I tried watching the Oscars tonight. I just couldn’t get into it. I don’t know what it was, but I was pretty much annoyed with the whole affair. Yes, the clothes were beautiful, and everyone looked properly airbrushed and coiffed. There was nothing amiss with anyone’s behavior. It just felt…insipid.

That’s what came to me when I complained to my husband about it. Insipid means “lacking flavor, bland.” Huh, that’s what everyone says about my people, and yet that’s what I was thinking about the Oscars? How dare I?

But there it is. And it annoyed me. The speeches annoyed me. The fact that the only scene out of a two hour movie featuring Barkhad Abdi, the Somali actor from Minnesota, was the same scene we’re all already sick of, annoyed me. The fact that Twelve Years A Slave was going to win Best Picture no matter what, and we all know why, and we can’t say why because admitting absolutely anything besides, “it was deserving of an Oscar completely on the merits that it was a splendidly made film” would make us bad, bad people, annoyed me. The fact that the nominees who were not actors, directors, or producers were corralled like cattle into a side balcony for their award announcement (and we saw it as viewers), annoyed me.

I liked Cate Blanchett’s earrings. They were opals. I like opals.

Maybe it has nothing to do with my expectations for the Oscars, because to be honest, they were low anyway. Maybe it has more to do with the fact that we’re moving into fifty days this winter where the temperature didn’t get above zero Fahrenheit, and everything outside is starting to resemble a pile of overcooked, dessicated rice. Perhaps all the satin and spray tan feels garish and out of place as I observe it from my pale world of big sweaters and flannel pajamas.

Could it be that I’m just projecting the soul sucking monotony of this never-ending winter onto a silly awards show? Oh probably. Right now, Southern California, with it’s warm air and clean roads, feels like a different planet, and the perfectly primped ambassadors of Hollywood, sitting in the first four rows of the Oscars, look like aliens.

As a writer of a mystery series and an aspiring TV writer, I appreciate a good story, and I admire and respect the teams of people that bring those stories to life.  As a validation junkie, I totally get the hype around awards. However, I’d rather spend two hours of my time enjoying those stories for myself, rather than bothering to witness who wins the awards for them.

Maybe if I’m ever privileged enough to be corralled into that side balcony, all dolled up for my chance to ramble on for 42 seconds in front of millions of people, I’ll change my mind. You think Cate will lend me her earrings?

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