Post Academy Awards Show Blog
I know. I didn't post for two whole days, which in dog years is uh, two weeks? That annoying thing keeps happening where a thought pops into my head and I think, A-ha! I must blog that! And then the thought dissolves like the bubbles in my kitchen sink just when I'm ready to wash a frying pan.
(Speaking of thought bubbles,
twice today at church, I scolded my 12-year old son who was holding a piece of paper up above his head. You can imagine how distracting it would be to sit behind a boy with a paper sign hovering over his head. When I peered closely, I saw he'd drawn thought bubbles and a profound thought: "Mooo!")
[I have to say: I told you so! Only, I probably forgot to actually tell you so, but I did predict that "Crash" would win for Best Picture (and it did) and that Reese Witherspoon would win for Best Actress (and she did) and that Philip Seymour Hoffman would win for Best Actor (and he did). I rock.
Oh, and how about Will Ferrell and Steve Carrell's presentation for Best Achievement in Make-up? That presentation was rivalled only by Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin.]
Okay. Back to the post. Oh, first I have to say that the best way to watch The Academy Award show is to video tape it (unless you are lucky and have TiVo, in which case I loathe you because my jealousy has no rational outlet). If you tape it, you can fast-forward through the speeches, the montages, the tributes and just watch the presentations and the monologue. (Oh, and how funny was that opening?!)
What I wouldn't give for a coherent, creative thought about now. Um . . . so . . . today was church but we had no lights in the sanctuary because last night, when some of the guys were at the church doing something or another, they smelled smoke. Smoke emanated from the breaker box when all the lights were on. So, no lights today. And the sanctuary smelled like smoke. My husband was a little stressed out about this, but I gave him some clever lines to use like this: (wait until the middle of the sermon and then pause and say) "Is it just me or am I ON FIRE today?" Or maybe point out Big Al, one of his close friends and say, "I don't know about you, but Big Al is SMOKIN'!" Or even, "Repent, for even now, I smell the burning fires of hell!"
Oh wait. Was that sacrilegious? Okay, let's move on.
I drove our new "old" van, the one nearly as old as my marriage yesterday. The interior is quite lovely, though the exterior shows minor lumps and bumps and flaking paint if you look closely. Kind of like me, I guess. Maybe that's why I like it so well. (But we didn't name it. We don't name cars. Do you? Maybe we could name it "Daisy," and then I could say, "Hey, I'm Driving Miss Daisy!" (Did you get that Oscar reference? Huh? Didja? See? I have a theme in this here blog.) I drove from going-out-of-business craft store to consignment store to thrift store to discount store to second craft store to Bed Bath & Beyond before finally drifting home.
The weather had been exquisite all day and I wanted to just pick up the kids and hurry them down to the beach, but first, we needed dinner. And then the sun slipped below the horizon and then my husband said, "Tomorrow," and I agreed. But today ("tomorrow") it rained and this afternoon, my 8-year old son cradled his head in pain and cried. Another illness?! (After his bath tonight, he declared this, "The WORST BIRTHDAY WEEK EVER!" I distracted him with a tale of a boy I once knew who was so sick on Halloween he couldn't go trick-or-treating. Because really, what is more soothing that comparing yourself to someone worse off than you?)
My grandmother turns one hundred years old on Friday. And you know what that means, don't you? That's right! A mini-family reunion. She had six children and five of them are still alive. I have dozens of first cousins and we've all done our part to procreate. (Well, most of us have, anyway.) We'll gather from around the country for a catered dinner in her honor and I will obsess all week about dressing to slim and about whether to call my colorist for emergency highlights and debating the merits of robbing a bank to hire a plastic surgeon to remove this double chin.
And I console myself this way: I say to myself, "Self, probably Grandma will live at least another six months and by then, you can be to your perfect size, just in time for The Relatives to see you again!" And then I remind myself that I am not fifteen and the world does not revolve around me and that people will not be noticing my appearance as much as I notice my appearance. That's what I've learned in the past twenty-five years.
