Subscribe to continue reading
Subscribe to get access to the rest of this post and other subscriber-only content.
Come Inside My Head, if You Dare…
The junk that pops into my brain
Subscribe to get access to the rest of this post and other subscriber-only content.

This weekend, I have guests here for the Oscar Festivities. I am not ready. HA! Pardon the understatement. I suppose I assumed the official night would be later in March. I was shocked to find out they are this weekend. The Big Event was always the week of my daughter’s B-day – the 25th. How dare they move it up without my consent. Arggh!
Typically, I have a big “To-Do” planned. I’m talking about sending fancy invitations through the post office, stamps and all. It is a formal affair at a mountain resort, where guests are pampered and granted (nearly) every wish they make. The hostess (me) is busy with food, fashion, and spa appointments. Guests have a dress code: “What would you wear to the Oscars if you were there in person?”
I am often asked, “Why do you make your guests dress up?”
The simple answer is to promote the Oscar “feeling.” The truth is that we have more fun dissing the fashions of the attending audience if we are superiorly dressed. The Red Carpet is how our reverence for the Oscars began. My daughter and I had gone through a super lousy patch that year, and she was at home for a visit when the Oscar pre-show began. I don’t remember the year, nominations, or winners. We do remember the so-called elite fashion we saw walking along that carpet. Not only were the outfits exceptionally hideous, but no one seemed to notice but us. Our laughter was so intense we often could not catch our breath. We thought we would suffocate when the following outfit was even worse. It was either the best joke played by the women, or they, indeed, were superior actors.
The Spa is a madhouse on Sunday morning. Even the non-rich and famous want to look their best for the Red Carpet. Yes, a Red Carpet is along the way to the viewing room, where interviews and photoshoots happen. At the 2022 Oscars, we filmed a video of our Red Carpet that ended up hysterically BAD. It was posted anyway because we wanted my hubby to discover it while cruising on YouTube the next day. He did not discover it, but quite a few others found it and gave it a thumbs up. Go figure!
Alas, this year the Spa is empty. By unanimous vote, this year, we are not glaming up. We will be laughing and commenting, wearing our comfy clothes without make-up. We will still vote on the nominations list and play Oscar Bingo.
There will be special snax, of course.
TTFN

I should have been a princess. Who else could stay here except royalty or the filthy rich?
You could jacuzzi and watch the sunrise while you waited for room service to deliver your latte with two shots of expresso because the warm tropical air makes you sleepy. You could nap at home. You want to soak up all this experience.
After a quick swim in the ocean, you rinse off and cuddle up in the luxurious robe you find in the closet. You finish the latte while going through the notes you made regarding your novel. This should be the final draft after tearing it down and rebuilding things 4 times, doing a lot more research, and outlining the thing repeatedly. Seven drafts should be plenty. Any other story she would have tossed by now, but not this one. It was her life’s work.
The way things usually go for her, it will be published, and movie rights will be sold soon after. Of course, there will be no book signing tours or readings. You see, it will be published posthumously.
Ha.