Jack Sprat and the rest

According to my younger sister, yesterday was the coldest temperature recorded on that day in the history of Phoenix, Arizona. I am in Phoenix.

My suitcase contains the following: shorts, t-shirts, cute little summer dresses and a couple o' bathing suits. What I need are: jeans, sweatpants, gortex and a hat. Today I am wearing 70% of everything in my suitcase all at once. I look like a bag lady. Unless the temp warms up today, I will likely have to wear the other 30% of my suitcase tomorrow - and let me tell you, the thought of putting on two bathing suits under my little summer shift is not altogether appealing. Although, on second thought, it just might be the way that Spanx was discovered. Two layers of slimming Lycra under a dress. I suspect if we had a cut-away view of all the beauties at the Oscars we might have just seen a Miraclesuit or two. It would be handy if you think about it. There you are in your lovely gazillion dollar designer dress. You're bored at one of the after Oscar parties and then someone suggests taking a swim for fun. You're ready. Cool beans.

And speaking of the Oscars. We watched them. I am here in Phoenix enjoying my well-adjusted-middle-child status with my two book-end sisters. We don't get to see each other often (especially in the absence of partners, pets and progeny), so we're doing all kinds of girl things like shopping, massages, psychics and pilates. And, of course, we watched the Oscars. Or at least we watched most of the Oscars until Deb's Tivo ran out of time just before the award for best actor. It was disappointing, and we (being sisters) spent some energy trying to make her feel rotten for her inability to record effectively - but the truth is we really didn't care too much. We had already seen enough dresses and it was almost 11 pm. We are old and we were tired. The days of staying up late partying with the sisters are gone. Alas.

Living in my personal land of "boys", my last few years of watching the Oscars hasn't been the snark-fest of biting commentary that only a group of middle-aged sisters can provide. None of my boys can come up with the comment, "Did J-Lo's stylist steal the fabric from her hotel bedspread?" or "What's up with George Clooney's bangs? Did he run out of hair gel or something"? We laughed a lot. And not necessarily from the witty commentary provided by Steve and Alec - although I did think they were funny. The reviews from the next day provided proof that I was in the minority there. Whores, horses? Come on. That was kinda funny.

Loved the little lamps everywhere. Hated the improvisational dance (except for the last guy who was able to move like a human gumby). Wanted to give James Cameron's new wife a frickin saltine or a granola bar. Does he know that he is married to Skeletor? Wondered how the homeless guy snuck in and sat behind the Camerons. Was it take a street person to Oscar night? Thought that Sandra B had the best dress (and even though I needed to wait until the next morning to hear it, thanks to the Tivo disaster, she had the best speech). The woman who won for costume design was a disaster. Not only was her speech haughty and ungracious, the little hat, the dress and the fribble pinned to her dress were hostile. And what was up with the guy who won some award or other for "Up"? He was the one with the amazingly loooooong skinny head, atop the incredibly loooong skinny body, adorned with the largest set of ears I have seen on a human. He was a perfect caricature of Jack Sprat. They panned to a view of his wife in the audience and damn! He was actually married to the woman who could eat no lean. There you have it. Nursery Rhymes really do have a basis in reality!