The Assassination of Sandra Bullock, by the Coward Jesse James

My mom has always loved the Oscars, apparently, but I remember it as a more recent phenomenon, maybe the last decade or so. Or maybe just the last six years, the time since I've moved home, as that's about the only time I can remember watching them. Most years as of late, it was just me and Ma, yawning our way through them, while we asked each other if it was always this dull, and the answer was always yes. Mostly, she cares about the dresses and the glamour, hilarious to me for a mother who rarely wears make-up and could have given a shit about her hair (going so far as to perm her already thick, wavy locks because it was "easier" for 20 years or so) or clothes until my sister and I intervened on the eve of her 40th high school reunion. But I digress.

The Oscar's were different this year, of course. I don't think any of us thought Ma would make it to Christmas, let alone March. The Golden Globes snuck up on us really, just like spring this year, as they both came weeks early. She pumped her one good fist in the air when I told her they were on, and then a month later, we were suddenly talking Oscars and she was really fired up. We managed to get her to a lot of the movies: Hurt Locker (loved), Avatar (so loud, why was it so loud?) Crazy Heart (loved, loved, loved), Precious (loved uncomfortably) and the Blind Side (also loved). It was a tiny victory every time she had enough energy to get out to the movies, something she's always loved - even better when we secured the rock star handicapped seats.

The only glitch this year was that she has a small mediation group regularly scheduled at 3 for an hour on Sundays. I tried to explain to her that this would mean she'd miss most of the red carpet. It took 4 or 5 rounds of saying, "The Oscars start at 5, but the red carpet starts at 3." Each time she'd look at me blankly - figuring out days and times have been a struggle as of late, as is making certain decisions. I suggested cancelling meditation, but she just shrugged, flipped her hands as if saying, "so-so" and said, "Can't decide."

That's when Jim piped in and said, "Bobbie with a brain from a year ago, would have said, 'It's the Oscars, don't call me, don't come by, I need to be entirely left alone to be absorbed in them."
"Oh," my mother said. "Right."
"So cancel meditation?"
"Yep," she said, to which my sister responded, "This Sunday, the Oscars is meditation."

And we were off. We managed to get the big TV working in the upstairs office and hauled Mom up there in her wheelchair.We had a big spread, a handful of guests and a large amount of anticipation. Especially given the idea that Sandra Bullock could beat Meryl Streep, and that Kathryn Bigelow cold beat out her ex-husband, the man with the biggest ego in the universe, James Cameron for Best Director. Since this column isn't exactly on the cutting edge of the news, we all know what happened. But it was still great, and I was amazed that she didn't fall asleep during any of it, and lasted until the credits rolled.

But what she kept talking about the next few days was that sweet Sandra Bullock and that shout out to her dead mother, and that great husband of hers, Jesse James, who, "had her back." His recent betrayal seems more real somehow than other celebrity scandals, as she seems like a nice, normal woman who waited until the "right" guy came along, a little later in life. I'm sure by now it's all been said, the tragedy of it and how appalling it all seems. But I think Ma summed it up the best the other day. We were taking a walk around the neighborhood, breathing in the fat, bursting Magnolia buds and admiring the daffodils.

"But they'd both stopped drinking, too" Ma said. "Just makes me so sad. And talk about the highest moment of your life and the lowest. You know, we project everything on to these people and who knows who they really are? None of them are what they seem."

And she's right, which is maybe why when certain of them fall, we are more invested, given what we've made them out to be. We just hoped these two were a little more than just a fantasy. Jesse's tears that night make so much more sense in this light, although at the time we just thought he was happy for her.

In reality, he knew this chickadee was about to spill the beans. I would have been crying too.

Don't worry, somewhere in there is a nice little red Swastika apparently not too far from
her lady parts. And under those bangs is a tag line that reads, "Pray For Us Sinners."
We'll try, Ms. "Bombshell," but I'm not making any promises.