by Chrysa Smith

Oh, I can’t believe it! I don’t know what to say! Actually, I do have a little something prepared just in case. I’d like to thank the academy for this honor. Wow! Best Writer for ‘Excellence in the Suburban Housewives’ category.

There it is. You just got a sneak peek into some fantasy daydream I had the other night while watching bits and pieces of The Emmys.

Wouldn’t it be nice to just be recognized? For just one night, why can’t Harry Winston lend me the jewels? And Marchesa or Armani, tailor me up a long, funky dress so tight, that it makes me shuffle across the floor like Morticia Adams. And the spanx? Well, I could probably afford to outfit myself from neck to foot in those.
So many people marvel at these award shows—hosting ‘red carpet’ parties for a girls get-together. It is a fun idea. But might it be even funnier and more fun to host your own red carpet party where you get to dress up and really walk down the red carpet? I can see it now. Carmen, MaryFran and Pat sit by clapping as I shuffle by in my mile-high Christian Leboutian shoes and red Marchesa gown. Hair swept up into a firm beehive and held together by a gallon of sculpting mouse, I tout some dangling diamonds from Cartier–both on my ears and hanging from my neck. As I’m about to give my speech, I turn, weighed down by the amount of baubles ‘n beads and catching my heel on the bottom hem of the floor-sweeping gown, I hit the floor, face down. Carmen, MaryFran and Pat call the medics and there goes the drama of it all. My 15 minutes of fame vanishes like the wind.
I only hope my fellow bloggers do better during their turn–which they may get at next year’s Oscar party at the Smith house.

Got a red carpet fantasy of your own? Please strut it by us.