Yes, my Annual Oscar Party took place on Sunday night.  Yes, I was the only one there.  No, I didn’t mind.  In fact I think I prefer it that way – I didn’t have to share the snacks.

Let’s see . . . where to start?

First off, I hit “Hair & Make Up” (aka my bathroom) about 5:30pm Eastern.  For those of you not in the know, this is a solid 3 hours before the Oscars started and before we have Sunday dinner in these parts.

Once I was dolled up, I donned my finest full length gown.  It was a vintage emerald green satin number that I wore 13 years ago on the night of my 1996 work Christmas party, which was when Willie and I started dating.  True – it doesn’t hang quite as nicely now as it did then, but surely I get some points for the fact that the damn thing still fits.

Then it was time to head downstairs to put the finishing touches on dinner, and amuse the boys.  Mission accomplished.  They love whenever “Ms. Crazy LaRue” comes for dinner.  I often wonder “does this amuse them or scar them?”  I suppose only time will tell.

Then a quick kitchen clean up, packing of the lunches, gathering of my completed Oscar Nomination Ballot Form and Oscar Bingo sheets.  The boys were tucked in for the night and Willie was relegated to the bedroom TV.  Let the snacks show begin!

First up was the sushi – nothing fancy, just a few Cali rolls.  After all, I did just hoss down a plate of ham & scalloped potatoes for dinner.

All washed down with gingerale.

I decided to forego the cheese tray this year and went with this instead.

That’s right folks – Lemon Meringue pie!  A brilliant substitution.

It was at this point (about an hour and a half into the show) that I opted for the comfort of my pajamas for the remainder of the evening.  For obvious elastic waistband reasons.

And yes, I did hang in there to the bitter end.  Which, may I say, was bitter?  In fact I thought the whole show was a big – “meh”.  Kinda boring.  No big moments – neither embarrassing nor heart warming.  Although I did like Sandra Bullock’s speech and was glad Jeff Bridges and Christoph Waltz won.

And for the first time in years I got a bunch of the winners right.  Of the 13 categories I made predictions in, I got 10 correct!  This is unheard of, I assure you.

I’m not going to review the whole show or the outfits for you.  There’s plenty of sites out there that do that for a living and frankly, I’m not getting paid and you likely don’t care.

But what I can say, is that my party was fantastic and was worth the sleepy Hollywood “Hangover” I had Monday morning.

Next year I’ll be keeping the guest list the same.  I think there’s something to be said for an exclusive party.  Although I just might buy myself a strip of red carpet.  I think it would really add something magical to my Family Room that night.

Did you watch The Oscars?  Have I inspired you enough to host your own “Oscar Party For One” next year?  Is the name “Ms. Crazy LaRue” fitting or should it just be “crazy”?

————————————————————————————————————————-

P.S.  I’ve managed to land an interview with a certain Blogger and hope to post it for your reading pleasure tomorrow.

Hint:  This person is opposite to just about everything that I am.  Curious now???

Since I’m a big time celeb/Hollywood aficionado, this Sunday evening I will be hosting my Annual Oscar Party.  You’re all invited.  Please be sure to RSVP in a timely fashion because I’d like to make sure I have enough eats & drinks on hand.

I’ve held this party for the past few years and in it’s prime, I had a total of 1 person attend.  That being me.

I do invite Elle and Willie every year, but so far they’ve failed to show up.  And why?  I don’t know.  I’ll run down the itinerary and you can let me know where I’m going wrong.

Of course there’s the formal attire.  I like to wear something full length and with heels.  After all, this is the Oscars people!  I also like to be dressed a few hours before the Red Carpet portion of the evening commences, which in my timezone, means just before dinner.  I think the boys enjoy seeing a glamed up Mom cooking and loading the dishwasher.  Or at the least they find it strangely amusing.  It’s just something they don’t see every day and I like to keep them on their toes.

Full make up and an up-do simply goes without saying.  I’m just saying.

There will certainly be snacks served.  I’m big on snacks.  This year I will be serving a tray of cheese, crackers and yumyum pickles.  There may also be some salmon & cream cheese or a perhaps even nachos and guacamole.  All washed down with gingerale.  I mean, I like a good flute of champagne as much as the next Nominee, but it is Sunday night after all.  I have to get up for work in the morning and these Oscars do tend to go late into the night.  We don’t need The Only Girl all relaxed and messy before the Best Supporting category even airs.

At some point after 9:30pm EST, I give myself permission to change into pjs.  They’re much more comfortable than the full length satin number I’m planning on previewing that night and seem slightly more apropos for lounging on the couch late into the night in front of the TV.

