Well, the Oscars are over, closing the sequined door to another awards season. The Oscars themselves are of course NOT what the title is referring to, but the season itself seemed awfully short this year. Now what do I have to look forward to? next year? That’s just not right. That’s like an Eddie Murphy movie winning best ensemble cast. Um, cause he plays all the characters. Was that obvious? He walks up there with an empty fat suit and he thanks God while the fat suit chokes back tears and champagne. I don’t know what I’m talking about either, it’s cool.

Having sat through all 27 consecutive hours the Oscars was on (I know, good one, it’s long!!), my biggest problem was with some of the dresses (I know, original!!). I’m of the opinion that if someone tries to shoot and/or stab you when you are in a ball gown, the dress should not stop the bullet and/or knife. Some of these hos’ dresses were so encrusted with jewels in the bodice area that I’m pretty sure they could have doubled as some kind of bullet proof chainmail. I’m not trying to be morose, but if you get stabbed on the red carpet, your ass should go down. JLo’s dress would have turned the weapon into a crumpled tin-can of useless stumpy metal.

I liked Ellen, I liked Jack Black and Will Farrell. I liked the shadow-makers and the sound effects chorus. I didn’t pay attention to the acceptance speeches because no one is funny at the Oscars. You want humor, go to the Independent Spirit Awards or SAG Awards, then you might be lucky enough to catch one or two legitimately funny thanks. Oscars? Forget about it. Sticks are way too far up asses. Actually, I don’t think anyone at the Oscars actually has an anus. But as long as the host brings a little giggle, I can zone out through the speeches and think about how I have to water the plants.

Speaking of zoning out, what montage-loving jackass was running that show? “What’s that? Keep the show under four hours? Sure sure…THROW IN MORE MONTAGE! I LiVE FOR THE MONTAGE!” That’s what the guy who made the Oscars show said. I’m tired. Not that last part about being tired, that was just me. Every godforsaken minute there was another montage. I don’t know what most of them were of, who they were for, or if there was even an award involved. I mean, I even like montages. I like them as much as the next guy. But it was just too much. Too much montage is never good. Never good.

I also lost the Oscar pool that I organized and chipped in for. What the hell??? Why did I watch all these awards shows? To win some cash, that’s freaking why. Now I’m out 5 clams, my ass is asleep, I pulled my back out from sitting in an awkward position for so long, straining to see if Ellen really was wearing that much makeup, and the plants aren’t going to water themselves. My next project is going to be a montage of me watering my plants, because hell, there’s clearly no discriminating in what makes a worthy montage or not. I will submit it to be aired on next year’s Oscars. It will be moving and deep. I’ll make sure that half the plants in my montage will be dead by then, as to tug extra tautly on the heart strings. I guess it’s time for me to get up, dust off the awards show season crust that has settled over most of my brain cells, and go do Justin’s homework for him. See you next year Leo. I hope that is enough time for you to replenish your stock of hair gel. I’ll be waiting.

The word montage has lost all meaning. I said it too many times just now.

Who’s got two thumbs and finally figured out how to post bigger pictures? This gal.

When I was in high school the local paper did a story on my cross country team when we won sectionals. We all went down to headquarters (a room) and had our pictures taken, and I even got to give a little interview about our season. Imagine my surprise when one of the questions was, “What’s your favorite food?” I think I was so taken aback by the randomness of this inquiry for an article about our cross country training that I just said the first thing that popped into my head, which oddly enough was, “skittles.” And you know what? They printed that in the paper. I was fine with it because, while not really my FAVORITE food (I actually don’t really think skittles qualify as food, per se), I did love skittles. Plus, after that everyone started giving me bags of skittles and I was all, score! Plus, those old commercials where it would rain skittles and the little girl’s voiceover would whisper, “taste the rainbow” used to make me all emo and what not. Actually, now that I think about it, my friend Julie made me a mix tape in high school that was titled “taste the rainbow.” Wow, maybe it wasn’t that weird that I said skittles were my favorite food. Or I was just a huge dork. It’s a toss up. But… like most joys in life, I eventually OD’ed, and put my skittles on the shelf. No, really.

