I Would Like To Thank Kimberly-Clark

My pink Shimera scraped the carpet and went swish-swish.  My white hand bag paid tribute to Dior, Chanel and Kimberly-Clark.  My Bearpaws heralded from China and kept my toosties warm.  My hair was a hot mess; my makeup understated.  I caught a few stares as I modeled my robe, my clutch of tissues, my slippers for the tiny crowd gathered in my living.  I caught more than a thumb's down for my overall look.  I caught me a bad-ass cold.  So much for Cousin Andy's.  So much for the anticipated scream-fest, the bloody brawl for which I spent the last three weeks training. Oscar night fizzled for the Short Jewish Gal, along with the Neil Patrick Harris opening.  My damn predictions came close, but not close enough.

I called "Avatar" but "Hurt Locker" won.  I called "Up in the Air" for script, but "Hurt Locker" won that one, too. It was a very long night for award-watchers.  I'd give it a B- and that's being generous.  I'm all about Interpretive Dance; just ask my immediate family. I perform such numbers daily.  But last night's dance in honor of Best Score hurt my head more than a little.  Midway through, I said, "Get off!"  And speaking of hurt, I must confess, I didn't get "The Hurt Locker."  But I'm so glad it won and thrilled for Ms. Bigelow, the first gal to EVER win an Oscar for directing.  The movie didn't set off any  explosives for me, though.  Go ahead, throw stuff at me.  Throw some Kleenex; I'm almost out.