And The Award Goes To…

Barbara: Before I announce the recipient of my honourary Academy Award, let me explain the whole Oscar “phenomenon” as it exists in my house. First of all, growing up with dreams of being a successful actor had the usual effect on me: yes, if you must know, I did indulge in imaginary Oscar acceptance speeches; yes, they were emotional and heartfelt thank-yous to my beloveds, and yes, oh yes, they far exceeded the 45-second time allotment. I have watched the Oscars every year for as many years as I can remember.

That said, I’m not actually much of an awards show watcher. I mean, there are so many: the Golden Globes, the Emmys, the SAG Awards, the Canadian Geminis, and on and on. It’s as if I have an ingrained limit and one show a year fills it to capacity. It’s kind of the same with sports. I almost never watch sports on TV, but when the Olympics are on, just try and interfere with my viewing pleasure.

Okay, so we’re clear on where I stand on awards shows in general and the Academy Awards show in specific. So it shouldn’t be a great leap for you to imagine the almost religious ceremony I build around watching the show. I like to stay home, en famille (where I won’t miss a thing), I watch the pre-show arrivals and mock the inane banter that comes from the mouths of the clearly nervous interviewers, I watch (or watched) the Barbara Walters special, and I only go to the washroom during commercial breaks. Years ago, I told my husband I would not be cooking on that night. Ever. My husband and I mostly share the cooking ritual here in a your-turn-my-turn kind of system. Well, it doesn’t matter if he cooked the night before, on awards night it is never, ever (did I say that already?) my turn. Hollye said it the other day: the Academy Awards is like my Super Bowl.

And Phil has gamely met my demands unflinchingly, year after year. So here’s where we get to my honourary award. There was a time when he simply prepared, you know, easy stuff like chicken wings or ribs. But then a few years ago he got it into his head that he was going to make a themed dinner (themed to the nominated movies, a menu found, I think, on Epicurious.com). Well, martinis were served with dainty hors d’oeuvres, plates were brought heaped with seared tenderloin and sautéed veggies and mushroom risotto, dessert was served with sparkling wine. It was a glorious feast. So glorious, in fact, that my daughters and I fairly swooned for the couple of hours it took to eat. We may even have glanced away from the ceremonies a few times to acknowledge his masterful meal.

And so, much to my husband’s chagrin, a ritual was born, one that would forever after scoff at plain old chicken wings and ribs. I’m not sure how thrilled Phil is that he has been swept up by our manic devotion to his culinary services, but he continues to step up and outdo himself. This year: French onion soup, and cassoulet with duck confit, both made from scratch (French theme in honour of Inception’s setting). 

Black and White Brownies courtesy of my Younger. Mmmm.

Oh my friggin god.
Thanks, sweetie, the award definitely goes to you.


Deb: A well deserved award, Phil! Hope you didn’t burn your hand while cooking and drop the F-bomb like Melissa Leo!

And speaking of bombs, how about that hosting job last night?  Wow. Reaching out to young people?  Please! Young people are not idiots and are not going to tune in unless they want to. I love both Anne Hathaway and James Franco, but dear God they were miscast in those roles. At least she seemed to be trying and wore some great dresses.

Anyway, what a lovely tradition you have, Barb, with Phil at the kitchen helm. My husband has also done this for many years (but not last night as we had just flown in from Vancouver and went to an Oscar party). He has in the past themed a course for every movie. Now that it is ten movies, he will just have to pick the most inspirational I guess.

But his finest moment is the year he did: “BENJAMIN BUTTON Mushroom Soup”, followed by “SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE Mini Curry Burgers”, followed by “THE READER Potato Latkes”, followed by “MILK Fruit and Nuts Salad”, followed by “FROSTED NIXONS cake.”  Great taste and good laughs with each course. What more could you want?

So, for best achievement in an Oscar-themed evening, the winners are Colin and Phil. I ate my chocolate Oscar, but still have the memories!

Why Does My Husband Get it And I Don't?

Deb: I’m a bright girl! I’ve been well edumacated! So why does it take me so long to grasp simple technical things? For example, I learn on Tuesday how to organize my photos. Wednesday, I look at the screen and cock my head to the side like a dog! My husband comes over and calmly goes: click, drag, pull, puff ... and done. “Thank you dear,” I say, not meaning it. Eventually I get it, but it takes days, sometimes weeks, even months. I swear he is NOT smarter than me! Okay, he may disagree, but hey, this is MY blog. Truly––WE ARE EQUAL SMART! So how come he “gets it”? 

Barbara: Oh my gaawwwwd! This is so me! Why, oh why, does it take so long (if ever) for me to absorb technical things? I feel like I should wear a “I’m a techno-simp” bib when talking with, well, anyone who owns a TV, DVD player, or computer––especially my husband!  My husband's grasp of electronics and such just blows me away. It's like he just has to LOOK at a piece of equipment to understand it. And I, sadly, never, ever feel like I get it no matter how many times I STUDY it....

