Happy St. Patrick's Day from the Tossed Salad



As a kid, St. Patrick's Day was a big deal in a kind of odd sense.

Growing up in a typical Jewish-Italian neighborhood in Brooklyn, the Irish were exotic beings.

They had different customs, habits and accents and, by the invisible delineation known as a neighborhood, were even physically removed from our daily lives.

This made them kind of mysterious and totally cool. 

And speaking of cool, the annual parade up Fifth Avenue -- which turns the subdued color palette of a city still in the final throes of winter to a festive sea of green -- was the coolest. It was a gift to us all from St. Patrick himself, no matter what corner of the city we called our own.

Who didn't want to be Irish on St. Patrick's Day? I know I did.

Until my oldest son established his own annual tradition of skipping school and attending with his friends, my family never actually went to the parade. We were, as a group, kind of crowd-phobic and besides, the best seat in the house was on the floor in front of the TV in the living room with Grandpa.

From that spot, I would watch the tall and charismatic pipers with their fabulous hats and incredible posture. I'd marvel at the endless waves of police and firemen marching proudly, many sporting green carnations in their lapels and jaunty tam 'o' shanters in place of their usual headgear.

I loved the music and the bouncing curls of the high-stepping colleens in colorful costumes and soft-soled shoes. It seemed that March 17 had more that its' fair share of cold rainy days and we'd shiver sympathetically as the girls would dance by the reviewing stand with bare arms and legs visibly reddened by the still-wintry chill.

Soon after the parade was over, still humming our favorite Irish tunes, we'd  convene at the kitchen table to eat dinner together....something traditionally Hungarian.

The vast majority of our meals were very ethnic--Hungarian soups and stews. We even traveled, in a snarling pack, to the Yorkville section of Manhattan to buy vats of deep red paprika (Hungarian crack) at Paprikas Weiss---a famous Hungarian import store and landmark that, sadly, is no longer there. My grandfather had "come over" with the original owner and would often slip away for a quick game of cards in the back.

I go through several of these a year.

Be still my heart.

We also had, thanks to the dozen or so fantastic Italian bakeries within walking distance of our front door, developed a great love for Italian baking and dessert was often some variety of delectable cookie or cake, always served with strong, hot coffee despite the hour of the evening.

Even as a kid, the contrast wasn't lost on me.  And I loved it. We'd listen to the pipers on TV, eat Hungary afterward and enjoy Italy at the meal's end. It was a world tour in the comfort of the brownstone I called home.

I think about it still -- all our differences thrown together, not into a melting pot but into a big salad bowl -- every ingredient maintaining it's identity but getting along. In the perfect world of my childhood recollections, edges softened by time and a rapidly shrinking cerebral cortex, the tomatoes had no bone to pick with the green pepper and the onions were more than happy cuddling up to the cucumbers. New York City was, and remains to be, a glorious tossed salad.

We like each other. We are used to each other. Sometimes we piss each other off mightily but, when it counts, the tomatoes and the green peppers can still make it work.

As we migrated from that Brooklyn neighborhood of Boro Park, our horizons widened on their own. Suddenly our neighbors had different accents and traditions. And, on open-window days, the smells wafting from their kitchen were new and enticing. 

My friend from Pakistan made me delicious dishes with cilantro, coriander and fresh lime. My Chinese landlady prepared dim sum from scratch and brought them downstairs in a steaming bowl to share with delighted, hungry tenants. My Lebanese sister-from-another-mother across the street wooed my taste buds with sesame encrusted Arabic bread slathered with lemony humus or creamy baba ghanoush.

Does anyone actually eat these?

But once a year year, the beer ran green in the local pubs, green bagels filled the bins in the front windows of the bagel stores and the Green Oak, the bar down the street, stayed open till 6 am the following morning.

I seem to have come full circle. Today, I will be watching the parade on TV, seasoning our dinner with a huge dose (lethal to those who have not built up a tolerance over the years) of paprika and hoping someone drops off a canoli or two for dessert.

May the luck of the Irish not only be with you today but with us all, in every neighborhood (even in the trendy, hipster neighborhoods where the new locals want to make artisanal cheese while wearing skinny jeans), every remaining ethnic stronghold in every city in America, to your front door and far, far beyond. 

Have a great St. Patty's Day, everyone!

'Tis himself.

