CREDIT: Quvenzhané Wallis’ dog purse at the Oscars
I find the Oscars rather dull. Maybe its because I have always seen only one of the movies nominated. Regardless, I always claim that it’s the best movie nominated. I don’t inform people that I’m not qualified to make that decision. I don’t need to, I’m American, our decision-making abilities aren’t hampered by trivial things like adequate information and facts. But this year the Oscars were special. They weren’t special because I had seen more than one film. I hadn’t. Or because I enjoyed the Boob Song. I didn’t. They were special because of Quvenzhané Wallis’ dog purse. I have always wanted a dog purse. I asked for one when I was seven. Instead of a dog purse I was given a bunny backpack. Mainly because, as Santa condescendingly informed me in a letter written in my aunt’s handwriting, he thought the bunny backpack suited better a girl who referred to herself in the third-person as Isabunny. I wanted one when I was 18. Everyone thought I was being ironic. I pretended I was, but secretly I wanted that damn dog purse. My love of that dog purse was revived last Sunday and lucky for me Amazon stocks them.
D: The snow melting
I thought I would be ecstatic, or, as I am not much for strong emotions, at least pleased, when the snow finally melted. But, lo and behold, I’m a little sad, not overwhelmingly sad, just moderately so. I’m not sad because I liked the snow. I’m sad because I liked talking about how much I didn’t like the snow.
“Isabella, how are you doing?”
“Terrible, there’s snow. Have I told you how much I don’t like the snow?”
“Yes, you have.”
“Well let me tell you about it some more.”
“I really must go.”
And talking about how much you don’t like snow that’s already melted seems a little far removed like gossiping about your second cousin’s boyfriend’s brother who showers in a wet-suit. But on the plus side, since I’m what you might call a cynoptimist—a cynical optimist, yes, I just made that up—now that the snow has melted I am free to wear all my hole-infested shoes. Or at least the ones my mother hasn’t tossed out.
There are a lot of truly terrible months in the calendar. I would say out of the 12, about four are good, three are passable, and five are utterly useless. But that’s just a rough estimate. There’s January, which has the great misfortune to come after December. January’s like December’s annoying sister. Whenever people see January they just tell her how epic December was. There’s also September, which has the great misfortune to be the start of school year. September’s like a rodeo-themed high school party where you drink Gatorade spiked with Snapple. But February’s the absolute worst. February looks like Rush Limbaugh, acts like Kim Kardashian, and is about as interesting as a geometry class in German. February is like crying in a shower that has run out of hot water. February is like eating cereal with chopsticks. February is like your aunt accidently killing your bunny and then buying you a new one and you not noticing even though they looked completely different. “But Isabella, February has Valentine’s Day.” No, Valentine’s Day cannot redeem February. That would be like saying Kim-Jong-il had good taste in movies and therefore was a stand-up guy.