I found two bags of skittles in my kitchen cabinet the other day that are at least two years old. I know this because Justin gave them to me when I was just starting my waitress job. That means these bags of skittles somehow made it through a move with me. I guess I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away when I cleaned out the cupboards. I must have gently swaddled them in bubble wrap, placed them lovingly in a box and then done the reverse in the new apartment and made them a home in my new cupboards.

Last night, for no reason in particular, I snatched one of those bags off the shelf and thought, hmm, guess I’ll have some skittles. And just so you don’t have to sit in suspense any longer, I still like skittles. A lot. To the point where I don’t know when to stop shoving them in my mouth before I get a stomach ache. I was also struck with how much the green skittles remind me of being a kid. Somehow the taste of a green skittle is exactly the same as the smell in my house on a Saturday morning when I was little. I’d come into the kitchen after sliding off the couch in between cartoons and my mom would be there in her nightgown, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with a white brush and a mucky bucket of sudsy water. That floor smelled like a green skittle.

Now, maybe the coindidence is that they are both lime-flavored/scented, and I’m hoping it is. Because the alternative is that those skittles were sitting in my cabinet for so long that they started to take on the properties of ammonia. And I’m no expert, but I don’t think you are supposed to slam an entire bag of ammonia, no matter how fruity and enticing. No, I’m going to go with the lime flavor, because I like being slapped in the face by the memory of Saturday mornings as a child. Because as soon as my mom would see me standing in the doorway she’d get up and start making me a bowl of donkey kong cereal. If only I could keep a box of that in my cupboard for two years. Yeah right, it’d be gone in a day.

P.S. I clicked on that skittles link above and saw on their website that there are now “smoothie” flavored skittles and “icecream” flavored skittles. There really is such a thing as too much of a good skittle.

Actually, in my case that isn’t true. I’ve never been one. DUN. DUN. DUN. Until now. I am going to be a bridesmaid in my brother’s wedding. I’m not going to clean her house or anything, like the title denotes. What, like you don’t come here for the classy jokes.

So I’m thinking this is probably going to be my only experience in the role. That is of course, unless something incapcitates one of Karen’s 12 sisters. I wonder if that guy Tanya Harding hired is still available. Just kidding! Knee caps aren’t my thing. Feeding people bad shrimp is much more my style.

While getting the dress, getting measured for the dress, getting the dress altered and getting the shoes weren’t the easiest of chores, I can’t complain about an excuse to get new shoes. Overall, I’d say I’m pretty psyched about the occasion. I’m hoping that I can give a repeat performance of my sister’s commitment ceremony and get drunk enough that my brother looks at me with eyes wishing he were related to someone else, and scoffs as he peers judgingly down upon me, “You’re drunk.”

I mean, how can I not? I have a dress that I can throw away afterwards if it happens to get puke, booze or breakdancing scuffs on it. With any luck, all three. The shoes though, oh glorious shoes, those will stay with me ’til the bitter end. Check ‘em out.

magic slippers.

At work today, I had to listen to a group of officemates talk about Lost conspiracy theories for a solid hour. It’s that show on ABC about people who are lost, apparently. That’s kind of the extent of my knowledge. Well, that and the fact that one of the actresses from the show is dating a hobbit. But that’s just because I read my tabs. During this hour, I do believe string theory was brought up several times. In my head I’m thinking, are you just thinking of prhases that contain the word “theory” and throwing them out there in an attempt to sound smart? I’m a dork, don’t get me wrong, but even this is beyond me. And the worst part is, there’s no where for me to go to escape these daily conversations about things I have no interest in talking about. It’s not fair in my opinion to force your conversation on someone else’s ears. I know we all have to work together but keep it down, or take it elsewhere, or anything that doesn’t result in me gouging out my eyeballs with a colored pencil in an attempt to pass out and thereby escape the conversation, by being unconscious.

