On Oscar and Lady Mary

It dawned blue sky and puffy clouds after last night's downpours, and even now the clouds are skittering across the sky, the air washed clean and cool. I watched the Oscar ceremonies last night and was grateful that my favorite movie of 2014, Ida, won for best foreign picture. The Polish director was utterly charming and went on too long, but I loved him anyway. I was glad, too, that Patricia Arquette won an award for her performance in Boyhood, and her acceptance speech was one of the few that didn't make me squirm in either boredom or embarrassment at the pretension of it all. I'm not a big fan of the host, and all that song and dance makes me even more squirmy than the sanctimonious stump speeches. The worst and most distasteful joke of the night had something to do with the horrible movie American Sniper, and if I sound all righteous and pretentious, it's because I just can't wrap my brain around anyone joking about a ridiculous war, started on lies, that's destabilized an entire region of the world, unleashed some of the worst terror man has ever known, ruined hundreds of thousands of young men and women's brains and killed even more people across the globe. That a bazillion dollars was paid to a hunk of an actor to portray a guy whose modus operandi is to kill as many people in as efficient a way as possible and then be glorified as a hero -- well -- I can't bear it. And before I end this rant, let me say that I really didn't like the movie Birdman, despite the wonderful acting of Michael Keaton and Emma Stone, that I found it pretentious and slick and soul-less, so when it was announced by one of my least favorite Hit You Over the Head With My Acting actors -- well -- I was off to looking for redemption for poor Lady Edith and some sort of lightning to hit Lady Maaaaahhhhry at Downton Abbey. Whether rich and tittering at the plight of those at the other end of an American Sniper's sights, or at one's unmarried, sour spinster sister, I'm sick of them all.

Reader, how are you?

Weekend Wrap Up: Henry, Oliver, Sophie, Oscar, Pigs in Chocolate and Me

That's my boy, getting ready for his first Homecoming Dance. Here's a shot of him getting his tie re-tied. There was a constant stream of comments from the Peanut Gallery. There were also looks of adoration from the Peanut Gallery.

Lest you think this was an idyllic scene, know that a fight ensued, and The Peanut Gallery's parting remarks were I hope you die at the dance! Henry's response was You're not a good person.

Brothers.

Looking sharp, Henry!

Well, the west coast has the sunshine and the girls all look so tan --

The only glitch in the night was Henry showing up at the gathering spot without a corsage for his date AND no jacket. I had suggested both and was nixed. Ahem. Thankfully, he did not die at the dance and, rather, danced the night away with about 900 other kids. I have to say that with the exception of the beautiful part, I'm glad that I'm no longer a teenager.

Earlier in the day, I had baked and decorated a chocolate cake for an adorable eighty-year old man. I had met this man a few months back, when I had dinner with him and his partner of forty years. They just got married, are both impossibly handsome and fun, and I'm just thrilled to have been included in the celebration. Here's the cake:

Here's a close-up:

And here:

Those are pink fondant pigs, basking in the best chocolate frosting you've ever made. It's Martha Stewart's recipe, and I think I posted it once on this blog, but I can't be bothered right now to find it. Kit Kats lined the cake.

Here I am at the party. I won an Oscar for the cake:

In all honesty, that's a real Oscar, won by my friend's grandfather back in the twenties. It is very heavy, very shiny and very cool.

Thank you to my readers, all of whom I would be desperate without.

Today, I'm doing laundry, setting out the Halloween shit with Oliver and otherwise relaxing. I increased Sophie's medication a few days ago, in a half-hearted attempt to decrease her seizures. The medication is a benzo and has a slow half-life (this is the sort of lingo that my peeps only will understand). It appears to be catching up with her, because this is what she looks like for much of the day:

The life of a person with uncontrolled epilepsy can truly suck, and I'm not going to mince words about that. One can certainly live well with epilepsy, but for the 30% of those whose seizures are not controlled or who need massive amounts of drugs to control them, epilepsy is a scourge -- god-d*&^ed, f*&%ing scourge.

So, not to leave you with a bunch of imprecations, but what are you up to this Sunday afternoon?

