Angelina Jolie did it 2 years ago.

On a carpet that was an attractive shade of sun-bleached red, the throngs of celebrities began their march toward prestigious recognition, or utter disappointment. Mainly disappointment. Unless you were Colin Firth.

Let's be honest here. There's one reason I watch the Oscars, and one reason only. To tear apart those feeble minded individuals that think their stylists can actually style, and to gush over those who in fact actually have taste.

I'll begin on a positive note (unusual). Cate Blanchett. Her dress was so great that I could even tolerate her canary diamond earrings. And I HATE canary diamonds. Now despite my loathing for these apparently exquisite gems (gagging) the accessory to dress pairing was appropriate, and neither detracted from the other. Then there was Mark Ruffalo's wife; apart from her ridiculous first name (Sunrise), she had everything right. In particular, her gold tassel earrings that peeked out just below her perfect blunt bob. An ensemble to admire, from head to toe.

I wish the same could be said for:

Annette Bening (poorly chosen emerald drops to accompany a matronly flapper style dress)

Marisa Tomei (channelling Katy Keene and having little success, with an ill-fitting bodice and too much tulle. Her earrings appeared to be canary diamond sunbursts, encompassing everything I hate about the gem and were the antithesis of the tasteful Cate)

Reese "Oscar Barbie" Witherspoon (terrible hair piece, partnering with equally terrible emerald earrings)

Sandra Bullock (held a dreadful burgundy crocodile clutch to "match" her average looking red bustle-heavy gown)

On to the men. Russell Brand: Good suit, most things look better with an English accent though, so . . . .

This year the men's favoured accessory was facial hair. And this is a particularly fragile issue for me at the moment. Let's be clear. I am not a fan, unless it's Howard Keel in a 1950's musical. The Oscars were rampant with day-old stubble. Scruff is acceptable, if not fetching, perhaps not for Oscars but nonetheless. The following wore it well:

Robert Downey Jr (natch)

Jude Law (double natch)

Jake Gyllenhaal

Matthew McConaghy (despite patchy tan)

Javier Bardem

Mark Wahlberg

The following wore it horribly:

Christian Bale

I don't care if it is for a part. Run a freakin' comb through it and for god sakes pick out the nits. Speaking of gross looking orange things. Valentino looked typically appalling, in an unflattering shade of orange epidermis. Pulled and stretched so that he bore a striking resemblance to Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula. . . . when he portrayed that delicate mix of demon and human.

The overall show? There were pros and cons. Lets focus on the cons, as they seem much more amusing. Montages; normally my favorite part of the Oscar telecast. The In Memorium barely brought a tear to my eye. Mainly because I was reeling from hearing Celine Dion warble her way through some song that was so forgettable I've forgotten it. Notable deaths this year, at least for me, were Tony Curtis and Blake Edwards. Seriously, I know Gloria Stewart died, but really? Celine?

There was also the Best Film montage. Done cleverly utilizing the "King's Speech" plus Beethoven's No7 op92. I will say, it must have been sheer hell incorporating clips from Toy Story 3 into the mix. It really had the potential to ruin the whole thing. God knows why that film was nominated for Best Picture? I can barely comprehend the logic for nominating it in best Animated Feature Film. And don't get me started on Randy Newman.

The worst, not to mention most useless montage was the rubbish Auto-tune bit. Total crap.

Cute parts? James Franco most of the time, specifically filming the crowd when Anne Hathaway and him first stepped onto the stage. That kid has come a long way since Freaks and Geeks, yet remains pretty rad.

A group of us had a pool going to vote on who was going to win what. I tied for 3rd place. I did it the same way I passed high-school . . . I guessed. "Hey, I didn't realize the test was double sided!"

Diamonds are forever . . . . and so are mortgages.

