Forget who won what. They’re all talented, some more so than others, and they’re all earning bucket loads of cash to dress up and play pretend, so you can’t feel too badly for those who didn’t bring home a golden statue last night.
Let’s talk fashion: how these artists choose to express themselves when the most famous couture houses in the world are knocking on their doors is the subject of many a fashion critic and blogger alike. It’s easy to throw stones at those who live in glass houses, especially when they are beautiful and making millions. If I sound jealous it’s because I am.
The Oscars are a time for starlets to either strut like a peacock down the red carpet or choose understated elegance, wear up-dos or shaggy tresses, Jimmy Choos or Prada shoes. It is a night for couture houses to shine alongside Academy members, the night People and InStyle magazines salivate over as they pick their best and worst dressed.
The men will all look suspiciously like waiters. The real question is what will Hollywood’s hottest women wear?
Will Helena Bonham Carter actually brush her hair and find matching shoes? Will Sandra Bullock still look crest fallen? Will Nicole Kidman keep with her classic elegance? Will Scarlett Johansson improve on her Golden Globe windswept look?
I was on pins and needles all day.
The verdict: classic glamour – often vintage, in fact – prevailed. In fact, it’s hard to find fault with most of the beautiful choices that graced the red carpet on Sunday night; there were no January Jones missteps to dwell on.
Marisa Tomei proved that understated can still shine – she sparkled in a midnight blue 1950 James Charles dress, with gorgeous sunburst inspired earrings. A classic look that reminds you to hold on to those oldie but goodies in your closet.
The youngest person to ever to host the Academy Awards, Anne Hathaway, started the evening by repealing to old Hollywood in a red archival Valentino gown. A diamond necklace from Tiffany’s was also fittingly elegant. Her low chignon was the perfect hairstyle to complement the look, her way of saying I’m still hip.
There were a proliferation of Japanese-inspired high-neck, cap-sleeve, straight bodied gowns. Scarlett Johansson wore an amethyst lace styled number, Amy Adams a blue sequined one, and Annette Bening a sparkling black gown. Best Supporting Actress Melissa Leo – who will forever be remembered by her f-bomb slip – also wore a variation of this theme.
Reese Witherspoon channelled Betty and Veronica with a high ponytail containing lots of extensions. Although her hairdo was puzzling, her black Armani dress with white trim was a great figure flattering choice.
Jennifer Hudson was a walking advertisement for Weight Watchers in a skin tight tangerine Versace gown. She was stunning, despite overdoing the cleavage.
Best Actress Natalie Portman looked every bit a champion in an eggplant coloured gown. She proved that fashion and baby bumps can, in fact, coexist.
My runaway favorite of the night was Mila Kunis, wearing a lavender chiffon Elie Saab gown with a low neckline. Gracefully draping her body with a short train, it was the perfect modern choice for a storied evening. If they come out with a Best Ordinary Person award, I might sell my car and buy it. I assure you my acceptance speech will be classier than Melissa’s.
We all know that bad things happen to good people; but it never makes it easier.
My brother, John, who is way too young and sparkling with life to have any sort of affliction has battled a rare cancer in his leg for the last six months, and is battling still in ICU this weekend as he recuperates from a fourth surgery.
Finally, we can keep up with him. Normally he will have played eighteen holes of golf and gone for a run before most people roll out of bed.
If people were awarded celebrity status based on character alone, John would be more famous than Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber combined. He is kind, generous, intelligent, and funny; a dedicated teacher and vice-principal who has made a positive difference in many lives as a coach, mentor, and friend. He is the person we all strive to be.
I know this first hand. All of my life my claim to fame has been that I am John’s sister. Once people realize this I am granted special status in their eyes, and they tell me how John was their favorite teacher, how he was responsible for their child’s success, how he was the best paddling coach they ever had, how wonderful he is. I have become adept at excusing myself from conversations where people sing his praises; they are usually lengthy and rambling.
These tendrils of respect are far reaching and hard to escape. I was in San Diego recently, and I had a conversation with a man from Nova Scotia who told me his family was indebted to John. Instead of showing his teenage boy heavy handed discipline, John had offered him creative solutions and support, which enabled a troubled child to grow into a productive person.
It’s not easy to keep the most active, energetic and athletic person I know down, but the recent past has put him through the ringer.
It’s been a year filled with medical surprises. His swollen knee was first thought to be a torn meniscus, and he waited for months to have this surgically fixed. During this surgery his doctor realized this was something different, and biopsied the swollen tissue. The next week they told him he had a rare type of cancer in the fat cells of his knee. They prescribed a course of radiology followed by another surgery to remove the mass. He endured the major surgery in January, where doctors removed the affected tissue and replaced it with John’s calf muscle and donor ligaments. The incision ran the length of his entire leg.
