And the Oscar goes to...

Dave actually won this year's Oscar pool with 12 correct picks out of 24 categories. Kelly was right on his tail with 11. First-time participant Becca had 8 correct picks. I had 7. Seven out of 24. Less than 30%.

God, I am so relieved. My 13 year tradition of NEVER winning the pool remains intact. Whew! I am so glad it's all over. Every year there is the terrible tension about winning; I can't even describe it to you, it is so intense, especially since I do not deliberately throw the damn thing (other than not seeing any of the movies and not reading "Entertainment Weekly"). No, I take pride in the fact that my unbroken string of losses is entirely the result of my uncanny ability to choose unwisely. How many things have YOU lost for 13 consecutive years?

I started out the evening with a win- the very first category, Art Direction- and was on tenterhooks until about half-way through, when it was finally clear that I would, in fact, NOT win the pool again. After that, I could enjoy myself. A bi-coastal Oscar party involves a lot of texting and phone calling and lacks the intimacy of all of us being in the same room at the same time, but it was still a good time. Kelly has only lost 3 times in 13 years, and it took a particularly weird and bizarre Oscar season to knock her out of the winner circle. I take pride in the consistency of my Oscar ignorance. Weird and bizarre did not knock me off my glorified perch as the consummate non-winner. A pristine record has been preserved for another year.

I would like to thank my husband, my children, my friends and the Academy for this honor.

And the Oscar goes to.... who the hell cares?

My daughter and I have a friend who goes by the moniker Gryphon. I bring this up because it is Oscar time again, and my daughter puts together Oscar ballots every year for which friends and family members each pony up a dollar. Every year, she creams everybody and keeps all the money. She used to have Oscar parties before she traveled west, which brings me back to Gryph. He has blogged, in part, about her Oscar parties. He has also thrown down the Oscar gauntlet on his blog, Life Among the Natives. I have a link to it on my blog. Go there. Be entertained. Then come back, and look at my picks.

Back already? Damn, you read fast! Anyway, unlike Gryphon, I am not going to choose who SHOULD win. I really haven't seen many of the movies and I am a movie-tech moron. Sound editing- better than unsound editing? Art direction? You, the Van Gogh, go to the left. Cezanne, stay where you are. Animated shorts- aren't those worn by Mickey Mouse? I could go on, but you get the point and are probably getting annoyed as well.

Here are my picks in no particular order. I put an asterisk by the movies/performances I have actually seen.

Supporting Actor- Eddie Murphy; who can say "no" to Donkey?

Animated feature*- Cars

Costume design*- The Devil Wears Prada; Hello! The whole film is about fashion.

Make-up- Pan's Labyrinth (or, as a colleague pronounces it, LAB-EYE-RINTH).

Supporting Actress- Jennifer Hudson

Visual Effects*: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest. Yo ho, me hearties!

Documentary Feature: An Inconvenient Truth, which documents Al Gore's ineptitude as a presidential candidate and mentions the environment

Art direction: Pan's Labyrinth, which I bet I will have to see in California, as a small market like my little home town will never show it

Live Action Short Film: Binta and the Great Idea- it's the first one in the category which is as good a reason as any to choose it. Oh, wait, they're alphabetical...

Animated Short Film: The Little Matchgirl

Sound mixing*: Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest- we pirates must stick together.

Sound editing*: Pirates.of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest, and this choice surprises you why?

Documentary short: Two Hands (which are better than none)

Film Editing: The Children of Men (though I suspect women are involved in the process somehow)

Original Score: Pan's Labyrinth

Original Song: "Our Town" from Cars

Cinematography*: The Illusionist. I have also seen The Prestige; too bad these films came out at the same time to knock each other out of the box office, because they are both brilliant and deserve recognition.

Foreign Language Film: Pan's Labyrinth

Leading Actress: Helen Mirren

Adapted Screenplay: Children Of Men

Original Screenplay- Pan's Labyrinth

Leading Actor: Peter O'Toole- I mean, c'mon already; screw that Life Achievement Oscar crap and praise him as he deserves while he is with us

Best Director: Martin Scorsese- see above comments

Best Picture: Letters from Iwo Jima- just so Dirty Harry doesn't blow Marty Scorsese away for winning best director.

Okay, young Gryphon... and Kelly... these are my entirely uninformed picks for this year's Oscars. I would like to thank the Academy for only doing this once a year.

Ruh- roh

Tomorrow, Mama will be going to the Trinity Senior Day Care for the first time. Getting her enrolled has been only slightly less complicated than quantum physics, and has required two people (Stephanie and I), a notary public, a trip to the doctor, and the filling in of a sheaf of forms, all of which I had to read and translate to Mama. She had to sign her own name in front of the notary. Her last name is apparently Richaboa. I know she can write her own name, but when she doesn't want to do something...

