Shaping Up For Oscar Season


All this stuff about the Oscars makes me depressed. I feel like a dog watching people who look that good, but my friends love this stuff. Then they still watch the programs where the bitch-face commentators inspect everyone on the red carpet, and rip them to shreds for months afterwards.

Not-as-cute-ass-Them

Dear Gl-Ass Half Empty

You need these friends. There is clearly not enough bitch in you. How are you going to survive in the big bad world?

Women watch the Oscars for the same reason that people watch motor racing – the gloriously mean, secret hope that someone will have a gruesome accident. A lime-and-pink tulle birthday-cake dress. A recently-acquired roll of fat showing over the back strap of a shelf-bra.

Oh God, not another boring, classic black dress.

You’re waiting for the inexperienced starlet who decided on a short skirt to show off her legs, and then regretted it. She can’t leave the frigging thing alone. You suddenly recognize the friend who made the same mistake last Saturday, and spent the whole night pulling her dress down over her crotch.

Ditto the low cut neckline. Remember the night you had that brave impulse to “show ‘em your tits”, and ran out the house before you could chicken out? Sure you put your nose in the air, and pretended you didn’t notice that no one looked at your face all night… until you realized that none of your friends were gonna talk to you for a week, and you started trying to pull up your neckline. Everyone sniggered then, but it’s your turn now.

Ahhh the airbrushed makeup. It lasts a couple of days. Oscar rerun nights are when girls plot to discount the cost with a make-up party before the next big event. Just remember to decide whether you can afford Hollywood makeup, without spoiling the look with a credit card debt frown.

The Oscars separate the women from the goats in the high heels stakes. How to swing the hips without the broken-ankle totter. Watch and learn. Men don’t actually feel protective when you fall on your ass because you can’t walk in your shoes, although bixsexual girls have been known to coo over your blisters.

Which brings us to shapewear. Your great grandmother had corsets, your granny had foundation garments, and your mother was a hippy, so she still thinks you should let it all hang out, but the red carpet is not about comfort. Those bodies are not just the result of plastic surgery and personal trainers.

Keep your TIVO copy of the Oscars, and any time you feel depressed, put on your extra-push-up bra and add ankle to breast shapeware – and I mean the serious, ultra-control lycra-spandex stuff.

Pose in five- inch heels in front of your TV while watching the show. Don’t worry about how you’d get out of the shapeware to play with the arm candy – they’re all gay, self-obsessed or boring boy hos, so you wouldn’t want to bother.

Now slip on the lime-and-pink tulle designer number (it was zillions new, but you paid five bucks at the thrift store) and sashay your way across the room, without falling on your ass. Imagine 41 million people watching, as Joan Rivers rips you to pieces.

Now don’t you just love the Oscars?

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