"he didn't even get nominated."
"jeff so and so."
"that is the guy from Dumb and Dumber, mom."
"you know who I mean."
I do know who she means. Mulling over each award, recalling the recipients outward appearance, a running commentary begins. My brain works to recall the movies being awarded, both by my mother and the Academy. I haven't seen most of them and don't think I want to. The names of the ones I want to see pour off her tongue like bitters.
Like acid dripping onto the hood of a car, metal bubbles and oozes. Puffs of acrid smoke rise up from the burn, filling the air with the smell of chemicals and suffering. Pictures of burnt Oscars and charred couture gowns fill my head. She is talking.
"She is obviously on drugs and he is so skinny, so I bet he is, too. And they are getting another kid. Who would want 7 kids? How do they take care of them?"
I am wishing we were talking about people we both actually know, that the concern for children's safety and drug habits were reserved for the people I see every Sunday night. Reality close instead of bubbles floating far off, untouchable.
"A lot of people take drugs, Mom. Even famous people. They are all junkies. Half the people in this grocery store are prescribed something and no one is questioning whether or not they can raise 7 kids."
The thought could become an obsession, but it won't. There isn't enough space in my head or time in my day...