Mama seems excited about going, though, and was very pleased with the place when we went for a look-see. So was I. This looks like a good way for her to finally have some social interaction and maybe make some friends. She outlived all her siblings, friends, husbands, and peers, and then was transplanted from Michigan (where she had lived all her life) to Tennessee. Granted, she was very familiar with Tennessee from her many visits to see us while her husband was still alive, but it has not become HOME even after almost six years here. I am not insensitive to how lonely she is but all attempts to ease that loneliness have ended in failure. I have tentative hopes for Trinity.

Now, about the ruh-roh...
My darling daughter quipped last night that she can't wait until I am old enough for HER to blog about ME! I see some Homeric justice in my future. Hopefully, I will be too demented to notice. Or just demented enough to be able to cop a plea! Maybe I should just stop posting about Mama....


Nah.

Episode 143 in which Mama goes to the nurse practitioner and I end up drugged

Mama is in wonderful health. Aside from high blood pressure that would be controlled by medication if she TOOK her medication, and arthritis, she is in good shape physically. For 78, she is remarkably well. She seems to be the only one who doesn't know that.

She has been obsessing about her weight. She thinks she is wasting away. "I'm so skinny. Why am I so skinny?" Aside from having bird-legs, Mama is not particularly skinny, but if she is concerned about her weight, so am I. Every waking moment. Seven days a week.

"I only weigh 112 pounds" she laments, "I used to weigh 163, now I weigh 112." I nod. It's true; 30 years ago, she weighed 163 pounds. She looked like a keishka, so round, so firm, so fully packed. It's the 112 pounds I have some doubts about. "Let's put you on the scale", I say in my most patient voice. I think ahead, and have a witness- Mama is slightly less likely to argue with the scales if there are multiple witnesses. I recruit Stephanie. We maneuver her onto the scales. We make her let go of the sink. We look at the bright, digital numbers. Mama weighs 125 pounds. "There", I say, actually thinking this will resolve things. "See? You're not losing weight. You're just where you should be, not too skinny and not too fat." Most people would be happy to hear this.

But, as my constant readers can attest, Mama is not most people. Within days, she is obsessing about her weight again. "I'm so skinny. Why am I so skinny?" I don't bite. I just let it go. And on it goes... until, finally, she starts the "I need to go to the doctor" obsession. I really can't see any justification for taking her, but hey, it's her money and her right to see a doctor, so I make an appointment with our nurse practitioner, Sharon, whom we both love and trust. I use as an excuse Mama's need for her pneumonia shot.

We get to the office ahead of our appointed time because it's never a sure thing how long it will take to get Mama into the building. She seems to develop a cornucopia of symptoms the minute we get into the parking lot. Her speech becomes slurred. She loses the capacity to walk. She goes totally blind. And deaf. Pathos, thy name is Mama. Once inside, I sign her in while she inflicts her personality on the genuinely unwell.

We get called back and Sharon asks what's up. "She needs her pneumonia shot, and she's obsessed with her weight. She thinks she's wasting away." Sharon looks at the chart. Mama not only weighs 125 pounds, but she has gained 8 pounds since her last visit! The only thing Sharon sees that concerns her is Mama's blood pressure. She talks to Mama for several minutes and gives Mama a lecture about taking her pills, then sends her outside so we can talk.

And suddenly, we're talking about ME! " She's driving me crazy!" I say. "I love her, but I need some help," I say. "I'm not sleeping and I am battling depression again", I say and then I burst into tears. No one is more surprised than me!

Sharon understands. She sees this all the time. She says I am suffering from caretaker burn-out. She gives me some good advice, offers some alternatives, suggests senior day-care. She is very helpful.

I stop blubbering, feeling completely foolish. Sharon goes to get Mama's shot (and my chart) and calls Mama back into the room.

"What's wrong with my Katie?" Mama demands as she walks through the door- she apparently heard me crying, or else noticed my red eyes and attractively running nose. "There's nothing wrong, Mama," I lie, "it's just this damn nose of mine," which I blow convincingly into a tissue.

Mama sits down in the chair and looks me straight in the eye. "I know you're lying. Give it to me straight, " she says, "I have cancer, don't I?" and SHE bursts into tears.

"Good God, NO!" Where the hell did THAT come from? "No, Mama, absolutely not, you do NOT have cancer." I rush over to comfort her. Sharon comes back into the room, and I tell her why Mama is crying. She reassures Mama that the only thing wrong with her is her blood pressure, and she can control that. No, she does NOT have cancer. Does she understand? Nod, nod, nod. Sniff. Nod, nod.

