Every year, on a Sunday evening in February, we host an Oscars party that has ranged from the raucous to the intimate. We hand out ballots, dress up, drink bubbles and dish on the celebrities. Empress Sula clues us in on each star’s astrological sign, and gives pithy commentary on the state of their relationships. “Ha, Brad and Angelina just had a fight,” she surmised, to general amusement.
Even where we can see the celestial constellations so clearly, Tinseltown’s stars have their appeal. We joked that we would spray paint a path from the front door to our couch, Partington Ridge's own red carpet. This year's show seemed homey and kind, and as the six of us noshed our way through delicious homemade lasagna and swilled champagne, there were a few tears as well.
Toby dressed in his tux, (his best "up yours Daniel Craig" look) white shirt open to the waist, bow tie dangling from the collar. I wore tight pants and a push-up bra under a slinky top, going for that starlet look. Our best girl (and singing instructor) Lisa G. (who I coaxed out of her cabin fever by belting out the theme song to "Cabaret") wore her Snow White dress and we giggled all night.
Our lasagna chef won the prize for guessing the most correct winners, happy that his favorite "WALL-E" received the golden statuette. Other favorites of the evening were Penelope Cruz, Mickey Rourke and the courageous Sean Penn. Our exclusive Oscars party continued until late evening, complete with dancing (yours truly demonstrating her just-learned Flamenco moves) more laughter and a pause to admire the real stars outside, sparkling above us on the dark carpet of heaven.