The Oscars 2005: Get Beyonce the fuck off the stage

I eagerly look forward to the Academy Awards each year. I am a fan of the cinema as well as a whore for celebrity gossip, so the Oscars are my personal Holy Grail.

The ABC pre-show, as always, made me want to hurl. If it weren't for the first tantalizing look at all of those gowns and jewels (and Clive Owen, a jewel in and of himself), I seriously wouldn't bother. If I had to hear, "Well, you look absolutely stunning," or "What was your inspiration for playing this character?" one more time, I would have tossed something. Probably my cookies.

Beyonce. Oh God, Beyonce. You were omnipresent. The memory of that first HORRID PERFORMANCE will haunt my nightmares for decades. Dearest, a hint: do not sing in French. EVER. AGAIN. And do not attempt to writhe about sexily while you're surrounded by 60 little chorus boys in sweater-vests. Burgundy-colored sweater-vests. Might I ask, also, why you chose a lovely LIME GREEN and ORANGE frock to match those burgundy sweater-vests? That whole performance was a gigantic fucking train wreck.

But that was only the first time Ms. B graced the stage. She returned, not once, but TWICE more to display her vocal stylings. The second performance, I'll admit, was bearable. Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber added some much-needed class to the stage as Ms. Knowles sang a tolerable version of "Learn to be Lonely" from Mr. Webber's musical. She wore a chandelier around her neck, but it somehow didn't seem to harm her breathing ability.

Beyonce was then joined by sometime hearththrob Josh Groban to bleat sing "Believe" from The Polar Express. Now, perhaps those who are in need of a lobotomy enjoy Josh Groban truly enjoyed this performance as well. I, myself, have never been a fan. I am personally acquainted with numerous men who sing better than that asshole. As our friends over at Defamer.com said, "Beyonce and Josh Groban - go together like peanut butter and baby vomit." Here, here! Ugh, enough. Way too much Beyonce for one post.

A few observations on the ceremony and the attendees (CAUTION: a zillion links ahead):

-Mickey Rooney is still alive?! Jesus tap dancing Christ!

-The style this year seems to be those fitted dresses that flare just below the knees, a la "A Fish Called Wanda." No complaints, just an observation. By the way, did anyone else laugh at the fact that "poor" Renee Zellweger could hardly walk in hers? Ha ha, that squinty little tart.

-My husband upon seeing the size of the cantalopes on one of Sidney Lumet's daughters: (in best girl voice) "His last two movies paid for these!"

-Another style? Frilly, fluffy, ruffly dresses.

-One more: The Greek Goddess look.

-Curiously missing: Nicole Kidman. Too weak from lack of sandwiches and pies to walk?

-My husband again: "Johnny Depp is so cool! He has a pocket watch!" Oh help me, God.

-I hate to rip on a hometown boy, but hey Prince: I took one semester of Spanish, and I know that "lado" is not pronounced "latro." You're on international television, buddy. Let's work the titles of those songs before the show.

I thought, overall, a successful show. How about you?

(Check out more snarky Oscars dirt from our friends at Go Fug Yourself, who have created this lovely slideshow for our viewing pleasure).

The Crimson Bitch rides again!

Yes, 'tis true, my lovely uterus decided to bless me with the expulsion of its lining today, but only after fucking with me by spotting all through cycle day 27 ("Implantation spotting?! IMPLANTATION SPOTTING?!!!"). I had a 1/2 degree temperature drop this morning ("Implantation dip?! IS IT??!!!!!"), so I was pretty well prepared when the ute dropped the bomb a few hours later. But, of course, only after peeing on another seven-fucking-dollar stick this morning.

So, I'm looking on the bright side:
1) I can dye my inch-long roots again without fear that I will have a child with gills
2) Headaches can be TREATED
3) I can guiltlessly scrounge through the leftover deli sandwiches from today's industry meeting, listeria be damned
4) LIQUOR

I'm thinking of buying some of that Pre-Seed. Any thoughts on lubricants, ladies? Does olive oil really work just as well? Does it leave you smelling like Luigi's Pasta Parlor?

Buon appetito!

Hola Amigos! I know it's been a long time since I rapped at ya . .

. . . but here I am. Nothing to report, just another day in America's heartland. Life has been quiet here, which is both good and bad. I am thrilled to report that my husband is officially employed and we will, for the first time ever, be a two-income household soon. This is big! Mortgage applications and dreading moving our copious amounts of crap across town are soon to follow.

As for me, I'm once again coming to the end of another cycle. Last month I had a nine-day luteal phase and, if that holds once more, C.B. (Crimson Bitch® - just using an acronym that stands for "Aunt Flo" makes me want to hurl, as does the fucking annoying "B.D. - Baby dance" column that you have to mark on my Fertility Friend chart) could show up tomorrow. Guess I'll need to keep you posted there.

Since my temps have stayed up, I decided it would be a great idea to pee on a First Response Early Detection stick at 9 dpos. Ha! One beautiful pink line, the rest of the testing area as milky white as my February-in-Wisconsin ass. After which point I frantically searched the Fertility Friends chart gallery for "Negative HPT before positive HPT" to reassure myself, to some extent. I'm not sure why I do this to myself, since I haven't been having any pregnancy symptoms at all, and "even if you do everything right, you've only got a 20-25% chance of getting pregnant each month." Yeah, yeah. Suck it.

