My Oscar Dilemma

I’m getting nervous about what I’m going to wear to this year’s Academy Awards. Several designers have approached me with samples, but so far nothing screams my name. The dresses are all strapless and trailing long, not a good combination for someone who has tripped on the red carpet a time or two before. The last thing I need is a shot of me in the paper looking completely braless.

My stylist told me that Penelope [Cruz] is probably going with Chanel and Cate [Blanchett] with Armani, so I don’t have a prayer of getting a new look from those designers at such a late date. Meryl [Streep] is rumored to wear Prada, but I don’t know if she will actually do it. Perhaps she can give me a few hints since her 14th nomination is for playing the editor of Vogue. I scan my blackberry wondering where my assistant filed her number when I hear a blood-curdling scream coming from the bathroom.

“She used all my bubble bath,” my six year old screams, “now I can’t take a bath.” I look over at my four year old who is also hysterical.

“It’s my turn to take a bath first,” the youngest cries, “It’s not fair.”

Reality slaps me out of my Oscar daydreaming and back to reality: I don’t have an assistant, a stylist or for that matter a job in Hollywood anymore. I gave that all up to stay home and raise my children. Instead of negotiating script deals, I am monitoring the distribution of Strawberry Shortcake bubble bath in my Old Navy shorts and t-shirt.

Don’t get me wrong--I was no Harvey Weinstein. However, my various jobs as a movie executive and producer did bring me into contact with celebrities. Back then, I would never have told you about my meetings with Dustin Hoffman, Harrison Ford or Julie Andrews because name-dropping was just not considered cool. Now, it’s become a bad habit, especially at play dates when discussions of the best organic juice box or environmentally safe diaper run dry.

“Have you seen the second Pirates of the Caribbean?” I’ll begin with an innocent mom. “I agree with Johnny, you know Johnny Depp, that the first Pirates movie was better.”

“You know Johnny Depp?”

I’ll smugly reply, “You can’t believe how sweet he is…and good-looking, too” Depending on how the conversation goes, I will either stick with Johnny or move onto Tom Hanks or Susan Sarandon. I once had a woman drop to her knees and kiss my feet when she found out I had interviewed Johnny. Needless to say, I had celebrity status ‘til sundown hit the swing sets.

“You might as well start selling celebrity maps,” my husband suggests. “At least, you could make a buck or two while name-dropping yourself into a shameless oblivion.” I contemplate his harsh words on my shallow and pathetic behavior. Of course, I would rather be hanging out with my kids instead of celebrities, making memories instead of movies. I made that decision six years ago and have not regretted it since. It’s just that movie talk can be, well, so much fun.

The irony of my situation is that parenthood is full of movie moments--my six-year old explaining infinity or my yoga teacher asking me when I am due, a year after I delivered. Every time my mother-in-law tells me the importance of wearing lipstick and getting my hair done, even though I have no clean underwear, I chant, ‘this moment belongs in a movie.’

Perhaps one day when I am done with the laundry, the dance recital costume and the family’s taxes, I will sit down and write a script about a name-dropping mom who cracks open a major terrorist cell that operates out of her local park. She saves thousands of lives just by having a big mouth and knowledge of spy movies.

Finally, I will attend the Academy Awards with my husband and children. I will wear Chanel lipstick, a fabulous chignon and a gown by whichever designer I truly desire. Or at least whomever Meryl suggests.