People, I love the Academy Awards for all its delicious pomp and glamour. I covet the enormous ball gowns and borrowed diamonds dripping from swan-like necks. I fixate on the colors and hair styles and the handsome sea of tuxes. I love the red carpet itself though I'm less enamored of the emcees whose wannabe groveling tends to make me feel sad. I love the eight-and-a-half pound Oscar and those speeches that don't seem overly practiced. Tremendous, for-the-books acting that's blown everyone away is often, but not always, rightfully honored. For example, Tom Hulse was robbed when he played, but didn't win for, Mozart in Amadeus. But Adrian Brody winning for The Pianist? Outstanding!

Less frequently, excellent movies are made and properly rewarded. I mean, Titanic was best picture??? I think not. Barf, gag, wanna freeze to death myself.

I do not understand the why behind animated foreign short documentaries, and I regularly wonder why so very many of the best actors and actresses are British. Man, they have the corner on the market there. Makes me want to move because the accent + good acting + tuxedos? Mah gah.

But overall, it's a fun evening, and I've watched the Awards every year for most of my life (not least because my parents have hosted an annual Academy Awards party since 1981). Let me pause while I pour some bubbly...

Ok, I'm slightly less excited about tonight's show because, as you may recall, I HATED, LOATHED, DESPISED Boyhood and Ellar Coltrane and Patricia Arquette in it. I feel too confident that that infernal film will win Best Picture and that dysfunctional, loser-man-magnet (in the movie) P. Arquette will take home Best Supporting Actress. Sigh. And if Richard effing Linklater wins Best Director because he freaking took one week a year for twelve years to film some sad sacks growing up, well shit. I'll be a glum muffin.

Not least because The Grand Budapest Hotel was as creative, infinitely delightful, better cast,

The Best Actor and Best Supporting Actor nominees this year are outstanding, and I'm definitely rooting for front-runner Best Actress nom, Julianne Moore.

Off to drool over dresses!

On a regular basis, I fib to Tom. You see, I really like to sleep with Nutmeg curled up by my feet -and on occasion, I like a new pair of heels even if they don't get much action- and T most definitely does not. When we first adopted Nutmeg, and forgot to close our door, he would sneak in and join us in bed. This was sweet until just before 6am when, without fail, he would begin biting Tom's toes through the comforter. I do not recall him ever biting my toes; he once nipped my nose which, while surprising, was kinda cute. I'm not saying he loves me best, but then again, maybe I am.

Anyway, T was very patient but finally and emphatically declared our room a Nutmeg-free zone come bedtime. I decided to give him some time before attempting to embezzle my cat back in.

T has a very finicky internal thermostat, and when he's on his way to the wonderland we call Sleep, he does not like to be touched or even "encroached upon." Yes, those have been his very words. When we married, he pleaded for a king-sized bed and has since basked in its expansive size. He knows I'm there but feels like an island too, and he likes that.

I myself like a bit of snuggling, so Cat seems like a clear fix. And he is. And so I lie. I know that if I say I'm just gonna nuzzle Nut a bit more before tossing him into the hall, T will fall asleep confidently. He does, I don't put Nutmeg out, and there you have it. This works for all of us really, except when Nut is seized with hunger, and then he claws and bites our comforter. I'll be honest, that is annoying. We have a dozen holes to prove it.

The other night, the house quiet but for the snore of T and the muted purr of Nut, I lay in bed contentedly. My right hand rested lightly on Nutmeg's torso, rising and falling with his cadenced breaths. Our blinds were tightly shut, but a full moon, shining like the most magnificent bulb, beamed in with such earnestness and determination that our room was brightly illumined.

I thought, while surrounded by people and pets I love and accompanied by the steadfast moon, of the power of touch and proximity, both literal and figurative. Of the incredible rarity and value in things that are unfailingly there. The friend who knows intuitively that you need her and who shows up without asking, stays without complaint, and simply holds your hand. The partner who envelops you in a hug and doesn't try to solve but only be present and offer a shoulder, an ear and some fighting words if need be. The pet who wants nothing more than your nearness, your hand brushing his fur affectionately ever so often. Of Nanny, whose hands radiated peace and love and everything-will-be-ok'ness. And the memory of her which still does all that.

I considered just how intimate silence can be, how much can be said within its spaces. We laud extroverts and networkers and connectors for the ways in which they bring people together; I am one of them in many ways and proud of it, but I'm repeatedly grounded and rejuvenated by more silent connections.

Nutmeg stirred briefly, but my hand remained, a bit of flotsam riding the waves of his undulating ribs.

I thought of Yen, the woman from whom I get pedicures, who always starts by placing her hands on my feet, looking me in the eyes and asking, "How are you, Emily?" She asks like she means it, and I answer because I mean it too. We are so unable to speak to one another because I have zero skill with Vietnamese and she is only slightly better with English, but through regular interactions and smiles and clasped hands (and feet) and mangled attempts at verbal communication, we have grown quite fond of each other, and I find our goodbye hugs some of the warmest and loveliest ever. I know that her 90+ year old mother is frail but getting by. I know of her daughter and that they're close. I know that she knows how much I care for her and perhaps she even senses that she reminds me of Nanny. I know this because we are there with each other.

I considered how Nutmeg now takes walks with Percy and me. He is off-leash (hell, he's even lost his collar) and sometimes ventures from our path. But he always finds us, following to and fro, keeping us in his sights. I used to be so scared of him running away or leaving, but I realize now that he won't. He'll always return to the loving hands that await him, those hands that comfort him now. We all would.

There is so much to be said about experiencing others in the most basic and real of ways. Not through the film of shoulds or the veneer of social media, but in the flesh, really and truly. To simply see others and be with them honestly, as the moon or a faithful pet or happily entrenched memories are.

Em-i-lis

Red carpet remarks: before the show

Exciting changes this way come

Touch, lies, a cat and connection

Em-i-lis

SUBSCRIBE & CONTACT

LOOK! READ! LISTEN!