It would help if I weren't related to the skinniest cousins imaginable--seriously, my cousin is tiny and wears a loose size 2 and my cousin, her brother, is Ichabod Crane-ish, and his wife, a girl who lived on my wing in college, is also slim and has never appeared in public without her perfectly applied lipstick and her oh-so-cool Southern composure.
But I can write. See how I comfort myself?
In other news . . . hello March? The daffodils around town are blooming. My crocuses are a happy little enclave of pure white, gold and purple, merrily coloring the drab flowerbed. They are tucked right behind the basketball hoop and seem hopelessly misplaced, but the basketball hoop was a recent addition, haphazardly introduced to the backyard by two men with no thoughts of Feng Shui or aesthetics of beautiful English gardens full of perennials. (As if!)
This is the time of year that I wish I'd planted more daffodils and I am full of regret. That is some kind of metaphor for life, isn't it? You just have to plan ahead and be patient . . . and actually put the bulbs in the ground instead of just dream.
With that thought, I will wrap this up. But first, one final thought. About George Clooney.
Dear George, (May I call you "George"?)
I want to hate you. You are a cad. You are everything a thinking young woman should despise--your cocky attitude, your inability to commit, your failure to demonstrate your competence at marriage. You own a pig, for goodness' sake, a pet pig! Your politics are liberal, you have that smirk, your belief in yourself bordering on narcissistic, and yet . . . I can't help but think you are the Epitome of a Movie Star and tomorrow I'm going to buy a poster of you and put it on my bedroom wall. I don't think my Republican husband will mind at all.
Oh, and congratulations on winning Best Supporting Actor.
Hugs and Kisses,
Mel
(Speaking of thought bubbles,
twice today at church, I scolded my 12-year old son who was holding a piece of paper up above his head. You can imagine how distracting it would be to sit behind a boy with a paper sign hovering over his head. When I peered closely, I saw he'd drawn thought bubbles and a profound thought: "Mooo!") [I have to say: I told you so! Only, I probably forgot to actually tell you so, but I did predict that "Crash" would win for Best Picture (and it did) and that Reese Witherspoon would win for Best Actress (and she did) and that Philip Seymour Hoffman would win for Best Actor (and he did). I rock.
Oh, and how about Will Ferrell and Steve Carrell's presentation for Best Achievement in Make-up? That presentation was rivalled only by Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin.]
Okay. Back to the post. Oh, first I have to say that the best way to watch The Academy Award show is to video tape it (unless you are lucky and have TiVo, in which case I loathe you because my jealousy has no rational outlet). If you tape it, you can fast-forward through the speeches, the montages, the tributes and just watch the presentations and the monologue. (Oh, and how funny was that opening?!)
What I wouldn't give for a coherent, creative thought about now. Um . . . so . . . today was church but we had no lights in the sanctuary because last night, when some of the guys were at the church doing something or another, they smelled smoke. Smoke emanated from the breaker box when all the lights were on. So, no lights today. And the sanctuary smelled like smoke. My husband was a little stressed out about this, but I gave him some clever lines to use like this: (wait until the middle of the sermon and then pause and say) "Is it just me or am I ON FIRE today?" Or maybe point out Big Al, one of his close friends and say, "I don't know about you, but Big Al is SMOKIN'!" Or even, "Repent, for even now, I smell the burning fires of hell!"
Oh wait. Was that sacrilegious? Okay, let's move on.
I drove our new "old" van, the one nearly as old as my marriage yesterday. The interior is quite lovely, though the exterior shows minor lumps and bumps and flaking paint if you look closely. Kind of like me, I guess. Maybe that's why I like it so well. (But we didn't name it. We don't name cars. Do you? Maybe we could name it "Daisy," and then I could say, "Hey, I'm Driving Miss Daisy!" (Did you get that Oscar reference? Huh? Didja? See? I have a theme in this here blog.) I drove from going-out-of-business craft store to consignment store to thrift store to discount store to second craft store to Bed Bath & Beyond before finally drifting home.