Sharon gives Mama her shot. She gives me the charge sheet. The diagnosis for Mama is anti-pneumonia therapy... and dementia.

Imagine my surprise.

My diagnosis? Insomnia-induced depression.

Mama feels so much better. She got a shot and a big dose of sympathy.

I will feel better. I got prescriptions for an anti-depressant and sleeping pills.

Mama has been complaining of a terribly painful arm ever since she got the shot in it. She was looking for her sling for awhile there. She IS taking her pills, though.

If I feed her MINE, can I use caretaker burn-out as a defense?

I JEST! C'mon, people, if I was going to kill the old thing, she'd be dead already!

And we domesticated them WHY?

My neighbors, for the most part, are dog owners. I know this for several reasons:

• despite the fact that there is a leash law in this town- a law more honored in the breach than the observance, apparently- dogs stroll across my yard on a daily basis, leaving little gifts in their wake;
• two years ago, a pack of these strolling dogs mauled my cat Rosabelle to death- but they're just sweet, family pets;
• and nightly, I have to listen to them bark.

Dogs barking in the night. The animals are awake all day long, as am I, but do I hear barking in the day time? No, I do not. Dogs are mostly silent during the day. Something about sunset seems to flip a switch in dogs. Let the sun go down, and they are compelled to bark. Arf arf arf. Woof woof woof. Over and over again for hours on end. Why are these dogs barking?

Is it because someone is trespassing on their territory? Maybe, but at 3 am in the morning, not likely.

Is it because someone is in danger, or hurt, and so, like Lassie, they are calling for help? Maybe, but Lassie used to go get people, and THEN bark.

I think dogs bark because they are terminally confused and maybe even afraid of the dark. They are confused and afraid because they have forgotten they are dogs and think they are human children. Arf arf arf woof woof woof may mean "Tell me a story" or "I want a drink of water". I blame their owners for this entirely. Dogs have forgotten they are dogs because dog lovers have forgotten that dogs are dogs. Owners give dogs human names, like Conrad. (Who names a dog Conrad?!) Or Rex. Or Sadie. It must be very confusing to have to answer to a name like that when you are a dog. At least with a name like Spot or Fido, a dog has an inkling that it isn't a four-legged person. Name it Gigi, and all bets are off.

Then, dog lovers dress their dogs in human clothes. They tie bandanas around their necks. They knit them little sweaters. People, dogs do not need sweaters. They are already wearing fur coats. Dogs don't need clothing, and they CERTAINLY don't need clothing that matches what their owners are wearing.

Many dog lovers feed their dogs human food. Some even let them sleep in human beds. Some even let the dog sleep in THEIR human bed.

Some dog lovers take their dogs with them wherever they go. They take the dog in the car with them. They let the dog ride shotgun.

Some people confide in their dogs, pour out their life story like the dog understands. Sadly, many dogs TRY to understand or at least look like they understand. This gives them snaps with their owners, but once Owner has vented, Dog is left with all those emotions to deal with and no frame of reference to do so. No wonder dogs are confused.

Which may be why they bark in the night. Maybe barking is one way of reminding themselves that they are canines. That, and running in packs to kill innocent cats, are probably the only canine activities left to them after thousands of years of domestication. Well, besides licking themselves and marking their territory,

I grew up with dogs and didn't get them then, either. Why are dogs man's best friend? Shouldn't they be best friends with another dog? Being man's best friend just looks like sucking up to me. I get working dogs, but pet dogs are beyond my comprehension. Dogs stink, they are dirty, they bring fleas and ticks into the house, they are difficult to house-break, and they BARK!

Now, cats... cats are wonderful pets. You bring a kitten into the house, take it to the litter box, and IT'S TRAINED! One introduction to the poo-poo box and they've got it. Cats don't form packs, so there probably haven't been many beloved dogs mauled to death by marauding cats that should be on leashes. Cats are never confused by the names they are given. They ignore entirely the names they are given. Unlike dogs, cats never suck up to humans. To cats, humans are merely warm, mobile furniture. Even if cats could bark in the night, they would not. They have an identity. They have dignity. They have no intention of expending energy on any activity that doesn't get them food, sex, or the lavish praise they deserve and demand. Bark in the night, you say? I think not. Shouldn't be asked.

Cats have a lofty disdain for dogs which I share. Cats rule. Dogs drool. AND BARK!!

I am going to close this now with the thought that it is a damn good thing there are no firearnms handy, or my neighbors would be minus one dog. I'd sleep on it, but DOGS ARE BARKING!