"A nice pair of Jimmy Choos never hurt anyone," I tell my friend Denny, but I take the precaution of having the soles rubbered for slip-resistance. (Faith is fine, but the Lord helps those who help themselves, right?)
I'll be performing "That's How You Know," one of three Oscar-nominated songs written by Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz for Disney's frothy fairy tale Enchanted. As Tilda Swinton collects the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for Michael Clayton, the backstage cavern turns into an anthill of scurrying crew members preparing for my number, which is being staged in full-on Broadway showstopper style. Joining me on the sweeping two-story set is a village-size cast including half a dozen dancing brides niftily accessorized with dancing grooms, quick-stepping waiters, acrobatically inclined construction workers, happy townies, multiculti mariachis, and (putting us indisputably over the top) a marching band. Against a miniature backdrop of Manhattan, a battalion of gorgeous guys will form sort of a hunkpowered elevator and pass me bodily off an ornate, ten-foot-tall bridge.
A great song. A magical night. Gown by Armani and travel by hunk-o-vator. I am in grave danger of thinking it doesn't get any better than this when someone tells me, "George Clooney is on the front row." I don't ask who else is on the front row. Is there anyone else? George Clooney needs to know that he and I are perfect for each other. We would be instantly matched on eHarmony.com. I can already see us in that ad campaign, oozing adorable, giddily telling the story of our first kiss. Happily ever after, cue Chaka Khan, roll credits. He is my Mr. Right. The problem is, I'm still in love with Mr. Writer, a man who is more likely to show up in a "Falls on Ass" video than an "Everlasting Love" commercial. Truth be told, eHarmony would not encourage me to share so much as a cab uptown with this guy. But of course this is precisely what makes him irresistible.
Never for a moment did I even fantasize that Aaron Sorkin was Mr. Right. From the day we met, he was Mr. Sets My Brain on Fire, then he evolved for a long, lovely spell into Mr. Makes Me Sing REO Speedwagon in the Shower, but there was always an undercurrent of Mr. You Are Seriously Pushing Your Luck Here, and I eventually found myself doing the ol' step-ball-change with Mr. Why Am I Banging My Head Against This Wall? Instead of coming up with a cutesy Hollywood powercouple name for us -- "Sorkoweth" or "Chenorkin" -- the tabloids wearily call us "on again/off again," which means we periodically put each other through a wrenching spate of separation, but I keep reinstating him as Mr. Might Actually Be Worth the Trouble. We are now "off again," and it's painful to not share this amazing moment with him. I love the man, and whatever happens or doesn't happen between us in the long run, I always will. "It's in God's hands," I tell my father whenever he shakes his head about it.
The only thing I can say with utter certainty is that come what may, my feelings for George Clooney will remain unsullied. Whatever curtains rise and fall, the "Kristlooney" dream lives on.
Hosting the Oscars tonight is Jon Stewart, who's been onstage riffing about the bitter writers' strike that was recently resolved. His wry, wisenheimer humor is good medicine for our cruel but tenderhearted community.