The weather had been exquisite all day and I wanted to just pick up the kids and hurry them down to the beach, but first, we needed dinner. And then the sun slipped below the horizon and then my husband said, "Tomorrow," and I agreed. But today ("tomorrow") it rained and this afternoon, my 8-year old son cradled his head in pain and cried. Another illness?! (After his bath tonight, he declared this, "The WORST BIRTHDAY WEEK EVER!" I distracted him with a tale of a boy I once knew who was so sick on Halloween he couldn't go trick-or-treating. Because really, what is more soothing that comparing yourself to someone worse off than you?)
My grandmother turns one hundred years old on Friday. And you know what that means, don't you? That's right! A mini-family reunion. She had six children and five of them are still alive. I have dozens of first cousins and we've all done our part to procreate. (Well, most of us have, anyway.) We'll gather from around the country for a catered dinner in her honor and I will obsess all week about dressing to slim and about whether to call my colorist for emergency highlights and debating the merits of robbing a bank to hire a plastic surgeon to remove this double chin.
And I console myself this way: I say to myself, "Self, probably Grandma will live at least another six months and by then, you can be to your perfect size, just in time for The Relatives to see you again!" And then I remind myself that I am not fifteen and the world does not revolve around me and that people will not be noticing my appearance as much as I notice my appearance. That's what I've learned in the past twenty-five years.
It would help if I weren't related to the skinniest cousins imaginable--seriously, my cousin is tiny and wears a loose size 2 and my cousin, her brother, is Ichabod Crane-ish, and his wife, a girl who lived on my wing in college, is also slim and has never appeared in public without her perfectly applied lipstick and her oh-so-cool Southern composure.
But I can write. See how I comfort myself?
In other news . . . hello March? The daffodils around town are blooming. My crocuses are a happy little enclave of pure white, gold and purple, merrily coloring the drab flowerbed. They are tucked right behind the basketball hoop and seem hopelessly misplaced, but the basketball hoop was a recent addition, haphazardly introduced to the backyard by two men with no thoughts of Feng Shui or aesthetics of beautiful English gardens full of perennials. (As if!)
This is the time of year that I wish I'd planted more daffodils and I am full of regret. That is some kind of metaphor for life, isn't it? You just have to plan ahead and be patient . . . and actually put the bulbs in the ground instead of just dream.
With that thought, I will wrap this up. But first, one final thought. About George Clooney.
Dear George, (May I call you "George"?)
I want to hate you. You are a cad. You are everything a thinking young woman should despise--your cocky attitude, your inability to commit, your failure to demonstrate your competence at marriage. You own a pig, for goodness' sake, a pet pig! Your politics are liberal, you have that smirk, your belief in yourself bordering on narcissistic, and yet . . . I can't help but think you are the Epitome of a Movie Star and tomorrow I'm going to buy a poster of you and put it on my bedroom wall. I don't think my Republican husband will mind at all.
Oh, and congratulations on winning Best Supporting Actor.
Hugs and Kisses,
Mel
posted by Melodee at Sunday, March 05, 2006
17 Comments:
A hundred! That's cool!
You make me laugh like no other!
I have trouble even watching a movie with Clooney in it. He grates, despite being on the saner side of the political fence. :)
Suzanne
What was it about Mr. Clooney that he looked especially delicious last night? I watched him up at the podium, and I told Hubba-hubba that George had on a perfect, classic tux and he looked elegant and masculine.
I'm tired of all the weird cravats and regular ties that the other men wear to look "different." They just look stupid. Even Morgan Freeman, whom I have the highest respect for.
Wow, I had no idea I had that much to say about men's Oscar fashions!