My Review of the 2015 Academy Awards

At the beginning of last night’s Academy Awards, after a song and dance number I barely glanced at having been traumatized by decades of awful Oscar night musical numbers, Doogie Howser told us that we were about “to fall in love with moving pictures all over again.” 

Speak for yourself, Doogie. I never fell out of love with them. 

A good movie, one that whisks me away from the realities of a full litter box and a mountain of laundry, is precious and always has been. While, occasionally there may be a dry spell of new releases I'm anxious to see, hand me the clicker, sign me up for Amazon Prime and I am on my way. 

The Oscars, however, are less and less about the movies and more and more about the red carpet, gossip and scandal as well as providing a pulpit for an increasingly pompous Hollywood’s political and social agenda. 

Therefore, I intend to focus on these very  aspects today which means this review will be very easy. I am sitting back with a bellini and a copy of "Fifty Shades..." while it writes itself.

At the Oscars, after the host has nattered on for a bit, they hit you with a few big awards so you emotionally commit and don’t start flipping around looking for CSI re-runs. One of the first awards of last night was for best supporting actor... 

Won by the familiarly jowly JK Simmons, whose status in the movies is such that you know his face as well as your husband’s but never knew his name, is an excellent and reliable supporting actor and this was his moment.

"Yep, it's me."

“Oh, look who it is!” people across America murmured but, in his acceptance speech, he made it very clear to the universe and beyond that he must have pissed his wife off very badly sometime before the broadcast.  JK kissed Mrs. JK’s ass to the point of confusing everyone, including her, and then segued into an odd warning about the evils of texting. The Oscars were off to a weird start….

Soon after, the ever lovely Adam Levine, thanks to the tightest pants of the award show season, performed something in so high a voice that only dogs could hear it. He did so while wearing not just one ear piece but two and was soon followed by the normally stunning but shockingly drab Reese Witherspoon who presented an award for hair and make-up both of which she, apparently, chose to decline before taking the stage.

Blah.

Nicole Kidman

Silicone bakeware

Before you could say Tom-Cruise-is-on-the-couch, Nicole Kidman -- virtually aglow in her status of mortuarial porcelain goddess -- proved yet again that she is the finest example of silicone since flexible bakeware.Shirley McLaine followed wearing a wig from the clearance pages of an Eva Gabor catalog circa 1982, poor thing. Even the magnificent Marion Cotillard looked washed out as last night’s make-up theme appeared to celebrate waxy pallor and nude lips.

But, wait—the great and gorgeous Viola Davis showed up wearing all the make-up that the previous presenters had refused while Gwyneth Paltrow proved that it is, indeed, possible to actually walk like a bitch.

"I know. Too much."

One alien greets another.

Did Liev tell you this
looked good, Naomi?

After Jared Leto, in a pale blue tux straight from your cousin Dee Dee’s 1976 wedding in Jersey made me smile and I asked myself why Emma Stone had borrowed a dress from Betty White, a parade of some of the weirdest dresses I have seen since a Blondie Concert followed: Siena Miller in a strangely cut black number, Scarlett Johannson wore the crown jewels of the Klingon empire while Naomi Watts wore a tube top with straps. 

Everyone’s stylist seemed to have gone to the same place for these edgy (and I mean that in a bad way) clothes and were all sharing a good laugh as they cashed their checks at the ATM across the street from the Dolby Theater.

Thank the god of scientology that John Travolta appeared! Wearing someone else’s head and a dog collar, he was creepier than ever as he fondled poor Adele Dazeem above the neck until Kelly Preston threw up on the seat filler next to her.

"If he touches my face one more time, I will knee him in the groin."

One of the evening’s few highlights for me was Lady Gaga and her over the top rendition of some of our favorite songs from “The Sound of Music.” I knew Lady G could sing but she surprised me with her range. She camped it up just enough to trouble us slightly but not offend the 80 year old Julie Andrews who appeared after the performance, all while flashing a trumpet tattoo on her inner upper arm and a hint of wig glue at her hairline.

"I will Birdman your ass, Eddie."

I was happy "Birdman" won for best picture.  I loved it (and its star, the gritty streets of the theater district in New York) but wanted to warn little Eddie Redmayne to watch out for Michael Keaton at the after party. 

Michael who had been vigorously chomping gum throughout the evening, spit it out before the winner for best actor was announced which means he thought he had it sewn up.