Tissues will be supplied because there is inevitably a tear-jerking speech or two that will warm my heart and cause me to leak.  Likely something about an actors wonderfully supportive mother, or an award winning directors wonderfully supportive wife.  Which leads me to pretend that I am that wonderfully supportive person and then I get all choked up picturing myself in the audience trying to graciously accept the kudos in front of the entire Academy.

I have already completed my Nomination Ballot  Form and will be sure to report my success rate compared to the actual winners.  Don’t hope for much – I usually get these things wrong.

Now, I implore you.  Who wouldn’t want to come to this party?

What time shall I expect you?

If you’re having your own party, no matter how big or how small, be sure to send me pictures of your outfit and your snacks so I can post them, along with my own, next week.

So remember when I stated on my “Meet Me” page that I typically post everyday, Monday to Friday?  Well, I didn’t take into account that from time to time a full time job or a nasty stomach bug would keep me from my keyboard.  But yesterday it did.  And trust me – it was a much wiser choice for me to be in the bathroom than at the computer.  But I’m back.  And about 2 pounds lighter.

No further details will be shared.

You’re welcome.

Which is why I’m joining Meredith over at (Flash) Pasteurized in her weekly feature “Take Me Back Tuesday”, except that it happens to be on Wednesday.  This is where we revisit a photo from back in the day.  Today, of course, we’ll be revisiting a particularly curious photo of yours truly.  And just so you know – I’ve managed to unearth some real beauties – we could be doing this every week for the rest of 2010.

This week we are going to visit a 16 year old Cher to see what she was up to.  No, I will not be disclosing what year this is.  Bloggers are notorious for their mad math skills, and I don’t need you all figuring how very old I am.  Suffice it to say, I was 16 at some point during the 80’s.  That might help explain a lot about this picture.

Let’s review this photo in detail, shall we?  We’re going to start at the bottom and work our way up.

• Let’s just get the elephant in the room out of the way – why was I wearing Richard Simmon’s satin striped shorts?!?!?!  I have NO idea.  Apparently they were in fashion at the time.  I had several different colours.  I don’t remember Richard being around in those days, so I can only assume that’s when he got his start and the shorts just stuck with him.
• Why am I posing in the garden in the first place?  I think it might have involved trying to get a good pic to send a long distance boyfriend at the time.  Why else would anyone pose in the garden?  And I’m not even sure this resulting picture can be categorized as good.
• The blinding white legs?  Yes, I’m fair, but I’m going to go ahead and blame this on bad lighting.
• The crop top?  I had a cute figure back then, and apparently, a nice set.  I can only assume I was comfortable accentuating it.  Not so much now.
• And now we get to the hair.  Ah, the hair.  The only light I can shed on this style is that it was the Princess Di days, and I was crazy mad about her.  The short feathered flip was my weak attempt at replicating her beauty.  Clearly that’s where it stopped.
• And finally, heavy on the eye make-up much???  I have no excuse.  It was the 80’s.

Laugh at yourself and the world internet laughs with you.  Go ahead, folks.  Laugh.  There’s plenty more where this came from.

I work in an office building.  My company occupies the entire floor I work on.  Actually, the entire building.  In the centre of my floor are the elevators, kitchen, bathrooms and the hallway.

Today we will be discussing the bathrooms.

There’s a women’s, a men’s and a separate handicapped washroom.

No one that works on my floor at the moment is handicapped.  So except for an occasional visitor, that washroom doesn’t get used – by handicapped people.

Instead, the male population of my floor have turned this washroom into the poo-room.  As in . . . the washroom of choice for when they have to poo.  And I use the term “male population” here because, as we all know, women don’t poo at work.  Unless there’s some kind of rare extreme emergency or unpleasant stomach bug.

As I navigate my way around the floor throughout the day, I frequently walk through the centre hallway, thus passing by the washroom area.

I would like to direct the following open letter to the men of my floor;

Dear Male Coworkers,

When I see you coming out of the “Handicapped Washroom” I know exactly what you’ve just finished doing.  I suppose you think you’re “sneaking” in there for a nice mid-day poo, but then you forget to also “sneak” out and instead just fling the door wide open and saunter into the hallway.  Often right into my path.  With your stink trailing behind you.

Yes, I may return your friendly smile and head nod, but make no mistake -  I’m WELL aware that you’ve just finished wiping poo off your ass.  And I am no longer able to view you in a professional capacity for the remainder of the day.  That’s why I sometimes cancel our meetings.  The vivid mental images make it too difficult for me to concentrate.

