LEAVE BRITNEY ALONE!

Haters gonna hate.

Once you embrace this new-age philosophy (hip-hop? It sounds hip-hop to me. But then again I thought Blondie invented rap, so don't quote me on that), life gets that much easier.

Then the Oscars happen. 
We love them.
We hate them.
We love to hate them.

I happen to love them. Granted, it's fun to pretend we're all fashion critics for one night, dishing as though we're on assignment from Star. That's not the hate I'm talking about.

I'm talking about the fun suckers.

You know the type.

They say things like, "I don't understand why everyone is *so* interested in celebrities. Their poo smells just the same as ours." (Really, fun sucker? Prove it. I like to believe it's covered in glitter and odorless.) And this: "Sewage. Raw sewage."

These fun suckers go out of their way to corral all the haters on social media just to dis a program they *claim* they would never watch. And really. Who could blame them? It's such torture to watch beautiful people parade around in drop-dead gorgeous dresses and whatever the male counterpart might be to the dress. (The correct answer is NOT messy leather tie, Quentin T).

Back in the days when my kids were younger, my husband would take them away (but never long enough. They had bath times and regular bedtimes, and I'm sure I'd barter something in exchange for NOT being the one in charge of bath on Oscar Sunday) and leave me alone with all my celebrity friends. (What's that line from Almost Famous? "They're just more ... interesting.")

Eventually I progressed into what I like to call "The Luby's years." I'd go out super early to fetch my dinner from Luby's. If you must know, it would most likely be a LuAnn with fried fish and tarter, fried okra and either mashed taters or fruit salad. Regular roll. And sometimes it would be chopped steak with natural gravy instead of the fried fish. But it was always Luby's. I'd book the television for late afternoon forward on Oscar Sunday. And I'd watch the ceremony mostly alone. With occasional interruptions by the penis people (my family).

Now we're into the party years. One boy's away at college. One is well into high school. My husband and I dress up, nosh a bit and sit in front of the big screen at a local movie theatre on Oscar Sunday. (I feel much better about clapping in the movie theatre when someone I love wins an award than I do alone in my living room.)

I feel sorry for the haters on Oscar night because it's really fun. And even though my date isn't keen on the Oscars, we're somehow able to have some bonding over the hours-long spectacle. Our conversation this year flowed something like this:

Me: Do you think they oil Halle Berry's skin to get it to glow like that?
Him: That's a job I'd like to have.
Me: Ummm... me too?!

Then later during a commercial break:

Me: OMG! Jennifer Aniston uses the same skin care line that I use.
Him: You should use lots of it then.

"And all to soon the end is gonna come without a warning. And you have to just go home."

Then Oscar Monday arrives. The haters have forgotten all about the Oscars. They find a new cause to latch onto (because that's how they roll), most likely the horsemeat in Ikea's Swedish Meatballs. And once again, I'm all "Leave Britney alone!" because if it's true that horsemeat is in Ikea's meatballs, I only have one thing to say: horsemeat is tasty and it's better for you than the glass shards in your Lean Cuisine.

Hate away, fun sucker...