PUBLISHED MONTHLY
EST. May 2000 (AD)

 
 

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I'd Like to Thank...

By Pamela Miller

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Oh, my goodness. I really wasn't expecting this. Just give me a few

minutes to catch my breath. (I have asthma; this may take a bit.) I can't believe I just won an Academy Award®. They usually don't give these things to social workers. Frankly, they never give exciting awards to social workers. I do get these $10 Wal-Mart gift cards at work for good customer service, but this is a bit, uh, well, better.

This is an evening of firsts. I've also never walked on a red carpet or been asked about my clothing. Tonight I'm wearing Land's End, and you can purchase both my turtleneck and my cords for under $30 on their overstocks page. I'd like to thank Harry Winston Diamonds for understanding that I don't care if this is the Academy Awards or an Inaugural Ball. I don't wear jewelry.

I'd like to thank the people who came up with the new category Best Actor in a Documentary. Since I didn't even know I was performing, these last few months have been quite a shock. Sure, I noticed that there was a camera crew; I thought they were just from the news. I never saw the film until after I was nominated. It played for one weekend in a Los Angeles art house and was pirated by some kid with a camera phone. Really, I think someone at YouTube could have called after it was downloaded 247,000 times. The next thing I know, I'm getting raves in Entertainment Weekly. According to the guy who informed me he was my publicist, my performance was the type of naturalistic acting someone usually spends years trying to achieve in acting school. Really, my friends say it's just me acting like an idiot.

I'd like to thank the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences. I'm planning to send everyone a thank you note. My mom would kill me if I didn't, so I'm going to need everyone's home addresses. It would also help if you provided me with a self-addressed stamped envelope. I'd hate to point out anything unpleasant, but most of you spent more on your boutonnieres than I earn in six months.

My friends have always been supportive. For the record, I wasn't paid for my performance. While I love everyone in my life, please stop calling and asking for my autograph on a check made out to cash. That's a mistake you only make once.

It would have been nice to share this evening with someone other than my mother. My dream boyfriend is Dr. Gregory House from the show House. He wasn't available, since he's fictional, and the real guy is married. Truthfully, I have a thing for flawed individuals with brilliant minds. You can reach me through my publicist.

I'd like to thank my best friend Jamie. If it weren't for her, I'd probably be home, pretending this nightmare was finally over. As long as I have your attention, please allow me to share what really happened. I recognize that my version of life is subjective, and there is an inherent need for people to find logic in their actions. This is not a defense, but rather an explanation.

A pipe burst in my bedroom closet, ruining all my clothing. It was winter, and I was cold, so I decided to act like a grown up and put on the warmest outfit I could salvage for my trip to Home Depot. The only thing that survived the deluge was my Tweety Bird costume. I don't own an umbrella because I live in Phoenix. So, I used what was handy: my life-sized blow-up doll. It never occurred to me to remove the rubber manacles from the doll; I was just going to the store.

So I marched through Home Depot holding my doll, looking for a few buckets and the rug shampooer. When the store manager approached me, I did my best to convey that this was really an awful day. Maybe he would have taken me seriously if I'd left the head of the costume in the car. He thought I was a performance artist or a canary's rights activist. I was cold and wet, and the manager was really cute. He was standing in front of the kitchen remodeling section, and the teal Sausalito tiles really set off his eyes. He had this great cane and this sardonic wit. So I asked him out, which he interpreted as being solicited by a sex industry professional. Now I ask you, how many prostitutes walk the aisles of Home Depot dressed as Tweety Bird?

Well, you witnessed the results of this colossal misunderstanding.

I'd like to dedicate this award to my mother. I love you, mom.

Copyright © 2007 by Pamela Miller

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Miller saves the world by day, writes by night, and wishes she could find a hotter place to live than Phoenix. The world is simply too cold.

OTHER HW ARTICLES BY PAMELA MILLER