He thought he was on the road to recovery, only to be knocked down again: his leg wasn’t healing properly, so another surgery determined more muscle had to be taken from his abdomen to surround exposed bone. Another six hour surgery landed him in ICU, a high risk of infection rendering him immobile.
Can you imagine going through hell and back, only to return to its fiery depths so soon?
As he lies still, exhausted by medical intervention and dashed hopes, all of us – his wife, children, family and friends, are sending positive thoughts and prayers through the airwaves, thoughts that say stay strong, get well, breathe deep, hold on, be safe, my brave big brother. We love you so much; you are our star.
My eleven-year-old daughter has been begging me to buy her a cell phone.
I have solidly stood my ground – it seems wrong on so many levels, not least of which are the risk factors. I’ve put a lot of time and energy into her health and safety, it seems counterproductive to me to let her put an electromagnetic field next to her developing brain.
Finally, some backup for my mother’s instinct: a study published this week in the Journal of American Medical Association shows conversations of less than an hour produce an increase in brain activity. Guess what we will be discussing at dinner tonight?
The study is small, but its results prove that further testing is warranted on the long term effects of cell phone use. Most importantly, it adds fuel to my fire: cell phones can be a dangerous tool for developing organs.
47 participants were tested between January and December of 2009. Cell phones were placed on each ear; on one occasion the cell phones were off, on the other they were muted but would receive calls and texts. After the 50-minute exposure period, each person was given a PET scan to measure their brain activity.
The resulting scans showed that when the phones were turned on, there were significant increases in the brain glucose – the main fuel source for the brain – closest to the phone antenna.
The researchers were led by Dr. Dr. Nora D. Volkow, director of the National Institute on Drug Abuse. She noted that whether cell phone radiation actually causes brain tumors is unresolved. “Further studies are needed to assess if the effects we observed could have potential long-term consequences.”
It is early days on these studies, I’m sure we will be bombarded by many more in days to come. And from what I witness, most kids use their phones for texting more than speaking. Nevertheless, when it comes to my child’s brain, better safe than sorry seems to be a fitting motto.
The other potentially bad news that could result from this study is an increase in the army of people who walk around talking to themselves. It always takes me a minute to determine they are actually using minute headsets…I’ll admit, it looks weird, but I’m buying one anyway.
Article first published as Study Shows Cell Phones Cause Changes in Brain on Technorati.
What would we talk about but for the weather?
What other topic so perfectly and easily resonates with the strangers in our presence because we are unquestionably in this together? Whether we are enduring a storm or basking in warmth, we are sharing this moment, and so we can talk about it with someone we don’t know from Adam; it’s safe.
If it is dumping snow we gripe about shoveling. Rain permits us to wonder when will it end. Extreme heat or cold is worthy of a phrase or maybe even an expletive – “It is freaking freezing/boiling!” This tendency crosses borders, it is not a regional thing. I’ve spoken of weather with strangers all over the world.
We skied under uncharacteristically bluebird skies both Saturday and Sunday, and all everyone could speak about was how lucky we were to be skiing in such agreeable conditions. It was okay the first five chair lifts, but at some point you want to put a halt on the weather talk and just enjoy the moment. Raise your face to the sun, eyes closed, say some private words of thanks to whomever, and get on with it.
I am as guilty as anyone. I frequently lead in to conversations with useless and rather obvious notations about our current weather. It flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, like a pet seeking freedom by squeezing out a door that has cracked open an inch. My mouth opens and there it is: the weather, tumbling out before I can stop it. My default topic. My friend I can always count on. My space filler.
Politics are not so safe – we may be under the same regime, but can be either a staunch supporter or vocal opponent of government. Unless you happen to be at a party convention, in which case you can probably sling some zingers the way of the opposition without starting a fight.
Tragic events in other corners of the world can keep us going for a couple of days, providing the other person doesn’t have a friend or relative visiting the area. A little dicey, this one, proceed with caution. The stranger could get all emotional on you, and then what?
Children can be useful accessories for conversational purposes – a conspiring smile that passes between parents when one child throws a tantrum; a “we’ve all been there” discussion. Dogs, although I don’t own one, can provide another forum for shooting the breeze with total strangers.
But mostly it is the weather, the good old fallback that you can discuss with young and old alike, with people of different economic means, languages, cultures and political persuasions. It is the ultimate unifier, the glue we can count on to dissect at length if we find ourselves stuck in an elevator.
I’m realizing all of those strangers who won’t make eye contact are not rude. They have simply tired of discussing the weather.
