but must say I am grateful for having had some unique opportunities.
So, onto this weekend. My boss ordered a King Cake for the office on Tuesday (AWESOME) and then I got to thinking that I should probably try to make one. It will be my first cake involving yeast…. I’m afraid, but so was Frodo and he still climbed up that mountain and threw the ring into the fire (didn’t he?), so what’s my excuse? Then I started thinking more about it and realized that I should probably also make an oyster pie. This will be a nice reward the home improvement project we are embarking on Saturday which involves 4x4s, a pickup truck, and dirt so, what better way to recover from too much ambition than EVEN MORE AMBITION? If I’m not disheveled and yelling at an oven, it’s really just not a weekend.
Laissez les bon temps rouler.