Please just use the regular men’s washroom. That way your poo breaks are less obvious.

Thanks,

The Only  Girl

Seriously, do you know a male that is discrete about his poo or is it just something they’re not capable of doing?

So the other week, as certain blogger (cough-Monique-cough) offered me her cute-as-can-be daughter, who she nicknamed “Mini Ga” after taking this picture of the lovely Miss Haley.

I believe her words were, and I quote, “take the crazy blondie off my hands”.  And, being in desperate need of some female companionship around here, I gladly accepted.   We’re going to have tea parties, do our nails together, maybe some baking . . .  it’ll be awesome!

But then, another blogger (cough-Meredith-cough) indicated that said daughter was to be HER’S and not mine.

Well.  As I told Little Miss Flash Pasteurized, I am not about to lie down and let her take The Haley Ga from me.

Sure – Meredith tried to prove her worth.  In fact she did her best with this photographic comparison the other day.

Whatever Meredith.  Not even close.

So I’m here today to launch a defensive and get my Little Ga back.

Exhibit A

We actually LOOK alike.  We truly COULD be related.  No?  I mean, we both own a pink boa for heaven’s sake!

Exhibit B

The other night we attended the Olympic Opening Ceremonies together.  I believe you’ll see the Canadian athletes entering the stadium behind us.  This was really the highlight of the evening for me.  Well, besides having Haley Ga at my side.

Exhibit C

In this pic she’s shooting a little stick on our backyard ice rink with my son.  They get along SO well.  Almost like they’re related.

And so, my Bloggies, I’m sure you’ll agree that the Haley Ga belongs with The Only Girl.

Although then I suppose I’d have to change the name of my blog.  Which would mean I’d have to get my tattoo re-done.  Hmmmm.   Okay then.  How about joint custody Meredith?  Can we come to some kind of a compromise?

A long time ago, in a land far away, when The Only Girl was in her mid-twenties, she worked for a mid-sized Canadian company.  And at this time, she unwisely decided to move.  There may or may not have been an asshole ex-boyfriend involved.

Fortunately, the mid-sized Canadian company had a branch in the neighbouring city where she was headed.  And fortunately she worked for the President of the company at the time as the very-best-ever Executive Assistant.  And he agreed to transfer her to a conveniently timed job opening at the other branch.

But she wasn’t very happy at her new job.  She went from working with City Mice to working with Country Mice.  And she didn’t really like mice.

Then one day she happened to be speaking to her old boss and filled him in on her tale of woe.  As luck would have it, he had recently been speaking with a good friend of his, who just so happened to own his own company in the very town The Only Girl had re-located to.  And he was indeed looking for a very-best-ever Executive Assistant.

So the old boss hooked our Girl up with his buddy for a job interview.  Perfect!  Until Mother Nature stepped in and took Father Fate for a joy ride.

The interview was arranged for 8:30am.  The Only Girl slid out of bed at a respectable 7:00 to prepare.  The drive would only take about 15 minutes, so that would leave her plenty of time to shower, dress, put her face on and deal with the hairs.

Except she hadn’t counted on a very unexpected snow storm.  A very big snow storm.  Almost Washington-ish.  So she kicked the morning preparations into high gear and got in the car as fast as she could to begin her drive.  But instead of taking a mere 15 minutes, it took two frustrating, hair-pulling, tear-inducing, scream-prompting hours!  2 hours!  Which made The Only Girl very, very late.  For a job interview.  Which is typically frowned upon.

Now, had our Girl been a little older or a little wiser, she would have realized that the gentleman who would be interviewing her, this President, would very likely have understood that the weather conditions were to blame for her tardiness and not hold it against her.  She might have called ahead and explained the situation before politely asking to reschedule the interview for a later time.

But no.  Our Girl was young and stupid.  And somehow she got it in her mind that lateness = bad interview = no job.  So when she finally did arrive – 2 hours late – she had mentally thrown in the towel and had already given up any hope.  She gave what can only be described nicely as a bad interview.  A heartless, pathetic, drab, humdrum, dull, mundane interview.  Which is SO not our Girl.  She usually shows really well.

And so, as expected, she didn’t get the job.  The job working for the President of a fancy high tech company.  A company called Research in Motion.  The company that designed and manufactures a little device known as the BlackBerry.  You may have heard of it?

And you know what they say . . . behind every successful man is the very-best-ever Executive Assistant.  And it was almost me.

Have you ever had a brush with job fame?

(BTW – The Olympic Opening Ceremonies are on tonight – Friday Feb 11th – 6:00 Pacific / 9:00 Eastern.  See ya there?)