It's come to my attention that despite my constant effort to remain infantile, I'm growing up. And buy 'growing up' I mean I'm still far too dependant on my parents but am becoming increasingly (and somewhat disturbingly) comfortable without the presence of a consistent male in my life. And by presence, I mean the financial and domestic aid of a male, you know, like women had in the 50's. Women back then had someone (read: a husband) to pick up the marshmallows for the ambrosia or to tie their apron strings. I however find myself in the bitter reality of the 21st century, and for things like buying a home or say diamonds, I'm relying on myself. I'm not the only one either, the same goes for for a handful of other girls too. For those of you who are paying attention, I bought an apartment in the summer. A few days ago I unwittingly bought diamonds. Yeah, with all that spare cash I have from missed mortgage payments, and unpaid cable bills. Actually I got a bit of money for my birthday. And despite my better judgement, which was to save for the aforementioned bills etc. my Mum who has an equally materialistic personality, and a penchant for pretty and useless things, urged me to get something nice. That something nice was a ring in my favorite shop that I've had my eye on for about a year. It wasn't going to buy itself. I was chatting with said shop's proprietor, and asked if the twinkly bits in the ring were crystal. She said, "diamonds actually." This was when the gears began turning, and I started tallying my independent female friends. Friends that have (even if some of us are unemployed) accomplished things that up until recently we'd have needed a fella to help us with. Despite being a little sad that ones first diamonds and house are a single venture, I guess it could be worse. The silver lining is that I'm not "expecting" and/or divorced. To sum up: I'm proud of my friends for the things they do (careers), chances they take (relationships) and crap they've bought (homes). So way to go us!

Well, it's February 14th in a few painfully quick hours, so I guess I should get a move on and buy myself a frilly pink heart shaped box of chocolates. Siiiiiiiiiiigh* Tune in next week when I have a nasty case of diabetes and acne.

Heads up.

My excuse would have been the 2 pitchers of Mimosas I had that afternoon, which I had conveniently forgot about. Sara did not have such an excuse. We'll just chalk it up to general clumsiness and a dash of oblivion. After a perfectly delightful evening of chatting and light imbibing it was time to vacate our pleasantly prohibition-esque environment and call it a night. Sara had already tipped her glass over and deposited a small puddle of beer on the table. That was one. Two was four minutes later, when she knocked the salt shaker off the table. She was about to carelessly continue to put her jacket on and leave, when I said she should root around under our table and fetch the shaker. Then like any self respecting superstition non-believer, she should toss some salt over her left shoulder. I think I suggested this asinine behaviour because of something my friend, let's call her Katie, said to me the day before. We were sitting in a cafe, and I had just pulled apart the scone I had chosen for breakfast. As I loaded my knife with the butter I planned on covering my scone with, Katie very casually said:

K: "Using a knife on on Chinese New Year is bad luck."

Me: blinking . . . .then putting knife down. "Oh yeah?"

K: " Families often prep their food the day before, because using a knife on the day cuts your luck in half for the coming year."

Me: picking knife up and continuing to butter my scone.

Ladies and gentlemen, my friend Katie. *applause* She couldn't have either said this before I used the knife, she couldn't have just not said anything. No, she chose to tell me mid-slather. So with this recent conversation in the back of my head, I suggested to Sara (before it was too late) to use preventative measures with her salt. She poured a small amount into her palm and tossed it gracefully over her shoulder. The salt then proceeded to gracefully rain on the girl sitting directly behind her, as well happily sail into her date's eye.

Lesson learned.

Tops, Bottoms, Nothing.

Hey, here’s something that should help you sleep at night (those of you living in Michigan specifically). Today I was just brushing up on my trivia (as opposed to the original plan of giving myself paper cuts all day) and I came across an interesting fact. Apparently it is legal for the blind to hunt in both Texas and Michigan. However in Texas a sighted individual must accompany the ‘hunter’. Apparently in Michigan Blinky can hunt without such an accompaniment. This poses a few questions? The least of all is: How does one hunt when blind? I mean if you hear rustling in bushes do you just fire? Have you just shot a partridge, a kudu, or a scout troop? Are your other senses heightened and thus can tell that said rustling belongs to a dear in his mid forties, with a slight limp? Or do you just wait till you get mauled by the grizzly charging you and then shoot? To me there are all sorts of problems with this law. The stuff I read was questioning how you find your game after shooting it (this is assuming of course Blinky has some kick ass aim) Do you just shuffle along in the underbrush until you put your foot into a warm pile of intestine? How do you strap your zebra to the roof rack to get it home . . . ? Where do you get a roof-rack? Or can the blind drive legally in Michigan too, because if they can this whole hunting law is making a lot more sense. See? Problems.

