The Red Carpet. In My Head.

Let’s say I’m famous. I’m part Cate, part Kate, and part, well, part Katie (Blanchett, Winslet and Holmes). And I need to spin a little on a red carpet (that’s actually magenta) while making small talk with Ryan Seacrest, who, appropriately, is a small man. I tower over him in my heels. Which are not comfortable.

What to wear? Such a dilemma. I wouldn’t have a stylist. Because all the stylists in town would be scared of me. I would not be fun to style. I have decisiveness issues. It's also far more impressive if you look good independent of a fashion "expert." So I would phone up a couple designer friends and dress myself.

This would be my short list:

Elie Saab

Temperley

Monique Lhuillier

The goal is best-dressed in every magazine, from the legitimate publications to the trashy tabloids. This is an important victory, as I’ll probably lose the actual award to someone who played a dying transgendered German-Chinese country singer in some epic Scorsese film.

See what happens when the red carpet doesn't happen? I end up amusing myself while hopped up on dark chocolate and Earl Grey. Here's hoping the Oscars go on. For all your sakes.