Deb and I already riffed on our low E.Q. (Electronics Quotient) when we bemoaned our blog-making-conundrums, but it’s especially frustrating when the “illiteracy” involves everyday items, like new-fangled washing machines or coffee-makers. 

Deb: Add to that the humiliation of my three-year-old niece grabbing the remote from me with a look of disgust on her face when I couldn’t access the “Movies on Demand” channel. I thought I handled it with great maturity. Told her I’d run out of cookies.

In Sickness Or in Health

Barbara: After some 30-odd years under my belt with the same man (see About Us. I know, I know, we’re an enigma, an anomaly, but it somehow works … even when we want to kill each other), I’m still shocked at the clichés we manifest on a daily basis. He’s the car guy, home-fixer, disciplinarian; I’m the closet-cleaner, appointment-maker, nurturer. 

I mean, we’re a thoroughly modern couple—always have been. We share the household and parental duties equally. But I’m so the girl and he’s so the boy. I defer to his money sense and he defers to my sense of fashion. He wants my opinion on everything and I want to give it to him. He likes to tell jokes and I like to laugh at them. He likes a good steak and I’m partial to poultry (but only if it’s organic free-range). 

So why is it that I am always surprised when he gets sick … and suddenly becomes a feeble patient on his deathbed barely able to utter his last words (which are plaintive mewlings begging for tender mercy and comfort)?? My Tarzan/Jane fantasy image is one of him pounding his chest in the face of the Common Cold, brazenly daring it to defeat him while he goes about his business. But the reality always reflects one of the most common clichés in the male/female dynamic—he is the dying swan and I am (read: should be) his besotted nursemaid. Oh well—I guess that’s the difference between fantasy and cliché! 


Deb: Unlike Barb, my relationship is hard to define because actually over the last year or so it has evolved yet again. Mostly my husband takes care of money, but I have recently stepped up in that arena. I am the spender; he is the saver. We share the household duties, but according to my friends, MY husband is a saint for one simple reason ... he cooks ... ALL the meals. Wonderful meals, thoughtful meals, nutritious meals. At one point when our son was in grade three, he had to write a paragraph on what his parents did at home and he said, “My Dad buys the groceries and cooks the dinner and my Mom lights the candles and pours the wine”. Out of the mouths of babes. 

While that observation contains truth, I always get defensive because it is tough to define what I do around the house. I do the stuff that goes unnoticed, unappreciated––yes, my husband cleans up, but it is “boy clean” … and I am “girl clean”. I do the ironing and my share of the laundry and I (deep breath here) pick up dirty clothes from the floor, wipe down counters and cupboards again and again, fluff pillows, tidy rooms, water and care for plants, book and oversee all appointments, medical and home repair, organize all social events (do I sound defensive yet?), tidy constantly, shut open closet doors, turn out lights, turn out lights again, control house temperature, fireplaces (man, do I sound defensive), tend garden, plant garden, decorate, polish, and scrub. 

In effect, I do all the things that don’t elicit thanks or verbal appreciation. We don’t thank someone for picking up dirty underwear because they just disappear into the hamper. We don’t thank someone for cleaning a kitchen. It just appears as if by magic. Clean. But when a meal is prepared, we are all over it with the thanks! My man can walk by something 50 times that needs to be put away. I don’t think he ignores it as much as truly doesn’t see it! But me? I’m with the “girl clean” radar! Beep beep beep: dirty underwear ... beep beep beep: wilting plant ... beep beep beep: crumbs on coffee table.... 

Wow, did I digress! This is supposed to be about whiney men with colds, isn’t it? Umm, okay, I guess the reason I ranted on in the other direction is because when it comes to my whiney Cold Man, I stand rant-less. My man is stoic, a rock, a beacon of the “buck up”. Never complains. Right this minute, he has a raging cold and is limping off to the grocery store to get dinner groceries. Why limping, you ask? Well, because he is in agonizing pain in the face of knee surgery that he will have in a few weeks. Yet as he went out the door the last thing he said to me (smiling pleasantly, damn him) was, “Can I pick you up anything for your lunch?” I watched him go off, gently closing the closet door he left opened, and thought, “Light the damn candles and count your blessings, you whiney cow”. 

Barbara: Okay, I will avow that Deb’s husband has many saintly qualities, but after having worked with Deb for 5 years, I can also avow that she never stops futzing—EVER! It’s quite amazing, actually. I just sip my tea and marvel at her. 

Anyway, we found this great video we had to share with you—it is hysterical!––and exactly Barbara’s life in a comedic nutshell.