I love the Oscars. I love watching films that were nominated and then letting others know I saw it.
It makes me feel refined.
Do I like silent films in black and white?
No. Not at all.
But, I just had to see The Artist because it won an Academy Award for Best Picture. I would never rent this film in a million years.
So, off Zed and I went to a Saturday afternoon showing of The Artist. We get there and find out that it was not showing because of a local Film Festival. So we went to see this…
I knew that the Pink Ribbon had turned into a bit of a marketing campaign. Seriously, a Pink Ribbon vacuum? And some of the stats will make you sick to your stomach. Corporations who use the Pink Ribbon to help with sales or to confuse us into supporting them, when in the long run their donations to support breast cancer are minimal.
But, I will continue to wear my Pink Ribbon Mittens with pride. And hit my Pink Ribbon golf balls. And I will continue to volunteer with The Canadian Cancer Society Relay for Life. This documentary is a must see.
The next night we went to see The Artist
And I am not trying to sound refined.
It was a really good movie. I was totally into it. Way more into it than Adam Sandler’s cartoon “Eight Crazy Nights”.
I cannot believe I am even wasting my time talking about it. It was so bad, that Zed and I pretended that I was in labour so we could leave.
And, I wasn’t even pregnant.
That is the bonus of being chubby.
I use the pregnancy line to get out of lots of things.
When I was six weeks pregnant, I was on a “Girls Trip” with my Mom and sister in Quebec City. Starving we ended up in a really expensive restaurant.
We had to get out of there. But, we didn’t know how. So, I used my old pregnancy routine and arched my back, started to waddle and rubbed my tummy.
I was going to have my baby.
Right on their filet mignon. Or their fois gras. Or their french fries.
The best part was my Mom.
With a big smile she looked the host right in the eye and beamed, “I’m the Grandma!”