Ok, I really should be posting something serious. All I’ve been consumed with for days now have been very serious subjects and everything I’ve written has been about those things. But I just can’t do it. I’m exhausted from hours of crying last night over the culmination of the past week’s events, capped-off with the realization that I had lost not only my wedding band but also the silver pendant of my grandfather’s thumbprint.
The Oscar’s were the only thing I had to keep me from going completely crazy on someone last night. I ate ice cream for the first time in I don’t know how long and then had to take a sedative to sleep. But this morning my faith was renewed in humans when I found out that some lovely soul had turned my jewelry in at the tanning salon. So, I have to hold onto this feeling for just a little while longer and then I can go back to my serious writing and life. But until then, I shall indulge my childish, goofy side and explore one of the many crazy thoughts that constantly pop in and out of my head.
I already mentioned that I watched the Oscars last night. I do every year and have probably only missed one or two since I was about 7 years old. I thought last night was lovely and I cried and clapped like an idiot for Octavia Spencer and Christopher Plummer. I hissed a little when Gary Oldman didn’t win (I know he was a long shot but I love the man and he deserves props). I felt torn in several directions when Streep won. She was spectacular as always but so were Michelle Williams and Viola Davis. But the moment that entertained my brain the most (besides those rubber people from the Cirque du Soleil) was Angelina Jolie’s knee.
You see, I have this strange compulsion to personify things around me. I like to blame it on the actress/storyteller inside of me, but it’s probably something closer to a condition requiring meds or electroshock therapy. My kids find this habit of giving objects a personality hilarious (middle school will rid them of that) and my husband just watches with an expression teetering between amusement and fear as he pours himself another scotch.
No object is safe from my random personifying and they are always saddled with some over-the-top accent or stereotype. My husband has asked before why I tend to turn many objects into Mr. T. The answer- because he’s funny. So, anyway, back to Miss Jolie’s right knee and what it did to my rather exhausted, fragile, ice cream and Magic Shell-drunken mind.
Angelina walks out looking like her usual I’m-so-beautiful-I-break-the-laws-of-genetics self and steps up to the microphone. She has to thrust out her left hip and her right leg in a very unnatural, if not uncomfortable, stance so that her leg will protrude from the mile-high split in her velvet gown. There’s uncomfortable laughter from the audience and Jolie herself. It’s obvious that she’s having to try really hard to show off that leg and that just seems like something below an actress of her beauty and talent. She is that woman who I believe genuinely doesn’t care what people think, but here she is, trying so hard to show off her thin leg. It bothered me because she could have come out wearing a barbwire dress, carrying a whip, and riding an orangatan and it would have seemed more natural for her.
So her knee is staring at everyone and I stop listening to what she’s saying as my brain slowly tunes in to that magic channel that finds the voice of the voiceless. Suddenly I can hear her knee and the voice is oddly that of a French man. I don’t know why. Maybe it was all the French people from The Artist, but I don’t question the voice, I only listen. And this is what it says:
(Must be read with bad French accent– think Pepe Le Pew)
“Bonjour Academy. Do you see me? Of course you do, because I am magnifique! I feared I would be left hiding under this black curtain with that loser dog, Left Knee. But no, no, no! I am Right Knee, and I must be seen by all.
“I can see how you other kneez are staring at me with jealousy. I understand. I am tres sexy and you can only dream of zee life I have. I have traveled zee world for peace. I have collected zee Oscars and zee Golden Globes. I have made zee kneez of other actresses hate me and I have made every man and some of the women…oh, oui, it iz true…want to hump me. Pourquoi? Because I am Right Knee!
“I have been bruised by being zee Tomb Raider and zee Salt. I shoot zee guns and throw zee knives. I am zee bad azz knee. But I am not just a fighter…non, I am a lover. I have had rug burns from zee Brad Pitt. How many kneez can say that?… Qu’est-ce que? Zee entire second row?…and most of the third…Oh, shut up! It does not matter. He has only had children with me!…No, that is not a stretch mark!! Who iz that? Gwyneth?…Jennifer?…Juliette Lewis!! Who let her in here? Shoo! Go away to your mediocre life.
“Oh, wait! Pardon moi. We are moving over here now so zee little men may get their gold statue. Have I mentioned zat I already have one and I rub its golden luster all over me every night? Oh, look! Zee little men are so happy with their Oscars…wait…what iz zee little man doing?…Putaine la vache!!…Oh, no, no he did not just put out his knee! You better watch it little writer man. I know six little children zat will all bite your knee. You better watch your back at zee Elton John Party. My brother, Left Knee, and his friend Nick Nolte are not as refined as me. When you are not looking they will avenge our honor and zen we will laugh all zee way home and we will get more rug burn from zee Brad Pitt, but not you…no rug burn for you little writer man… except maybe from one of those muppets or…zee fat Jonah Hill. No, not zee new, thin Jonah Hill- zee fat one! I will stuff him with zee cupcakes zee Billy Crystal talked about and zen he will give you zee rug burn!!
Au revoir, little writer man…au revoir.
** No French people or knees were hurt in the writing of this blog…but many were offended. C’est la vie.