All in all, this was one of the worst Oscar nights I, wearing my best jammies and grippy socks, have experienced in years.

I intend to spend the day drinking spiked cocoa until the image of Neil Patrick Harris with nothing but a thin weave of cotton separating what he, apparently, is quite proud of and my eyeballs,fades away. Speaking of balls, some might say that stunt not only showed balls but took balls, too. I say that not even balls could save this boring and meandering broadcast.

Yes, please.

No, thank you.

On the plus side, I enjoyed being reminded of my abiding love for Idris Elba as well as my eternal loathing of Sean Penn who was as surly, poorly groomed and hideous as ever. To my happiness, his attempt at humor – who brings up a green card in Hollywood?? -- fell gloriously flat.

At some point during the show, it was mentioned that each nominee and presenter received a gift bag valued in excess of $160,000. Yes, you read that number correctly. Next year, instead of blathering about your personal plights and beliefs and then basking in the fevered applause of a bejeweled crowd hot for social causes, refuse your bag  and, instead, send its net worth to your cause where it can do some good instead of getting you a rhino spleen facial at Canyon Ranch.

Next year I hope John Travolta hosts.

Let your freak flag fly, Jared.

A Winter's Tale

My birthday was not looking good.

Stranded without a car that could traverse the fresh three inches in the driveway and a sore back that couldn’t shovel it, I had gone to bed the night before in my mid fifties only to wake in my late fifties. The day was gray and quiet.  I could feel the muscles of my face settling in for a lengthy pout.

Sitting at the kitchen table, even my coffee tasted lousy as I disconsolately watched the branches outside bend in a stiff February wind. Suddenly, my nemesis -- the red squirrel named “I’ll Kill You!” -- made a leap out of nowhere, managing to successfully cling to the tray of the squirrel proof feeder that hangs outside the window. Jumping up, I ran over to use my successful squirrel deflecting technique of cranking open the window to tap the feeder and scare him off. Today, however, there were different results.

I’ll Kill You, in his panic, somehow managed to squeeze inside the Lucite feeder.

He quickly realized he’d made a big mistake--after thinking for a second or two, he began hurling himself against the sides of the feeder. This morphed into a pitiful mime’s routine of feeling around inside the clear plastic as if searching for a seam through which to burst. He then tried to push himself though the conical top but soon realized that, since he wasn’t a cartoon character, this was impossible. He proceeded to thrash wildly for a very long time, causing the black oil sunflower seeds to scatter and fly, settling around him as he, in resignation, decided to try and eat his way eat out, perhaps in hope of locating an escape hatch once the feeder was empty.

My nemesis.

This was not the first time I’ll Kill You had squeezed into this feeder but Seth had done some tinkering to prevent him from getting back in which, now, was only preventing him from getting out. The irony of this predicament was lost on little I’ll Kill You as temperatures plummeted. There was no insulation inside the feeder.

I called Seth. Please come home and get I’ll Kill You out of the feeder. Seth responded with a few not-nice-to-say-to-a-person-on-her-birthday-words but promised to do it when he got home later but I knew evening was too late. I considered calling the police or Animal Control but I’ll Kill You had already grown listless.

"Squirrel proof." Really?

I could not allow this gutsy little guy to freeze to death and I certainly wasn’t going to let it happen on my birthday! Not wanting to add a frozen squirrel to my list of regrets, I opened the slider and roared out into the wind, “I WILL SAVE YOU, I’LL KILL YOU!! YOU ARE NOT DYING TODAY!!”

The feeder was beyond my reach so I dragged the old step stool up the stairs, returning to the garage for boots (there was two feet of snow on the deck), my warm coat, a hat, gloves and an assortment of tools whose names and uses I do not know but looked like they might loosen the frozen nut that held the top of the feeder on so tightly.


All the while, despite my determination to save him, I am sputtering curses at I’ll Kill You as I worried about falling, injuring myself and being found later--squirrel and birthday girl frozen motionless on a frigid day. I tucked my cell phone into my bra to call 911 in case I survived long enough to request help.

As I gathered my supplies, I kept checking to see if the squirrel might have escaped on his own but he was now dreamily eating seeds as if he knew this was his final feeder raid. My last trip downstairs was to grab the sledge hammer.  If I could not remove the nut, I was going to put the feeder upside down and bash the outer edge, smashing it to bits and, hopefully, not killing my friend as his prison splintered around him.