While we’re at it, let’s just keep going with the items on my shit list today. Tim Hardaway, you’re a douchebag. I’m sick of people in the public eye spreading hate, and then just covering it up with a half-assed apology full of big words that was shoved in their hand by a PR rep. And then, somehow, it’s like this jackass is the victim. Should I feel bad for you because you’re sorry that you said you “hate gay people?” Poor baby. Keep on keepin on Tim Hardaway. Like someone much smarter than me said, you’ll never get a good haircut again.

Next item on the shit list, literally. Took the first Immodium of my life today, because sprinting to the bathroom at work and risk missing a single second of the Lost debate is where I draw the diarrhea line. I was just about to jump in with my theory of plate tectonics being the driving force behind the plotline of the show, when my stomach started cramping up. Curse you, intestines. The only upside was having justin yell, “REDRUNS!” at me through the phone, complete in the voice of the little boy from the Shining. Eh, it’s the little things that get me through the day.

And just so you can see what it is I work so hard to share with the world, a few of today’s top stories.

Florida Teen on Third Week of Hiccups

Baby Delivered into Mother’s Sweatpants

Woman Stabs Lover to Drink his Blood

Oh my God, I need to commence the eye gouging.

Standing in line at Blockbuster this past Saturday night, alone, with Winter Passing and The Science of Sleep in hand, ready for another rockin weekend, I hear an announcement that the computers have gone down.

I’m a solid 8 people down the line, right about where the candy sugar icecream cones are located in the rack o’junk located conveniently next to the check out at precisely a second grader’s height. Genius and evil at the same time. At this point I’m torn. Either throw the dvds at the checkout, scream something about customer service and how this wouldn’t happen in the days before computers, realize that I’m actually 80, and storm out. Or, bite the bullet and see how long this “downing of the computers” is going to take. Of course I’m so apathetic about pretty much everything, and can never really commit to a decision, that I just stand there, and do nothing.

The woman working the counter, who’s clearly about to crack, is channeling her stress into super-heroesque cheerfulness. If she were an x-man, she would be cyclops’ older sister, sunclops. She would be forced to constantly wear sunglasses, because if she takes them off, blazing rays of cheerful sunshine come blasting out of her eyes and burn everyone in her path to death. She wasn’t saying, but singing things like, “Ok everybody, who wants me to make some popcorn?” (giggle, sunshine ray singes first guy in line) and “We’re working on our NEW system! It’s called pen and paper! Ha! Just kiddin!”

Needless to say this isn’t really having the intended effect and the line moral starts to plummet. Kids are just ripping into the anaconda-sized snickers bars, it’s mayhem. It’s hard to hear my thoughts over the grumbling and weight-shifting-heavy-sigh action.

Then a kid walks up to his dad in line while reading the back of a dvd and screams, “Dad, what’s SEXUALITY mean?” And even better than the tension breaking giggles this elicits is dad’s reaction. “It means sexiness. Go get GARFIELD 2!” Of course the kid looks at him, kind of like I did, in a way that says, didn’t you just say the same word back to me that I said to you? But something in dad’s eye must have told this tyke that it was in his best interest to just get Garfield 2 and ask mom about this sexuality business later.

So it really didn’t end up taking THAT long for me to get to the front of the line. About the time it took to eat 3 bags of raisinettes and one of those movie theater-sized boxes of Dots. So I just closed my eyes real tight, paid sunshine retinas for my rentals, and got the hell out of dodge.

Then I hit and killed a deer on my way home, only watched one of the two movies I paid for, and hated it. I’ve never appreciated my Netflix more.

Winter, you are truly a worthy foe. Every year you come back for another round, and every time you end up smoting my ruins upon a mountain top. Why am I talking like Gandolf? In other words, you kick my ass.

I’ve learned to defend myself against most of your cunning tricks - except the dryness. God you’re good. This year I was on top of my game and started stockpiling the weapons early. I went out and got myself a humidifier. A nice one too. And while it makes my bedroom look like that belonging to a sickly child, sitting next to the tissues and empty water bottles as it does, I was willing to take the feng shui damaging risks and plop that sucker right next to the bed.

