I may not realize that its Superbowl weekend or that the World Series is going on until the grocery store bakery starts sticking little plastic footballs in green-frosted gridirons and decorating the doughnuts like baseballs, but I do know when the Academy Awards are.
This is the one year I haven’t seen any of the movies up for Best Picture, or any of the actors or actresses in the roles for which they were nominated. I re-read True Grit and borrowed Janie’s Great Ballets picture book to reacquaint myself with Swan Lake, but that’s about it.
Not that this is much different from other years—I tend to use all awards ceremonies as prolonged infomercials.
But what really interests Janie the most about all these people who worked so hard to write, visualize,create visual stories that evoke such strong emotions and reactions in their audiences . . . is what they’re wearing.
She examines jewelry, colors, necklines,hair, and shoes—oh, heavens, the shoes. Even the make-up, which she won’t be wearing for five years.
She’s an eight-year old fashionista, is that one.
I know that I’m encouraging her to judge people by their looks–which, in my defense, is exactly the opposite of what I preach the other days of the year— but I cherish the time she looked at Joan Rivers, who was snarking on and on about some poor kid’s purple dress, and said, “Mommy? What’s wrong with the mean lady’s eyebrows?”
And I secretly love this stuff, too. My favorite award is for best costumes, and my favorite Oscars remains the night Whoopi Goldberg wore a sample from each Best Picture while introducing the clips—as well as ten or twelve other outfits. It didn’t even matter that it was, perhaps not coincidentally, the longest Academy Awards to date.
I think—I usually fall asleep before the final award.*
It’s on! Bye!
*Yes, I know it’s a school night—the kids are bathed and ready to be tucked in at their usual time. Jane spent all afternoon at the batting cages, so I think she’ll be out by eight, anyway. Sunny is almost out now—she had a birthday party.