As I reached the top of the stairs and looked out--to my  jubilation, I saw that the feeder was empty!  I’ll Kill You had freed himself! It must have been an adrenalin fueled burst of energy because the feeder was now totally askew, its lid forced off at one edge. I sat down, sledgehammer at my side and smiled, joyful that I could remain safely inside and I’ll Kill You and I would meet to fight another day.

From that moment, my birthday changed. I was happy that I had decided to stop at nothing to free a little squirrel who I, apparently, like more than I hate.  Phone calls and flowers followed. It was an excellent birthday.

Riding in Cars with (Baby) Boys

Twenty six years ago tonight, I was standing on the frozen steps of a small apartment building in Brooklyn. The snow-covered streets were empty and my mother stood beside me. Her cotton candy hair blew about in the wind, as we waited for the car service to take us to the hospital.

The evening that preceded the night included a massive bread baking session in my tiny kitchen as a result of the hormonal madness inspired by the fact that the baby I was waiting for was nine days late.

So, I baked.

Kneading bread with my hands, proofing dough and shoveling the loaves into my ancient oven kept me busy. But, in my craziness, I had forgotten to grease the pans and none of the perfectly domed, yeastily aromatic loaves could be freed from their pans. 

I tried running a knife around their golden edges and rapping strategically with a knuckle on the bottom of the pans. Nothing worked. So, totally in character, I flung them, one by one, against the kitchen wall. This did not loosen the bread from the loaf pans but it did cause my water to break. So, off we went.

Seth--a merchant marine at the time--was in Florida, waiting to head out on a cable layer for AT&T. Dispatched just days before and, in a world before cell phones, he had to be tracked down by a marine operator. Due to a miraculously timed postponement of the ship's departure, he was able to fly home and attend the birth of his first son.

Labor was painful. And long. And it worked it's way, fruitlessly, through several shifts of nurses. My doctor, a fabulous Russian, with a mane of hair more magnificent than that of the MGM lion's, stayed through it all, waiting with me...soothing me with corny jokes told in a deep, rumbly, heavily accented voice.

Ultimately a C-section became necessary and I was trundled, delirious, into an antiseptically austere surgical delivery room. Back then husbands were not invited in for anything other than natural births, so Seth and I parted at the door. He was able to see Tommy as he was lifted onto the table and examined. I caught a glimpse of him, too. His mouth was huge and open. I fell in love at first sight.

There were some benefits to the old days. One of them was that, if you had a C-section, you stayed in the hospital for no less than five days. Can you imagine? Tommy and I lived the good life....he was whisked away at night while I slept, visitors brought balloons and stuffed animals....but I did have to say goodbye to Seth whose ship was ready to sail for Okinawa.

My little mother and I were on our own with "the baby." On the day we were to leave, we had to call another car to bring us home. As those familiar with the questionable fleets of privately owned car services in 1980's New York know, some of the cars were pretty icky.

The one that arrived for us was a battered two-door but having just had a section, I was limited physically. The driver stuffed my mother into the back and settled me in the front, holding the baby as I backed my tuchas into the passenger seat. To my surprise, the seat had no springs and I sank down so low that my knees almost touched my chin. Did I mention there were no seat belts?

The driver then handed me the baby and off we went....me holding a baby in my arms, unbelted. And no one thought a thing of it. There were fewer laws, restrictions, penalties....today, I would be arrested for child endangerment.

When we arrived at the house, the super happened to be outside having a cigarette on the front steps. He held the baby while my mother and the driver, each holding one of my hands, pulled me out of the car and set me on my feet.

Then, the driver refused to take a penny. He told us, in beautiful broken English, that it had been his honor to drive us home. I will never forget him. Or anything about that day.

So, twenty-six years have sped by. Raising Tom meant screaming and laughing and shrieking and singing and crying and laughing and ranting and roaring and laughing some more. It meant running through the house to close the windows before a fight so the neighbors wouldn't hear and it meant laughing so hard or singing so loud that the neighbors must have wondered if we were all certifiably insane. Or been damn jealous.

So, Tom, both our lives began on the day you were born. Yours in the literal sense. Mine, in the sense that you fulfilled my destiny. I am so very glad that you are exactly who you are. Happy birthday. Many more. Love, Mom

Stop & Chat

Going to our local supermarket is not just a trip to the store to grab a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. 