Last night as I was going to bed I was struck with an extra bad case of the itches. I mean, skin so dry that when I scratch it it’s as if an instant snow storm of dry skin has exploded from my dermis and flutters into the room. Yuck. I think I just admitted to having leg dandruff.

So as I’m going to town scratching my legs, I start to get the sensation that I’m sucking on a rolo. Only, in this scenario the caramel center is sawdust and the chocolate coating is a thick paste. I think I just admitted to knowing what paste tastes like. Strike two, well done. The point is, my throat was really hurting. Each breath was like swallowing little stabby swords. Nay, shanks, because winter is a scrappy little bitch that way.

So as I’m lying there, resembling someone suffering from some kind of palsy, I realize, Eureka!, the humidifier’s not on. No wonder I don’t feel like the lady from the lubriderm commercial! No wonder Calgon is not taking me away! But of course, OF COURSE, as I turn it on I see that it’s almost out of water. It’s almost 3 a.m. at this point, and refilling the fancy humidifier is such a pain in the ass. It’s akin to standing on your head, juggling, with two fingers in your bum. It ain’t easy.

So I position my face right over the spout, turn the thing on full blast, and take a few direct hits of the last little wisps of water in there, like I was huffing that shit. The high wasn’t that great,  but it was enough to put me to sleep for the night.

Winter, you win again. You always do.

I was talking to Karen recently about money and oh, you know, how we don’t have any. I never really thought that being poor at 27 was a big deal, but all of a sudden it was like I pulled my head out of the sand and looked around. Most of the people I graduated college with are now making six figures, and while I by no means think I’m going to get anywhere close to that, everyone I know makes more than I do. What am I doing wrong? Am I really that bad with finances? And by bad with finances I mean, what are finances? I don’t think you can call what I have in my bank account “finances.” So I went to Crate and Barrel the other day with a $100 gift certificate and ended up walking out with gift certificates still in hand, but having paid $20 for a vase. That doesn’t make me bad with money, does it? Rhetorical question.

Then yesterday I was reading an article in the New York Times about 20-somethings and how there’s this huge condo buying boom amongst my age group now. Granted, the Times is normally full of shit when it comes to writing about normal people, and most of their housing/style/arts/city articles are about affluent “somebodies” and not everyday “nobodies.” So I guess I shouldn’t put too much stock into an article like that. But it still made me feel more self conscious about being a nobody who can’t afford to buy an apartment. I can’t afford new shoes. That was proven to me this weekend when I was looking for bridesmaid shoes at Macy’s and Bloomingdale’s and was literally scoffed at by not one, but two sales people. Leaving empty-handed with a deep, parched thirst for all those glorious watery shoes, with the remnants of Pierre the sales clerk’s spit in my eye, I was thinking, money sucks.

I know a lot of people who seem equally qualified as myself who are making tons of the stuff, and somehow I seem to be struggling on a daily basis to make ends meet. I know I am doing something wrong here. Or maybe I’m just friends with people of a different breed, and I need to slither back down to my own economic class (the desititute I think is our official title) and stop aspiring to make money at this age, or any age. Maybe I’ll just struggle with cash for the rest of my life and that’s the way it is. I certainly don’t have extremely expensive tastes, so I’m not really hurting there. And I have my health. yay. I think you know that if you are giving thanks for your health you’re pretty much shit out of luck in every other aspect of your life. Ugh, I’m seeing some get rich quick and/or pyramid schemes in my future if things don’t start to pick up for me financially. Where do I need to look for a job that might pay me a decent salary? Does that job exist in a world where I’m also fulfilled mentally with my work? I do believe that money doesn’t matter in my happiness, but the world is making it very hard for me to live that way. I wish money didn’t matter so much. If I could not stress about it I would, but they are trying to beat the hope out of me. I need to go get me some skillz. That’s right, with a Z. You can get paid serious coin for those I hear. But only if you are the kind of person who can say the word “coin” and get away with it. I am definitely not.