My BFF Elle and I went to the Spa this weekend.  A very high class spa in a very high class hotel in downtown Toronto.  No, this is not a regular occurrence for us.  This was a special event we had planned for several months.

And it was awesome!  A hot stone massage followed by a DE-lish spa lunch, then topped off with a facial.  Not to mention spending the day with your Bestie.  Bliss I tell you!  We decided that this is exactly what we would do every week as soon as one of us wins big in the lottery.  But of course we’d take a limo to and from instead of public transit.

I do, however, have a few things I need to get off my chest;

• To the Canadian TV show actress we shared the change room with – you’re not that great.  Get over yourself.

• To the naked woman in the hot tub – please bring a bathing suit next time.  Glad you’re comfortable with your body, but we weren’t.

• To the self admitted make-up artist I shared the bathroom mirror with – a) it was very intimidating to awkwardly apply my sad make up collection in front of you and b) if you’re a make-up artist, can’t you make yourself look better?

• To the gentleman who’s sole job was to tidy and straighten up after each guest as they moved about the spa – please marry me.  I have never met anyone as anal as me before and I find your homosexuality charming.  We were meant to be.

• To the gentlemen in the spa bath robes that were clearly having a business lunch meeting with a lady also in a bath robe – a) really odd place to hold a meeting  b) presumably you were naked under those spa bath robes . . . at a business meeting (creepy!) and c) why did the salesman from Gucci across the street show up to deliver a pair of beautifully boxed and bagged Gucci shoes to each of you?  Exactly who are you and why are you important enough to get free shoes while you have lunch in a robe?  We tried to eavesdrop on your conversation, but couldn’t figure it out.  Can Elle & I be your friends?

• To the 2 women sitting at the table behind us at lunch – sorry the “one size fits all” spa bath robe wasn’t large enough for you, but can you please stop talking so we can eavesdrop on the Gucci guys and figure out who the heck they are!  Sheesh!

• To the man sitting behind us on the 45 minute ride home -  did you not think of your fellow commuters before you decided to bring your stinky take-out dinner on the train?  Thanks for making me nauseous.

May I add that these people in no way ruined my spa experience.  Nothing could have.

Same again next week Elle?

So I’m sure you’re all dying to know the conclusion to yesterday’s rambling mattress post, aren’t you.  Aren’t you?!  Awww – C’mon!  Humour me, will ya.

Did she sleep?  Did she like the new mattress?  Was it a big fail?  Come closer cyber friends, and I’ll finish the tale . . .

Bedtime approached with both apprehension and excitement.

Apprehension like “crap – what if I hate it?!  I’ll be sentenced to bad sleep for years to come!”  And for the record – The Only Girl REALLY likes and REALLY needs her solid 7-8 hours a night.  Or else there’s big trouble – particularly for her family.  And there’s very little patience – for everyone and anyone.

And excitement like “OMG!  I can’t WAIT to try out my beautiful new mattress tonight!  I think I just might have the BEST sleep ever!”

And so the countdown to bedtime began.  Tick.  Tick.  Tick.

And when the time was right, up the stairs I went.  Step.  Step.  Step.

My teeth got brushed, my face got washed, I applied copious amounts of facial moisturizer and finally, my mouth-guard was inserted (nightly teeth grinding is starting to have some dental implications for The Only Girl).

Ready.

And so I jumped in.  And I do say “jumped” because this new mattress is high with a capital “H”!  The old one was high, but this one is even more so.  In fact I think The Youngest might have to take a running jump just to get into it.  And I should probably be careful getting out of it in the morning when I’m all half asleep, or I could seriously hurt myself on the way down.

But it was good.  Sooooo good.  And my back did not hurt in the morning.  Nor did I awake in a deep saggy crevice.  In fact I was still very, very comfy.

On the “Comfy Scale” Willie only gave it a 4 out of 10.  But I’m sure that was just to piss me off.  I, on the other hand, will award the new mattress a 9 out of 10.  The only negative comment I have is the extreme height.  But I’m sure I’ll get used to that.

So – for now – I hesitantly declare the mattress selection a big fat WIN!  But watch yourself, Kingsdown Mattress people, I’ll be re-evaluating in 6 months.

And yes, as predicted, Willie did suggest a “breaking in”.  Unfortunately my bedtime preparation routine took too long and he fell asleep.  Or was it the very comfy new mattress?  I guess we’ll never truly know.

I’m working from home today.  Something I do once a week anyway, but today is special.  Why you ask?  Because today I’m expecting a delivery.  We’re getting a brand new . . . MATTRESS!