It’s more than even accomplishing a massive shopping after which you struggle through the automatic door balancing your giant pack of paper towels atop a towering cat with one hand while pushing with the other. Oops, watch out for the curb!

A visit to Stop & Shop is a trip to the general store of old where townsfolk exchanged gossip ‘round a cracker barrel topped with a checkerboard, or rocked in an old bentwood chair on the porch while sucking down a sarsparilla. 

Kind of like this....

Our supermarket is the spot to run into friends and enjoy a chat, catch up with neighbors and also the place where, occasionally, what was intended to be an in-and-out grab for a six pack of Diet Coke becomes an hour (or more) as the stars align for you to run into everyone you have ever known since the glorious moment you burst from the womb.

For me, this was the case last Saturday. 

Two feet of snow were predicted.

It was the perfect storm, really: after lunch on a typically busy Saturday when all the weekend shoppers converge from the farthest corners of town. It was also the Saturday before a predicted snowstorm; toss in the toilet-paper-and-bottled-water-crowd and you have congested aisles and long check-out lines.

Add to this the fact that I was feeling needy after days home alone. Seth takes my car whenever there is winter weather build-up on the roads. His truck cannot even make it up our steep driveway which never sees the sun due to tall bushes and subtle angles and will retain a stubborn patch of snow until the Fourth of July. So, I was lonely and primed for seeing a face other than Buzzy’s. I needed to talk to someone who does not use a litter box and has a little gray nose.

Did I hear what I think I heard?

I was not disappointed.  

There were old friends and new, neighbors and conversations that, literally, included a few tears as the travails and challenges of life were analyzed amidst tubs of cookies and seeded breads in paper sleeves in the bakery section. Luckily there was laughter to follow as high emotion morphed into the welcome sense that life can be funny through it all. 

There were acquaintances to nod at and even a few chatty strangers and, in general, my smile muscles got an excellent work-out. In fact, there were people from every phase of my years spent in town and my children’s various stages from school to sports and beyond.

Stop talking, just
stop talking!

Amazingly, this excursion was free of the occasional person you spot from a distance who, I’m sorry to say, you’d rather avoid.  There’s the one who simply won’t shut up (this trip, by the way, that was me. Sorry, Meg.) and does not recognize signs of imminent distress (eyes rolling back into one’s skull, clawing at one’s face and gagging or simply crumpling to the floor in a heap) and keeps on talking. There’s the occasional bore or whiner, the person you offended when your son was in high school, the one who offended you--also when your son was in high school, etc.  

When confronted by this, there are several methods of evasive action. There’s the aisle switch which involves spurts of full-out running as well  as skills of strategy. There’s the busy yourself in the fascinating ingredients of the box of rice pilaf you just happen to holding  and there’s also the lean into the freezer case as far as possible in order to grab that package of curly fries in the way, way back. These tactics are immediately recognized by your opponent because they don’t want to talk to you either.

So does Seth.

I was gone so long that my famous non-worrier of a husband began to hope fear that I had been abducted by aliens and transported back to my home planet but upon realizing that my disappearance would  mean that he will be solely responsible for procuring his own pretzel rods and Budweiser, he’s relieved to hear the rattle of the garage door rising upon my return.

I'll probably pop back in next Saturday. See you there!

                                                               

The Candle

Recently, I received a thoughtful gift from a friend: a candle in the scent of tangerine with a box of tea of the same flavor. Nice, huh?

So, last weekend, on the most dreary of Sundays, when frozen roads had canceled plans and my seasonal descent into an extended nasty stupor was acting up, I decided to light the candle, brew a cup and enjoy a peaceful interlude.

Remembering Seth's hypersensitivity to the presence of an open flame in the house and his nose's ability to discern it, I planned to travel to the distant end of the family room--as far from where he was taking a nap as physically possible.

Seth is unbelievably paranoid about fire safety and I cannot argue. 

We've all seen videos of how quickly a couch can become engulfed in flame as well as heartbreaking footage of loss and destruction but, on this dreary day, I headed downstairs with candle and cup as well as a box of safety matches in the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt.

Seth

Pulling my chair to the window for ventilation purposes, I placed the candle out of reach of the cats yet close enough to douse with my tea if things went wrong.

