My sisters spend hours on Google, doing "research." This afternoon, they were huddled in a corner, whispering to each other. The Oscars have caused tears and arguments. The winner, now, can't even savor the moment of triumph. I won two years ago, and I had to wait to do my in-your-face-sucka dance until I was at home, alone.
I realize this may sound over-the-top, maybe even a little ludicrous. But there's nothing worse than watching the Oscar ceremony for three or four hours and walking away empty-handed. No wonder Woody Allen never shows up. It's even worse when you realize you don't even stand a chance half-way through the night. At that point, I usually start hitting the Cheetos hard.
There will be nothing even remotely saintly about my behavior or feelings tonight. I want to crush my competition. Every year, I vow to not get caught up in the fever. Every year, I fail. Right now, I'm sitting here, trying to calculate my odds of bringing home that gold trophy for a year. It ain't looking good.
Saint Anne Line's life sort of puts this whole night into perspective. She was disowned by her parents for converting to Catholicism. In 1585, she married a fellow convert. Her husband, however, was sent into exile for participating in a Mass. He died in exile in 1594. Anne, herself, was arrested on February 2, 1601, for hosting a Mass in her home. On February 27, she was hanged for "harboring priests."
So, compared to Anne Line's life, my little competition for a faux Oscar seems, at best, silly. I readily admit this fact. Anne put her life on the line for her country and her faith. I'm watching vapid celebrities stroll down a red carpet to attend a gala event that, in the grand scheme of the universe, really means absolutely nothing. It won't bring about world peace. It won't topple a bloodthirsty dictator. It won't make Sarah Palin a Rhodes Scholar.
Saint Marty is trying to keep everything in perspective. But Saint Marty would give his left testicle to take that statue home tonight.
|Wish me luck!|