On my recent trip “10 States 1 Lemon” I visited Michigan for the deliriously brief span of perhaps 6 hours. The state is a total dump. Economic climate, the crash of automobile industry, thousands job-less etc. . . . or is it due to the blind being allowed to hunt unsupervised? I ask you? Michigan has an enormous amount of road kill. And Christ knows what it is, there's a chance the death toll is 50/50: human and wildlife. It's all unidentifiable. Bits are strewn everywhere, antlers here, a torso there. I mean there's tonnes of road-kill on the interstate anyway, but in Michigan it was particularly gruesome. And now ladies and gentlemen, we know why.

Cee . . . perhaps you have some opinions on this subject? You like shooting stuff. What are the laws in the Yukon these days? And how safe do you feel knowing that there could be a blind person out for a Sunday massacre?

siiiiiigh*

I've been feeling nostalgic as of late. And I was hoping that reminiscing about my trials and tribulations in the LDN would knock some sense into me. But I'm afraid not. Despite the rampant idiocy I encountered on a daily basis I miss London something fierce. Let's take a casual walk down memory lane . . . .

MEMORY#1

Four men with top hats are trying to cross the street. It starts off like a bad joke doesn’t it? Seriously though. Sunz and I were walking home one day and happened upon, you guessed it, four men in top hats. To be more specific, four men in top hats hoisting a mahogany box on their shoulders. Performance art was my immediate deduction. However, upon closer inspection I realize the box was a casket. I felt bad for a split second and then resumed my performance art theory. I told Sunny, “Don’t stare and whatever you do, DO NOT make eye contact, otherwise they’ll drag us into their avant-guard bullshit.” I was 100% sure it was “art” when I heard one of the pall bearers ask a passer-by “Do you know where the pet cemetery is?”

I’m sure these dudes were art students or some crap trolling the neighborhood behind the Tate Modern for suckers. I suspect they were doing a reactionary piece to make fun of the Average Joe. Hell, I’d put money on it.

I mean what the hell kind of reaction do you think you’d get when a bunch of guys holding a small coffin, carnations spilling from lapels ask . . . “Which way to the pet cemetery?”

Bloody artists. Go back to your piles of felt and sacks of lard, and leave the rest of us out of your twisted little alternate dimension.

MEMORY#2

Then there was the time I saw the biggest dip-shit ever.

Well I didn’t actually see him. I saw his sweet ride. I can’t be sure if it was a Lamborghini or a Ferrari… frankly, it doesn’t matter. All I know is it had numerous horses under the hood, it was about an inch off the ground (which meant the roof reached my belly button and it was an excruciating pearlescent orange. What made it even cooler (an by cooler I mean nauseating) was the personalized license plate.

BICEP.(heaving with laughter)

MEMORY#3

I walked under a ladder right in front of Sunny the other day just to freak her out, and to illustrate a point. The point being I survived. We figured that the bad luck I should be expecting will probably be her death, as she almost got hit by 3 cars while we were walking around that day. Which brings me to the whole superstitious English thing. I have found out why folks are terrified of stepping over 3 drain hole covers in a row (refer to black cats etc. e-mail) Apparently it’s not just general bad luck they're destined to receive. It’s a specific area of life that will be crippled with bad luck. The Moronic English believe that they’ll suffer in the sack if they walk across these consecutive bits of city planning. For crying out loud. It’s not the pavement. It’s British genetics.

MEMORY#4

Now for some observations.

If you’re unlucky enough to get knocked up in England, and even more unlucky should you spawn a baby girl you are required (by law it would seem) to give your offspring one of the following loathsome names.

Izzie

Poppy

Daisy

(most have a floral aesthetic. Also read: petunia, iris and stink weed)

Hell . . . if you feel adventurous, use a couple of them for a repulsive double barrelled job (Izzie Poppy de Stick Up Your Ass)

Next up. Negativity.

Why I hate Ugg Boots. (except the pair strewn on my bedroom floor) I hate them because Daisy Von Rothschild-Church-Gibson has been putting on her Uggs every Sunday since fall 2003. She meets her equally floral and useless friends for brunch in Primrose Hill/Maida Vale/Westbourne Grove. She arrives a carefully disheveled mess. Shuffling to greet Izzie and Stink Weed with two wretched air kisses on either cheek. She looks like a paraplegic learning to walk again. Or a newborn fawn struggling to stand on shaky knock-kneed weight bearing legs. The heels of her Uggs are crusty and grey, the soles are riding up on the outside of her feet (imagine trying on your dad’s boots when you were teeny and not filling the foot bed entirely). This means Daisy is scuffing along on the suede ankle portion of the boot. Not only does this look great. It sounds great too. If you hear an irritating scuffing sound (often the sound carries from up to a block away) it’s undoubtedly a girl in her early-mid 20’s abusing her Uggs. Uggs should be worn in 2 places. And 2 places only. Australia and my flat.