As promised, today I am reproducing three of many beautiful poems I discovered on bentlily, a blog by Samantha Reynolds, dedicated to posting a poem a day. She has embarked on this project in an effort to remain more present in her life and find the beauty that lurks in mysterious places.
Always one for shortcuts, I’m hoping to achieve this same result by reading her poetry. Enjoy a moment of savouring language.
I know people who hate short
stories. I don’t
They are arrogant
and gorgeous. They are literary
All intimacy and no
Just as you are falling
they disappear. You knew
there was no future
but you can’t help it,
It’s nice to be appreciated
for hard work and
our best qualities
But those are only
the bullet points
of my being.
What makes me crumble
is when you adore
that is smudged around
the edges of me:
those tiny things
that I didn’t know
the word for nipple
It’s no wonder
they grow so many
But we are not so
Consider the effect
of telling a child
I always imagined
my little body
young and running and free
Now, I watch myself
What if we gathered our young
and whispered instead
with sparkle in our voices:
you are about
Samantha Reynolds is Founder and President of Echo Memoirs, a company which captures memories of individuals and companies and turns them into storybooks. These poems are reprinted with her permission.
It is getting harder to impress my daughter who is eleven going on twenty-one. She has already discarded me as an obstacle to her coolness, and refuses to walk home with me when I show up at her school in a sweat suit.
But on Valentine’s Day, she told me about “…some poem about marriage and true minds” that they had talked about in school. When I recited the whole of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116 while fixing her after-school snack, she stopped pecking at her keyboard and listened; dare I say, impressed. And by that I mean she said, “Hmf.”
I have always loved poetry. What I love about writing the most is simply words, after all, and how they can be delicately woven to evoke images and meaning. Poetry is the best of writing, skimming away the fluff and keeping the most important, beautiful words. Yet I haven’t cracked a poetry book other than my Norton’s Anthology of Literature since university. That was for pressing flowers.
Poetry has been seeking me out despite the fact I have inexplicably shunned it, like a friend I had meant to keep in touch with but didn’t.
A blogger I follow sometimes posts poems when she is at a loss for words. She apologizes to her readers while I thank her silently for her weighted words. Syllables roll around on my tongue and linger like a sweet thai curry. Her name, by the way, is Kathy, and her blog is reinventing the event horizon.
And then another gift. An entrepreneur I interview mentions her blog. She is writing a poem everyday this year on her blog bentlily. Her words stop me in my tracks, each poem a short story in its own right, deeply personal but also universal – how can that be? The paradox of poetry, or the human condition. Either way, I am hoping she finishes out the year and then begins anew in 2012. Her name is Samantha, and she tells me writing poetry is her way of staying present.
I haven’t written any poetry, but reading it lately has been like smelling the aroma of a lemon grove.
Tomorrow I will share one of bentlily‘s gifts, so you, too, can smell the lemons.
At first glance, I thought the term “baby gym” referred to gyms where a superb level of childcare was provided for members intent on rediscovering muscles that had been largely ignored during baby making phases.
Baby gyms – where indeed the participants are babies and toddlers, and indeed the main purpose is exercise – are popping up all over the United States and Canada, with big plans for hitting China next. Someone needs to capitalize on the growing 35% obesity rate in America. You can imagine fears of extra pounds being put to rest as parents sign up their unsuspecting offspring for aerobics, never mind the small fact that they can’t yet stand.
Today on my favorite radio show, Q, host Jian Ghomeshi interviewed Darlene Bolhuis, the creator of Gymtrix, a library of videos designed to put your toddler through the paces of exercise. Its website lists potential benefits of these videos as accelerated physical activity and the prevention of obesity. Ms. Bolhuis told Ghomeshi she believes in physical literacy, in the same way regular literacy should be encouraged from an early age. If you teach a baby how to kick a balloon with his foot, the idea is he will have a better idea of what to do when he walks onto the soccer pitch.
Read: give your kid an advantage! This concept preys on those parents desiring Tiger Woods or Sidney Crosby proteges to fund their retirement.
In his New York Times article, Sports Training Has Begun for Babies and Toddlers, Mark Hyman highlights this is not an isolated incident – there are other companies making similar DVD’s, such as athleticBaby and Baby Goes Pro, not to mention a plethora of gyms set up under the guise of altering skyrocketing obesity rates. They encourage parents to start the gym habit with infants as young as four months old.
All this on the heels of the outrageous Baby Yoga video that made headlines in January, showcasing a Russian woman carelessly handling an infant as though it were a yo-yo, the premise being this is actually beneficial for babies. What is this world coming to?
Encouraging a healthy generation of children can be accomplished by good eating habits and normal, age-appropriate exercise. Think fewer Doritos, more hiking. Leave the infants to discovering their fingers and toes, and the toddlers to doing what they do best: playing.