It is late Saturday night, but I figured I'd better post tonight because I'll never get the chance tomorrow. As you know, it is the Super Bowl day for all women and gay men.
I plan to be answering my phone 11 million times tomorrow, as various people call me to exclaim over particularly bad outfits.
Do you know that when I lived in Los Angeles, even though I was inevitably invited to an Oscar party, or I knew someone who was working at the Oscars, I would for some reason forget and drive past there at some point in the day, and I'd always end up going,"Gee, why is it so crowded on Hollywood Boulevard? Seems really busy for a Sunday."
I never said I was a mental giant.
And no, I never saw anyone walking into the Oscars. They rope that part of the street off, girl, and you have to have some kind of tag on your car to even go down that part of the road. But you can imagine how the already-charming traffic is even more so on Oscar day.
All this talking about multiple phone calls reminded me of a particular humiliation I have hitherto forgotten to tell you about, however, and why not pick a glamorous day like Oscar day to share it?
One time I had, let's just say, an upset tum. Things were not going well in my innards. Naturally, I felt the need to call my mother and regale for her EVERY DETAIL of my misery. She wasn't home, so I left it on her answering machine. And yes, she still has an answering machine, not voice mail, which belts out my message as I'm leaving it.
"Well, there is something wrong with me," I said. "I don't know if I ate something, or I caught a bug, but everything that has ever been in me has come flyin' out of the back of me today, in droves.
"I saw the Barbie shoe I ate in preschool. I saw that turquoise crayon. I saw part of a lung. I think wild monkeys are gonna fly outta there next."
And just in case I hadn't driven the point home, I finished up with "Oh, I'm sick. Seriously, who stepped on that tuba?"
And again. Grace Kelly called. Wants me to play her in the story of her life. Because, refined?
My mother called a few hours later. "Did you get my message?" I asked, wanting sympathy.
"Yes," my mother said. "And the contractors in my kitchen were thrilled to hear all about your bowels, honey."
You can imagine my mother's delight as she turned on her answering machine when they were all there, heard the start of my lovely message, and one of them said, "Oh, we already heard about all that."
Now, why she had to tell them it was her daughter calling was beyond me. Couldn't she have said I was the insane neighbor? Oh, how I hope none of them recognized my senior picture or anything. "Hey! That's June from high school!"
Anyway, on that charming note, I hope you all enjoy the Oscars, if you watch them. It is at times like these that I miss living on West Coast time, as I could actually watch the entire thing. As it is, I will have to stop at about 10:30, because that is as late as I can stay up. Otherwise, I will not feel well the next day, and then I will have to call my mother to tell her about it.