Unfortunately, I don't have a Largest Celebrity Vaginas list, per Pru's request. Though I'll probably get some fucked-up Google hits from that one. Oh, and from adding "fucked!" This does not, however, change my undisputed reign as "Celebrity Gossip Whore."

More news soon.

In case you were curious . . .

Who knew?

The Worst Song in the World - Tribute

On Saturday, I sang in the wedding of a junior high/high school friend that I hadn't seen since my own wedding two and a half years ago -- let's call her T. Now, I've sung in my share of weddings, so I've sung some trite, cheesy little ditties. In fact, I sang for T.'s sister's wedding about 7 years ago, and I remember an especially hokey song I had to pull together for that one:

Oh yes, it's true,
He has chosen me for you.
Take my hand, and you'll agree
he has chosen you for me.

Yeah, cheesy, but bearable. HOWEVER - the horrible piece of crap I had to sing on Saturday has no equal. And that is even considering that I've sung "The Wedding Song" at two different weddings ("Rest assured this troubador is acting on his part" - what the hell? Troubador? Who was smoking crack when they wrote that piece?!)

The song I sang on Saturday was a Michael W. Smith piece called "The Other Side of Me." It seemed like your usual cheesy wedding fare at first:

If they had to write about
The story of my life
They would have to mention you
On every page they write -
There's another side to every story told

Ah yes, the life as a story. What a sparkling, innovative metaphor. Onwards:

If I were the ocean
You would be the shore.
One without the other
Would be needing something more.
We are the shadow and the light.

Is it just me, or is that fourth line just dumb? "Quick, I need something that rhymes with shore! And please, make the grammar as awkward as possible!" To the refrain:

Always love me
Never leave me now
Now you are the other side of me. (repeat)

Pretty basic pop-Christian love rhetoric. On we go:

I have known the emptiness
Of feeling out of touch,
And living life without you here
Would be living half as much
'Cause I've a need that only you can fill.

OK, well that's not horrible. It's actually kind of nice. Besides the 'cause. It's annoying and, ultimately, not even necessary. So far, I can deal with this song. Then it hits a submerged crap-berg and starts sinking faster than Vanilla Ice's career:

If love was mathematical
You'd understand the sum
To the heart's equation
Where one and one makes one,
And lonely equals me minus you.

And lonely equals me minus you. At this point, I'm hovering between nausea and the urge to pee myself from laughter. YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME. You want this song in your wedding? Please. No. Here, I'll give those soon-to-be-marrieds a few hints in picking their wedding music:

1. Any song with "'cause" in it is out. Period.
2. Sentences should roll off of the tongue. These are lyrics, for God's sake. They are written to sound nice with music.
3. Wedding songs should not contain math equations, even stupid fake ones, no matter how cute you think they are.
4. Again, no math in wedding songs. No math in wedding songs!

Now I'll have that piece of shit in my head all night. That's the price I have to pay for agreeing to sing a wedding song with MATH IN IT.

Whenever two or more of you are gathered in my name . . .

. . . there is love. Oh, and I feel that love -- thanks to Angela, Pru, and The Duke for their comments. Good to know that people care and that other mothers are as bizarre as mine.

Well, ya'll, I pulled a Pru on Friday and got my period mere minutes after taking a pregnancy test. Ok, well, it wasn't so much minutes as much as two hours, but I wanted to share in that "Why the hell did I waste that $9 pregnancy test?!" moment with her. Besides, hours are, technically, minutes.

(That reminds me of the King of the Hill episode where Hank Hill is trying convince a customer to buy a grill from Strickland's Propane rather than the local Mega Lo Mart:

Customer: Do you honor Mega Lo Mart Coupons?
Hank: No, but for pennies more, you get the same products with Strickland service.
Customer: How many pennies?
Hank: Uh . . . several hundred.)

So, no, I'm not pregnant. And might I add that Friday was day 23 of my cycle. I had a 23 day cycle! 9 day luteal phase! What kind of a weirdo has a 23 day cycle! I suppose I'm still "settling in" to my normal cycle after 4 years on the pill - 31 in December, 23 last month. Let's hope we come upon a happy medium soon.

As much as I am baffled by my supershort cycle, I am also somewhat glad that it was short because I was at the end of my period when I went in for my much-anticipated annual pap smear. Every year I pull myself in to see Dr. Stunning, my absolutely gorgeous 32-year-old physician. She is looks like a character in a Bollywood movie - long, glossy black hair, amber eyes, perfect teeth and cocoa skin, petite, lithe frame. This time, to add to my envy, she was also 6 months pregnant. Hmm. Sucks to be her. As I left, after some intimate time with the speculum, she said, "Well, next time I see you you might have a little baby with you!" Now that I've read all of these infertility blogs, all I can think is "That's awfully optimistic of you," though I know that that may be true, since the majority of people do conceive in the first 6 months of trying, and we're in month 3. However, my "infertility radar" is on lately, and I find myself being hyper-aware as a result.

More tomorrow, if I find the time. Must tell you about the INCREDIBLY CHEESY song I had to sing at a wedding on Saturday. *shudder*