Light, Candy, Oscar and Laundry Monday

That's a photo of the boys' desk in their room, and yes, there are still Christmas gels on the window and yes, I let them keep that huge jar of candy balls on the desk and have found, actually, that they eat less of it when it's right there in front of them. I thought the light coming through the window this morning was beautiful, even as I folded laundry while sitting on Henry's bed in the quiet, and I'm determined to go for a walk this morning and begin, anew, some exercise. I've got nothing more to say about the Oscars last night other than I thought them exceedingly stupid, particularly Seth McFarlane, and I wondered why in the hell Michelle Obama was there virtually with those weird people in military costume standing behind her, contorting their faces uncomfortably. I can't stand Quentin Tarantino and his violent, ugly movies, so I was disappointed that he won Best Original Screenplay over Wes Anderson's Moonrise Kingdom and I also hate musicals (did you know that about me?) so the musical numbers were excruciating to watch except for Adele who I think is fantastic and projects an aura of honesty and sweetness beyond her celebrity. The high moment for me was Daniel Day Lewis, of course, with whom I've been besotted forever, so thank goodness the night wasn't a complete waste of time. So there you go. A mini-critique of the Oscars from another self-absorbed blogger. Now I'm going back to gazing at the pools of light in my house while I clean.

My OSCAR Picks even though I'm finding it unbearable so far

The four letters after that didn't make the picture frame, but they spelled O S C A R, and I wouldn't say I loved them, but I live in the middle of it all. As the helicopters begin their roving in our neighborhood and the blimp flies overhead, I'll slide some mozzarella sticks in the oven for the boys and tell you my picks -- both whom I want to win and whom I think will win:

BEST PICTURE:

Zero Dark Thirty -- think
Silver Linings Playbook -- want

BEST DIRECTOR:

David O. Russell -- want
Michael Hanneke -- think

BEST ACTOR:

Daniel Day Lewis -- think and want

BEST ACTRESS

Jennifer Lawrence -- think
Emmanuelle Riva -- want

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

Christoph Waltz -- think
Tommy Lee Jones -- want

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS

Ann Hathaway -- think
Jacki Weaver -- want

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY

Moonrise Kingdom -- think and want

BEST ADAPTED SCREENPLAY

Argo -- think
Silver Linings Playbook -- want


***And if Les Miss wins anything, I'll throw up a tiny little bit.

Oscar, LA-Style

Wasn't that just about the weakest, most lame Oscar ceremony ever?

Here in La-La Land, we hear the helicopters rounding up over the hills all afternoon. The Husband nearly always has a party to work (he used to be Wolfgang Puck's Executive Chef for catering and did the Governor's Ball every year!), so I walked around the corner to our neighbor's house to watch the shindig. Because it's mid-afternoon, here, when it all starts, the kids come, too. We fill out those forms and have a contest to see who picks the most winners. We eat trashy food and catcall, some years more than others. It was that kind of year. I just told a good friend that it was either a sign that I was just getting too old or that I'm profoundly depressed, but I didn't care about any of it this year. Not even the gowns. O.K., I did like Cate Blanchett's weird yellow and pink thing. And Javier Bardem looked ghastly in white but divine in black. And Annette Bening was my favorite -- mainly because of those green drop earrings she had on. I hated The Social Network, so any time they won anything, I got busy feeding Sophie. And while I enjoyed The King's Speech and love Colin Firth like 99% of other women, the movie didn't knock my socks off or anything. Anne Hathaway is darn cute, but she was an AWFUL host, and I just couldn't wrap my brain around the whole world watching it. In a dark moment, I might have muttered that it was just another sign of the decline of the empire, American, that is -- and when the two folks won Best Documentary for The Inside Job, which I'm sure is an excellent one, and they made their clever comment about how none of the bankers that masterminded the spectacular fall of Wall Street two years ago were in jail, yet, and everyone in the star-studded, powers-that-be audience tittered and clapped -- well, that made me squirm in my seat and feel embarrassed.

In fact, the highlight was seeing those cute kids from PS22 sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow because they, at least, still seemed pure and in love with entertainment.

And I still don't know whether it's all because I'm getting old or because I'm profoundly depressed, but I think it's a bit of both.