And I’m giddy about it.  Like a kid a Christmas.  Or a husband on Superbowl day.  Let me back this tale up a bit.

About four years ago we bought a new house.  A house with a REALLY big master bedroom.  Like, crazy big.  And in an effort to fill it up a bit, we figured we’d trade in our queen size bed for a king size one.  Which was probably a good idea anyway, because every now and then a child hops in with us through the night.  But with the new house expenses and all, we didn’t have much cash leftover for the new bed.  Fortunately for us, the friend of a friend had just purchased a king size mattress that had recently “fallen off the back of a truck”.  Not being one to care exactly where a good deal came from – I was all over it.

So a king size mattress we did get.  And it was good.  Very good.  For about 6 months.  But it turns out that you do in fact get what you pay for.  And I eventually had the sagging mattress to prove it.

Both Willie and I (okay, really more I) couldn’t stand it.  It was horrible.  It hurt my back AND my feelings.  So after much deliberating, we decided to chalk our “good” deal up to stupidity, and agreed to buy a new one.  Properly this time.

Now the good thing about having a husband that doesn’t really care about what he sleeps on is that;

A)  I got to pick out the mattress I wanted
B)  the picking and subsequent buying decision was completely up to me

Which made me anxious.  What if I picked another looser?  What if they delivered it and it wasn’t comfortable?  What if it’s too hard?  Too soft?  Even though the only person I was trying to please was myself.  Because as previously stated – Willie will pretty much sleep on anything.

So I went to a national, reputable mattress chain and agonizingly made my selection.  And it was a winner!  A firm yet comfortable pillow top model with a 10 year warranty.  And we slept good.  Really good.

For about 3 years.  Till I noticed it starting to sag.  In spite of all our OCD mattress rotating, this bitch was getting saggy!

So I called the national, reputable mattress chain, provided some details, and to my delight, this problem was covered by the 10 year warranty!  A no-charge mattress exchange was waiting for me!  You can’t imagine the depth of my happiness.  Although my current mattress model was no longer available, they had one that was virtually identical and wanted me come in to give it a try to ensure I would be happy with the substitution.

“Uh-Oh.  Did I really want the exact same type of mattress again?  Would I not be in the same predicament again in just a few short years?”  Worries.  Anxiety.  Concerns.

So I opted instead for a different mattress.  Quite different in fact.  Different manufacturer.  Different type of pillow top.  Different firmness.  Very different.  It even had a different price tag.  A much higher price tag – that the national, reputable mattress chain did not make me pay for.  Again – EXTREME happiness!  The kind that makes you do a little dance every time you think about it.

“Uh-Oh.  Is it really a good idea to change everything up?  Will I really be happy with this very different mattress?  What if I don’t like it?  Why were they willing to give me the better mattress for the same price?  Was there something wrong with it?  Will Willie let me pick out another one in a few months if there is?”  No.  This mattress will have to do for awhile.  A long while.  Whether I liked it or not.  Worries.  Anxiety.  Concerns.  Upset stomach.  Heart palpitations.  Gripping fear.

But it’s too late for that now.  The mattress has been decided on.  It has been ordered.  And it is being delivered later today.

Will I like it?  Will it be comfortable?  Will I be able to relax enough to sleep tonight?  Have I made a bad decision?  Will Willie use some kind of manly focus switching technique by insisting we “break it in” immediately?  Will I ever stop asking these ridiculous questions?

Stay tuned . . .

Did you ever meet someone, a complete stranger, but instantly felt like you’ve met them before?

Maybe there was something about their voice, or their mannerisms.   Maybe the way their mouth moved when they spoke or their eyes.  Something.  You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but yet, it was there.  A familiarity that you just couldn’t deny.

This is how I feel about him.  About Elvis.

I’m SURE we had met before.  Likely in another life because I certainly never met him in this one.  But how can someone be SO familiar if you’ve never met them?

Did I watch too many of his movies as a kid and permanently ingrain him in my mind?  No.  I prefer to believe that we did meet in a previous life.  That we were good friends.  Possibly even Lovers.  Maybe High School Sweethearts.  But that something tragic happened that tore us from each other.  And our lives together were never completed.

Which is why he wandered through his life always searching for that perfect love again – the one that he had shared with me.  I just know it.  In fact I’m convinced of it.  And you will not be able to tell me anything different.  Sadly no amount of drugs, doughnuts or peanut butter sandwiches were ever enough to fill that void that I left behind.

Yep.  You heard it here people – The Only Girl was the love of Elvis’ life.

Shut up.  I was so.