Oscar Dreams
Monday, March 23, 2009 at 04:49PM Last week, I dreamt that I was standing in the parking lot of Café Latte, my old L.A. hangout when I had a job that paid well and people talked to me instead of whined. Suddenly my girlfriend’s husband appeared, wanting to buy my car.
“My car is not for sale.” I explained.
“You must sell your car to me now,” he insisted. Afraid he might car-jack me, I hopped in and sped off.
Waking up in a sweat, I didn’t need a Freudian dream analyst to figure out this one –the meaning was clear: I was to never leave my house again. After my Oscars-party-Spanxx-foot-in-the-mouth incident, who would even want me to leave? Allow me to explain.
About a month ago, an old friend, who knew me before I became married, pregnant and boring, invited me to the IDA’s Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences for an Annual Nominees Reception. How could I turn down an Oscar party at the Academy? My hubby wasn’t able to get off work, so I asked my girlfriend to accompany me on my adult-only outing.
When the big day came, I was dressed and ready, except for the required fat squeezing girdle known affectionately as Spanxx. The drive to La-la Land was over an hour, too long to sit encased in elastic. I threw them into my purse, making a mental note to change before the party.
Everything went according to plan--minimal traffic, on-time arrival at girlfriend’s house, and dinner at a trendy restaurant. Finally, we arrived at the Academy, ready to present ourselves as the glam moms. I strutted through the front door and straight into the gaze of a tall and handsome Security guard.
“Please open your purse,” he kindly requested. I smiled and batted my eyelashes. That is until I looked down and saw a large wad of Spanxx staring up at me.
“Uh, I am so sorry,” I stammered as he began rifling through my purse. “It’s my underwear.” I added, hoping he wouldn’t touch them. But he did. I stood horrified, wondering how many people could see that I was holding up the line with an extra large pair of Spanxx.
Eventually, this moment, which felt like an eternity, ended. My girlfriend ushered me forward. “How about a glass of wine?”
As we milled about, I ran into a friend who introduced me to someone who looked vaguely familiar.
“Do we know each other?” I asked. Not able to find a common connection, my friend nudged me.
“She directed “Trouble the Water.”
“I don’t know it.” I smiled.
“The movie about Hurricane Katrina.” I smiled another blank smile.
She pulled me aside, “What is wrong with you?”
Not sure if there was enough time to explain, I simply replied, “I have dementia.”
As the program began, I realized the unknown woman was, of course, one of the more famous nominees. Even though the emcee Lily Tomlin made me laugh, I sat and obsessed over why I had no idea who the filmmaker was. If only it had been Joe Jonas, Miley Cyrus or Clifford the Big Red Dog, I could have recited her complete resume and family tree.
“Wasn’t Lily great?” someone asked me after the show. I smiled and changed the subject, explaining I had to get home since it was eleven o’clock, way past my bedtime.
“Whose Lily?” I asked my girlfriend while we were driving home.
“Lily Tomlin--who hosted the show.” She looked at me, concerned.
“I can never leave home again.”
And just in case I forget, my subconscious keeps reminding me. Last night, I dreamt that my hubby worked in a hotel and told me to put on a bikini. Fortunately, I declined and headed home to watch “High School Musical 3” with the kids.
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