After all the running around to prepare -- to find the dress/the clutch/the wrap/the shoes/the jewels, get my nails and hair did, get my face exfoliated and excavated* -- it was a relief to finally be in the car on the way to the awards show. Before we arrive there together figuratively, let me share with you how one of Will's coworkers described the event:
Every year I go and I spend 500 bucks** and for what? To see a bunch of old white guys up on the stage! So one old white guy gives another old white guy an award and they all laugh and say "Ha ha ha, aren't we great, well, I'll give this to you next year," and the next year that old white guy gives the award to the other old white guy, "Ha ha ha, aren't we great," and they all laugh and pat themselves on the back and talk about how great they are. I'd rather save my 500 bucks.I would say this description is pretty much dead-on accurate, but having been forewarned, I was actually kind of amused by it. For a while, that is. Until (a) my back started hurting from sitting so long, and (b) I realized that each award presenter was making a 5-10 minute speech, followed by 10 minutes of film clips, followed by the presenting of the award, followed by a 5 minute speech by the recipient. If they had only been giving out three awards, we would have been cool. But keep in mind that the actual awards presentation was preceded by a 1.5 hour cocktail hour (complete with prom photos!***) and a 1.5 hour dinner (fantastic steak). By the time we were halfway through with the presentation, I was ready to go home. And there were still five awards left to go.
And my shoes, my cute little strappy black shoes: by 9 pm, they felt like they were made of piano wire. Which is to say, they were cutting into my tender toesies in a most heinous manner. Sweet William and I left the ballroom to stretch and mill about the lobby for a bit, and when we returned, we discovered that we had missed half of Nicole Kidman's presentation to Sydney Pollack. That fucking sucked. But Sydney Pollack was very funny, as you might imagine. Anyone who references Willie Nelson and the B'nai Brith in the same sentence is okay by me.
By the time it was all over, my feet were so wrecked that I couldn't even walk all the way to the car, and it was frickin' cold out. Sweet William ran off and got the car and picked me up (you see why I call him Sweet William), and we drove home. As we got out of the car, I looked down and saw my left boob looking back up at me. Somewhere along the way, the strap of my gorgeous beaded dress broke and ran for cover. Cheezus!
* I refer here to the painful facial experience of extraction, which, miraculously, my aesthetician did not have to do too much of. At 37, I finally have "good" skin -- and now I'm going to start wrinkling. You can depend on it.
** You don't have to pay a fee to attend the show; this is, I imagine, the amount she spends every year on the preparations (see above) like buying a dress, going to the hair salon, etc.
*** You can't even imagine the horror. After getting our drinks and moseying down toward the ballroom, we were ushered into a line where photographers were taking portraits of the event-goers. Our photographer moved us into a pose in which Sweet William and I stood sideways (me with my back to him), and he had me reach back and cup Sweet William's chin in my hand, and then he had Sweet William place his hand lovingly on my arm -- the one that was holding up his chin. Of course, this makes perfect sense, since wherever we go, I always walk one step ahead of Sweet William, holding his big head up for him since it is too heavy for him to hold up by himself. The question is, of course, how did the photographer know this about us?
Sweet William had been feeling a bit poorly the past couple of days, but around 2 AM after the show, he got sick. Upset stomach. Can't eat anything. I made the blandest soup possible for lunch (chicken broth, noodles) but he won't touch it. Currently asleep on the couch. Status: miserable. Since we spend far too much of our time talking about poop as it is, I am doubly bummed. (Bummed! Get it?!)
Don't Go in the Water
Those of you who are following our new pets, Nemo and Marlin****, will be happy to learn that they have a new trick. I had read that Betta fish are very social with humans, and when you approach the tank, will swim right up to you. Marlin has evidently figured out that when we open the top of the tank, food will come miraculously from the sky. If you go anywhere near the tank, Marlin will charge right to the front and beg. This is not the new trick, however.
This morning, when I opened the little feeding door to drop the food in, Marlin actually leaped up to the surface of the water. He did this several times, even when I wasn't actually dropping food. After he did it three times or so, Nemo started doing it, too. I have to give Nemo props, because previously I had pegged him as not very bright, but he's a quick study. Now, my first thought was that Marlin was just impatient to get the food, and that may well be. But it occurs to me now that, as the dominant fish, perhaps he realizes his only chance to jump over the barrier and beat the shit out of Nemo is when the little food door is open.
Perhaps I'm reading too much into it. You don't think so, do you?
According to Wikipedia (thanks, Internet!), "Male bettas do not 'fight to the death' in the wild; once one fish has clearly won the encounter, the loser will retreat to a safe location. In an aquarium, however, there is no place to run, and the winning fish will continue to attack the loser, often ending in death."
Hmm. No good. Now I'm all worried about these damn fish!
*** I keep wanting to spell his name Marlon, because there is a bit of Brando bravado about him. Eh, what's the diff?