You know, George Clooney owns two tuxedos and he trades back and forth between them for awards things. Maybe it is that confidence in himself that is attractive...and such confidence is best left unspoken. I am usually one who looks forward to awards shows, but the cynical me has been winning more and more lately. In the past year I don't think I've watched a single one. And all the commentary I've heard today about the show last night, reassures my inner-cynic she's right.
Also, are going-out-of-business craft stores wonderful? I have a drawer full of needlepoint kits and kid's craft kits all waiting for that rainy afternoon. LOL
Ok I have to differ here - George is actually very nice - I've worked with his dad before (we're all from Cincinnati). Anyhoo, if it makes you feel better (and I don't know why it would) - he is the only one that got the "beauty" gene in his family. His sister...not so much.
He's just a 'bachelor for life' sort of guy - which is why I think women are fascinated with him - who doesn't like a challenge???
But I have to agree with the "Michael Moore" level of political nonsense. Knock it off, George. Just look cute, please.
I can attest to the fact that Mel did, in fact, predict Crash would win. I said, "Girl that's just crazy talk!" But she stuck to her guns.
She was right. (Hope you had some $$ on that in an Oscar pool somewhere!)
~C~
Oh my gosh - this is what I look forward to each day - reading your blog that always puts a smile on my face! And the 2 days that you did'nt post really did feel like 2 weeks - at least! Welcome back!
Thank goodness you're back! I don't like the Blog Desert, it's very scary.
Mel, don't you think it better that George [the good george, not the president ;)] does NOT get married? Isn't it better that he, assuming he does not feel up to the commitment or exclusivity, avoid taking those vows? Would you rather that he (like so many others, man or woman) enter marriage w/o the guts to see it through? Talk about dishonoring marriage!
For those complaining about what Mr. Clooney said in his acceptance speech & the so-called "direction" of Hollywood...what about speaking out about AIDS, giving an Oscar to a black woman before Rosa Parks ever stepped on that bus, movies like A Gentleman's Agreement w/Gregory Peck... you lump that in with what you call offensive?? If some movie or product goes against your sensibilities, do what I do and *don't spend money on it*. Take the opportunity to teach your children what you feel is right or wrong. In any business, Hollywood included, money speaks louder than words.
And please, Mel, lay off the poor pigs. ;) LOL
I'm with you, he's a hottie.
hahaha! On George. Yes, but just hang it in the bathroom.
Mmmmmmm, I'm with you on George Clooney, Mel. . . my heaven's! Get me a poster too, ok?
1. I think George Clooney is handsome in the same way a Ken doll is handsome. I understand the attractiveness, it just doesn't do much for me.
2. I think very smoooooth men are dangerous. I feel the same way about Jude Law.
3. You didn't mention anything about the winner of "Best Song", which is like the worst song ever written on earth, accompanying a really dumb movie.
4. Preacher's wives (strange that I do not attend church services of any kind, yet know you in the blogging world and three in real life) are, inexplicably, the only people who can talk about their republican-ism in a way that doesn't make me run away screaming with my hands over my ears. Do you guys take some kind of class on diplomacy? I guess it isn't that much different than being the wife of a politician (minus the sliminess, ideally). Or do you think you're born with a special gene that men who go on to become ministers are just biologically attracted to?
"Is it just me or am I ON FIRE today?" I was really laughing by the time I read this line, and just kept on giggling to the end. btw you sound like a great mother.
George is the boy our mothers told us to stay away from because he would steal our honor and break our hearts. But what a cutie! I too wish he would keep his pretty mouth shut and just stick to the attractive patented head tilt he works in to every movie he makes.
Philip Seymour Hoffman gives me the creeps. He is very likely the whitest white man on the planet.
maybe you should go completely crazy and put up one of Tom Petty.
PS. I was laughing at my last comment which was meant quite innocently. My aunt for years had a picture of Tom Selleck in her bathroom of all places. Why in the bathroom??? She said if she looked at him everyday maybe he would get boring.
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