Thank you, Hollywood Foreign Press Association, for this honor. I have a vague ghost of an idea what you are because I know the meanings of words, but nothing outside that. Your gig is much better than the Oscars because of the seating arrangements. Actresses who have been sipping cayenne-spiced lemon water for six weeks sit in front of gorgeous plates of untouched food. The sound of teeth grinding from the Adderall is distracting.
I’m certain every young artist dreams of standing on this stage to fake humility someday. I’ve been avidly watching awards shows since childhood and even though I don’t act, sing, write screenplays or “escort,” I still harbor the fantasy of giving a thank you speech to 85 million people. Wait, I think that might be the viewership of the Rose Parade. I get confused.
Yesterday, I saw a meme on Facebook that read, “God, let me screw up my daughter just enough to make her funny.” Mom, Dad, I think you did it.
And, frankly, you’re still at it.
I know I’m going to make Joan Rivers’ worst dressed on “Fashion Police” tomorrow. I knew it was the only way Rivers would ever say my name. My Ann Taylor Loft black faux wrap dress isn’t glamourous, but I didn’t want to “do a Lena Dunham” where I looked so out of place in a gown as to seem to be cross dressing. My comfortable Aerosoles may look tacky now, but all those bitches in stripper peep-toe platforms are going to be drooling with envy as they limp to their limos.
I did get some Botox between my brows. All those years of frowning at essays I was grading have taken their toll. I’m sure you’re relieved not to see “those cheeks” on me, though. It’s hard for me to believe that the surgeon who does that procedure is able to get referrals. Helen Hunt looks like she has the mumps. Cheeks? Freaks, more like.
I want to also thank all of the other writers in my category. It is an honor to be nominated with such talented women, and even better to be able to say, “Suck it, whores. You lose.”
Thank you, readers who have been with me from the beginning, and all of you I picked up along the way. A writer is nothing without an audience. I write to be read and nothing fulfills me quite like knowing that my words affect people. Thank you to my very first mean commenter who called me a “Twinkie eating bitch,” and temporarily threw me into a tailspin of “What the hell have I brought down on myself” doubt. It’s amazing to think that I’ll tell that story to my daughters someday and they’ll blink at me and ask “What’s a Twinkie?”
While I’m thanking people who at first glance may not seem worthy of thanks, I’d like to acknowledge Toxic Best Friend (TBF). Ever since the day in middle school where you invited me to join the popular girls for lunch because I was wandering around looking so lost, I longed to be your friend. You were always there for me, ready with a big smile and a listening ear. At least, when you needed me to vote for cheerleading squad and Homecoming Court. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have thought to call the principal at our old high school and get an interview, so in a way, I owe my other career to you. I tried very hard to end our toxic friendship over the years, and it seems to finally be sticking, now that you no longer keep me around to feel luckier, prettier, or more accomplished than I. If Odie ever divorces me, I have no doubt you’ll be the first person who calls.
Which brings me to my husband. My love. The man who started it all. Odie, without you, my blog would have a totally different name.
The sign says “Wrap it up,” so I’ll leave you with this. Even in the darkest dog night summer, belinis sustained us, and when I look into the iris of love, I cling to that remnant of my former self. The scab-kneed, frog-catching lizard girl. Flying over cross-ties on a chestnut Thoroughbred. Well, I have news for you. I’m not Snooki Glanville-Cibrian. I don’t have my own perfume. But I sure do have my own smell. That’s for you, Jodie Foster.
Good night, everyone. Go to bed, Viva and Pringles. Mommy needs to get drunk.