Thank you, Hollywood Foreign Press Association, for this honor. I have a vague ghost of an idea what you are because I know the meanings of words, but nothing outside that. Your gig is much better than the Oscars because of the seating arrangements. Actresses who have been sipping cayenne-spiced lemon water for six weeks sit in front of gorgeous plates of untouched food. The sound of teeth grinding from the Adderall is distracting.
I’m certain every young artist dreams of standing on this stage to fake humility someday. I’ve been avidly watching awards shows since childhood and even though I don’t act, sing, write screenplays or “escort,” I still harbor the fantasy of giving a thank you speech to 85 million people. Wait, I think that might be the viewership of the Rose Parade. I get confused.
Yesterday, I saw a meme on Facebook that read, “God, let me screw up my daughter just enough to make her funny.” Mom, Dad, I think you did it.
And, frankly, you’re still at it.
I know I’m going to make Joan Rivers’ worst dressed on “Fashion Police” tomorrow. I knew it was the only way Rivers would ever say my name. My Ann Taylor Loft black faux wrap dress isn’t glamourous, but I didn’t want to “do a Lena Dunham” where I looked so out of place in a gown as to seem to be cross dressing. My comfortable Aerosoles may look tacky now, but all those bitches in stripper peep-toe platforms are going to be drooling with envy as they limp to their limos.
I did get some Botox between my brows. All those years of frowning at essays I was grading have taken their toll. I’m sure you’re relieved not to see “those cheeks” on me, though. It’s hard for me to believe that the surgeon who does that procedure is able to get referrals. Helen Hunt looks like she has the mumps. Cheeks? Freaks, more like.
I want to also thank all of the other writers in my category. It is an honor to be nominated with such talented women, and even better to be able to say, “Suck it, whores. You lose.”
Thank you, readers who have been with me from the beginning, and all of you I picked up along the way. A writer is nothing without an audience. I write to be read and nothing fulfills me quite like knowing that my words affect people. Thank you to my very first mean commenter who called me a “Twinkie eating bitch,” and temporarily threw me into a tailspin of “What the hell have I brought down on myself” doubt. It’s amazing to think that I’ll tell that story to my daughters someday and they’ll blink at me and ask “What’s a Twinkie?”
While I’m thanking people who at first glance may not seem worthy of thanks, I’d like to acknowledge Toxic Best Friend (TBF). Ever since the day in middle school where you invited me to join the popular girls for lunch because I was wandering around looking so lost, I longed to be your friend. You were always there for me, ready with a big smile and a listening ear. At least, when you needed me to vote for cheerleading squad and Homecoming Court. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have thought to call the principal at our old high school and get an interview, so in a way, I owe my other career to you. I tried very hard to end our toxic friendship over the years, and it seems to finally be sticking, now that you no longer keep me around to feel luckier, prettier, or more accomplished than I. If Odie ever divorces me, I have no doubt you’ll be the first person who calls.
Which brings me to my husband. My love. The man who started it all. Odie, without you, my blog would have a totally different name.
The sign says “Wrap it up,” so I’ll leave you with this. Even in the darkest dog night summer, belinis sustained us, and when I look into the iris of love, I cling to that remnant of my former self. The scab-kneed, frog-catching lizard girl. Flying over cross-ties on a chestnut Thoroughbred. Well, I have news for you. I’m not Snooki Glanville-Cibrian. I don’t have my own perfume. But I sure do have my own smell. That’s for you, Jodie Foster.
Good night, everyone. Go to bed, Viva and Pringles. Mommy needs to get drunk.
The Friendly Pedant by Mrs. Odie 
Oscar Nominees, Affleck robbed
I have previously written that I lack empathy. I blame this on my childhood. I repressed my feelings as a defense mechanism to protect me from the pain of my parents’ divorce. Recently, I’ve had cause to reevaluate this characterization of me.
It isn’t that I lack empathy. It’s that my empathy causes me so much pain that I will do virtually anything to push it down. In my 40 years on this earth, “anything” has included food (especially sugar), sex, alcohol, self-mutilation, exercise, starving, binging and purging. Those are uncomfortable things to confess. Now that I’m a mom, I take more honest looks at myself. I do not want my daughters, who will someday (pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease) be women, to suffer as I have, to believe they are not enough and that their feelings will kill them.
I regularly have to remind myself that my feelings won’t kill me either. They are intense and terrifying and painful, but they do pass.
It’s gotten to the point where I can’t bring myself to watch most movies. I love movies, and I look forward to the Oscars every year. I want it to be like the old days when I’d seen all of the films and had strong feelings about the outcomes. Despite access to those Oscar screeners that people pass around this time of year (allegedly. No lawbreakers here, officer. Move along) I haven’t seen the nominees. “Life of Pi” looks compelling, but someone told me there is animal suffering in it. No thanks. I’m a Daniel Day-Lewis fan, but (spoiler alert) I know what’s in store for the President in “Lincoln.” A movie with the word “Beast” in the title is probably not a good bet for a depressive still teetering on the edge of postpartum depression. As much as an American film called “The Miserables” is destined to bring me down, a French film titled “Amour”? Likely to be the most depressing fucking thing ever.
That leaves me with “Argo,” and I’m not going to lie. I have a Ben Affleck thing. I never saw “Daredevil,” so I’m still capable of taking him seriously. I enjoyed “The Town,” although I found myself uncomfortably fixated on the child of the whorey Blake Lively character, imagining what kind of sad life was in store for him (her? I’ve blocked it out). It wasn’t as bad as “Gone, Baby, Gone”. After that film, I had to actively force myself to do a therapeutic technique where I aggresively replaced my intrusive thoughts with different thoughts. Not with wine.
I’m going to bite the bullet and watch “Lincoln.” Pun intended. I know it works out well for the slaves, at least. I don’t need to even bring Quentin Tarantino into this conversation, do I? When I was in college I went to see that movie every living human being was saying was the best movie they had ever seen ever and that filmmaking had been elevated to nosebleed heights as never before. My innocence died that day in the Sunday Matinee of “Pulp Fiction.” I don’t think that “ass rape” and “masterpiece” ever get to be in the same review.
“Argo” makes the cut as well. I’m going to make my husband watch with me, so if Ben Affleck is good, Odie will stop constantly singing that song from “Team America: Word Police” whenever he’s feeling romantic.
“I need you like Ben Affleck needs acting school…” Maybe the Academy had that infernal tune stuck in their heads while filling out the ballots.
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