So last night was one of the most anticipated nights in Hollywood. Golden Globes night, baby — Oscars with alcohol. Pfffft. This middle aged mom was so busy with a newborn and executing my son’s fifth birthday party (rainbow themed, yo!) that I didn’t even realize it until I sat down at 8:15 and read about them in the Chicago Tribune. How’s that for out of touch?
My, how the mighty have fallen. In my home, the Emmys, Oscars, and Golden Globes are like my high holy days. In years past, they have involved shopping for provisions (chocolate, soda, and a DiGiornio’s), clearing out the schedule, and the proverbial Do Not Disturb sign on both the TV and iPad, cause you gots to cross reference what social media has to say with what you’re actually seeing.
Sigh. I love award shows.
What I love best is the fashion and the humanity of the whole thing. Everyone clapping for the oldest person to walk the stage. The losers clapping harder when someone else’s name is announced. The death montage. The one or two real people who somehow manage to get invited to the party (Last night, that was the Somali limo driver from Minnesota who starred in Captain Phillips.) Jack Freaking Nicholson and his shades, or, you know, the modern version of Jack, Matthew McConaughey. Alright, alright, alright . . .
So without further ado, I give you this particular middle aged mom’s impressions of the fashion I saw, all of which I missed on the red carpet because I was cleaning cake frosting from my upholstered chairs. Sigh. And yes, this involves judging. Get over it.
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