So in retrospect, it's good to know some things never change (read: inappropriately worn footwear and my hatred for it) Some things that do change are baby names. Everyone take a count of how many little Eva and Ava's you know. The numbers are staggering.

A Wednesday.

Was it the lox or me?

Vote now.

I was sitting with My Friend at Solly's today eating bagels and lox. Now, there's an efficient way to build this concoction and an inefficient way. In my opinion, although delicious “Solly” built it inefficiently. Therefore I took it upon myself to reconstruct my bagel. I brushed off the capers (which had already mostly rolled off of their own accord) and removed the lox. I then stuck the capers back on the cream cheese, and securely placed the salmon back on top. I had cream cheese on all digits, when Friend decided it would be a good idea to fetch me napkins. He got up and I continued to play with my food. Seconds passed and I felt eyes on me. The two dudes sitting behind us were staring, and not too subtly I might add. I sort of did a double take as I turned around to see the prying eyes. They looked quizzical, and sort of questioned my motives. I said, if the capers go directly on the cream cheese they stick, and thus don't roll off. Easier to eat. They seemed vaguely accepting of this revolutionary idea. At this point Friend came back to hear my last words “ . . . not just a pretty face boys, I've got brains too.” Conceited? Perhaps.

Now my question is: were they staring at me because of my looks or because I looked like a jack-ass? So far the tally is 1/1. I say it was because I was making a mess of my food. My Friend thinks it's because I'm a moderately attractive blonde. I think that's ridiculous. To clarify I was not marching down the street in 5 inch heels wearing an inappropriately short skirt. I was sitting on a stool wearing a wool v-neck while dissecting smoked salmon and nasturtium seeds.

NB. Ginger Jen, you may not weigh in on this one.

fa la la la . . . whatever.

Christmas. It happens every year. This one was a semi-big deal as, my parents hadn't seen my most recent acquisition. My first home. Naturally they knew I had bought some prime real-estate in the fair city of Vancouver. They knew it because they woke up one morning with their savings drained and debt collectors at the front door.

Their December visit was the first time they were going to see my abode . . . in the flesh. I'll preface this with, my apartment is rad. I feel it's got a very Holly Golightly-esqe quality about it. Thousands would disagree, but they are stupid.

Apart from a couple of kitchen and bathroom things (read: new floors), the place is pretty much done. A few different light fixtures and a lick of paint, and I was pretty satisfied. The most pressing matter was to throw up some storage in the bathroom. There wasn't any. None at all. So My Mum has been on me since Apartment's purchase in July to go to Ikea already, and get some wall mounted cabinets. This was clearly not as urgent to me as it was to her, because on their arrival by the 22nd of December I was still dangling things off towel racks and door handles.

The 27th of December. This was the day Dad, Mum and I piled into the rental car and sped off to Ikea. Dad was bored senseless, but he pulled through like a champ. In the end we got new mirrored doors for my closets,and 2 mirrored wall cabinets for the bathroom. We organized delivery for the following day. I'm not going to get into the gory details, but I will never in my life buy anything that requires assembly from Ikea again. Sheer hell. The assembly itself wouldn't have been so bad, assuming all the components had been there. I've built things with the Swedish already this year, and it went far more smoothly when it involved ginger bread.

Dad and I did a bang-up job. We were a quarter of the way through closet door one (of which there were 5) and Dad gouged his hand with the Phillips. Blood everywhere, inside and outside of the door.

"Dad, go wash your hand and get a band-aid.”

"I'm fine, don't fuss.” smears more blood across inside of door.

More sternly: “DAD, go wash your hand.”

"Zenija, I'm fine.”

"I know you're fine, I don't care about your hand, I care about my $400 white wool skirt hanging 3 inches from your hand. Now go get a band-aid”

He couldn't find a band-aid, but I found the bloody trail he left while he looked. Two hours later 5 doors were on, and my skirt remained pristine. The doors look terrific, and to my delight increased the space and pinkness of my bedroom. I LOVE IT.

The next day was bathroom cabinet day. No blood and less tears. It got done after a only 5 hours, and it's been over a week and they are still hanging. Success.