February 28: And the Oscar goes to...

Not me.

It became fairly clear by the first half hour of the Oscar telecast that I didn't stand a chance.  I was trailing by two categories within 40 minutes, and I never regained momentum.  I spent most of the evening nursing my wounded ego with a family-size bag of Cheetos and the occasional sarcastic comment.  OK, it was more than occasional, but I just can't control myself when it comes to that stupid faux Oscar statuette.

At the end of the evening, the big winners were The King's Speech, Colin Firth, two of my sisters, and my ten-year-old daughter.  That's correct--it was a three-way tie for first place in my family competition.  Therefore, the faux Oscar will reside at my house for the next four months, in the possession of my beautiful and deserving child.  I'm so happy for her.  Really, I am.  Really.  I am.  Really.  (Yes, my horrible, envy-monster side can even be jealous of my little girl.  I'm not proud of this fact.)

I'm tired.  I'm disappointed.  And I am more than slightly annoyed.  I need to let go of this whole experience and move on.  But first, I have to act excited for my daughter when I see her tonight.  God help me.

Saint Marty is currently running on four hours of sleep, a two liter of Diet Mountain Dew, and a lot of chocolate.

And prayer, of course.  Lots of prayer.



Nursing My Wounded  Ego