Happily surveying my tableau of both relaxation and fire safety, I lit the candle--quickly blowing out the match in hopes of diffusing the initial tell-tale whiff of sulphur. Drawing a cozy afghan over my knees, I took a sip of tea and opened my book. Ahhhhhh….

I had read less than one page when I heard movement above me and Seth's voice at the top of the stairs, "Do I smell a match?"

"How would I know what you smell, I'm not you." This was the wrong answer, immediately giving away the fact that he did, indeed, smell a match. I had left him snoring deeply at the other end of the house. What kind of superhuman smelling abilities does this man possess? More importantly, what can I say to keep him up there instead of down here, hell bent on extinguishing both my candle and my Zen moment?

Seth's concern....

....reality.

Suddenly, he's in the room, running over to the candle and staring at it accusingly. 

"Why do you need this candle?" But, before I can answer, the warnings begin: I must carefully watch the cats who, apparently, are potential arsonists…not dare doze off…make sure it’s completely snuffed before I leave the room. 

I remind him that it's a small candle and not a giant and terrifying effigy in the California desert but an open flame is an open flame to Seth. He stomps away after making sure the match I used is not smoldering in the wastebasket.

I

I will burn down your
house....not.

I try to enjoy the cozy scene I've arranged but he is now wide awake and pacing above me, occasionally standing by the stairs to ask when I'm going to be done and blow out the "damn candle." 

After about a half hour, I give up, passing Seth on the stairs as he heads down to make sure I’ve completely put out the flame. He is carrying a fire extinguisher.

Fast forward to early this morning. Seth and I are asleep when suddenly the room is filled with a choking stench that wakes me up in the same manner as might a two by four to the skull. I sit straight up and begin gagging, realizing that Nifi the cat, aka the Mad Pooper, has laid a big one in the litter box in the bathroom right next to the bed.

The Mad Pooper

Nifi produces stinkers of various strength (and size but that is another blog post entirely). This one is particularly lethal which I, with my last gasp of conscious thought, attribute to a little pinch of brisket we gave him as a treat the day before.

Because Seth is peacefully sleeping through this sensory assault and I am terribly mean, I shake him slightly, lean close and ask if he's ever smelled anything more horrifying than what Nifi hath just wrought. "I don't smell anything, he mumbled.

"You don't smell that??!!" I persist. "You smell an itty bitty candle halfway across the universe but you don't smell THAT?"

"Nope,” and back he went to sleep while I risked my own life to get up, scoop and flush.

There is no moral to this story...no victorious or convenient ending for any of its participants-not for Seth who must endure being shaken in the night and commanded to smell very bad things...not for me who cannot enjoy a tangerine candle on a bleak winter's day and certainly not Nifi whose receipt of table scraps will now be restricted as a result of his bowel movements. 

But, then again, no one ever said life was easy.

.....and don't light candles.

A Review of the 2015 Golden Globes

Okay. The Golden Globes. Hmmmm....

I have been dawdling all morning over what is, typically, my first award show review of the new year. 

It's past lunch and I have been flexing my fingers over  the keyboard off and on for two hours. I have taken a break to make a pot of hard boiled eggs,take a Facebook quiz that asked "If you were a waffle iron, what shape would your waffles be?” and search the couch cushions for lost candy. The eggs are cooling on the stove, my waffles would be in the shape of Sylvia Plath with her head in the oven and I found three Rolos in the love seat.

In other words, the Golden Globes were pretty dull.

Sometimes "smart-ass" isn't
always funny.

Especially, I’m sorry to report, Tina and Amy. Two smug little queens of snark, they are usually funny but last night they relied on an easy format of making fun of celebrity and attacking famous faces in the audience, all of whom adopted the same faux "Oh, gee whiz, I will just tolerate this with good humor until it's over" expression when we know they were wet-pants thrilled to be mentioned at all...with the obvious exception of Jennifer Aniston who is thrilled by nothing.

The former Mrs. Brad Pitt is the best preserved, most satin-y skinned, sleekest-without-Spanx and, unfortunately, grimmest and most humorless actress in Hollywood, today.

Her smiles are tight and forced, her guard is always up and it's only a matter of time before Justin Theroux and his eyebrows have had enough. If I am not mistaken, Tina and Amy inferred something about her age so. if they wind up dismembered in a dumpster, we know Rachel Green did it.

Lighten up, Jen.

And speaking of Miss Aniston---very early on in the festivities, she set a high bar not only for self-tanners but also for a phenomenon that is very popular on award shows: some kind of bizarro, glowing, shimmering body cream that women slather on with the hope – I presume – of appearing youthful and dewy. Instead, they gleam like beacons as highlights from their décolletage and reflections from their collar bones bounce directly into the retinas of the viewing public.Historically, the greatest offender in this department, is one Miss Viola Davis who is beautiful on her own and does not need to glow like a lighthouse in the fog.

Viola. highlighted.

This naturally leads to the stark reality of high def TV. To put it mildly, high def is not flattering to everyone. I,myself, would certainly resemble an over cooked Christmas ham but there was enough mottled flesh on my screen last night to scare a pig farmer right out of the barn.

Flawless but, oh, that dress!

The award for "Best in High Def" last night goes to the pretty John Legend and the flawless Keri Washington even if she was wearing a dress borrowed from the set of a Star Wars spin-off.

There were moments of unbearable self-righteous audience behavior as Meryl Streep leaped to her feet to applaud free speech as hard as she possibly could (thanks, Meryl) as well as enjoyable surprises--the irrepressible and ever-sly Prince with his dark glasses and bejeweled walking stick. Colin Firth can do no wrong and Ricky Gervais can do no right. His ever-present tumbler of booze and nutty giggle combined with his determination to shock and offend seemed tired and may finally have been enough to get him un-invited next year.

Sometimes you just have to
tweeze a wee bit.

There were boxes of Godiva open on the tables and the alcohol was flowing so no wonder Gervais was very buzzed. Even typically lady-like Amy Adams was barely coherent as she accepted her award and Salma Hayek was none too pleased with Kevin Hart’s manic behavior. Emily Blunt's eyebrows have gone rogue and Harrison Ford came out looking so much like Tom Brokaw that they are now, officially, interchangeable.

Harrison could share a passport with...

with Tom Brokaw...

                                                             

George Clooney received yet another award for being charming and self-deprecating and despite his gushing over his new bride, based on her carefully studied and arranged fawning gazes, I am pretty sure she's the alpha cat in that marriage. Identical twins separated at birth, George and Amal look so much alike that it speaks to an ego-driven need to marry oneself. Mazel tov.

And, George is now further adored for his choice of wife, especially after his extended bachelorhood. Amal is ethnic, activist and not your typical Hollywood "face." So, congrats, George--you will soon receive another award for that, no doubt. He will put her to good use when he runs for president in ten years. That's right, America---you heard it here first. And he'll win.

Identical Twins.

Lupita should trade glasses with Kevin....

...because these are not
working, for him.

As for Kevin Spacey, he picked the wrong glasses at Costo, Billy Bob Thornton's hair plugs are looking pretty good and Paul Rudd and Adam Levin were the prettiest couple there. Unfortunately, the two leads in the upcoming and highly erotic "Fifty Shades of Grey," there to co-present an award, have the combined sizzle of a forgotten slab of lox in a deli case.

Uh-oh. No sizzle. Just fizzle.

Then there was Gina Rodriguez who plays the title role in a new and highly acclaimed show called "Jane the Virgin" which I had plans to binge watch on the next inclement weekend. When she won and arrived at the podium with her appealing demeanor and open smile, I was eager to hear something fresh and new only to have her look skyward and say "Thank you, God for making me an artist!" Really,Gina? Phooey. No wonder you're a virgin.

Finally at the end, there was redemption---an actually moving acceptance from the wonderful Michael Keaton, a few minutes of genuine dignity and modest gratitude from Julianne Moore (who is moving higher and higher on my list of favorites) and a hilarious speech from the quirky Wes Andersen, the director of my favorite movie of the year (if not ever), "The Grand Budapest Hotel."

But all that aside, the best surprise of the evening came as a result of social media. 

About midway through the telecast just as I was wishing I were watching Shark Tank instead, I flicked open Facebook and happened upon a comment made by a friend whose posts are always smart and enjoyable. Someone then responded, followed by another irreverent remark and then I put my two sense in. Before you could say, "J-Lo, please put those away!" we had a spontaneous online viewing party until the credits rolled. Now that was fun. The show, not so much.