The Annual Awards for Actually Important Things

My sister Lisa called me at three in the morning, which meant she was either dying or had just watched the Academy Awards. "Did you see what that actress was wearing?" she asked, her voice trembling with what I can only describe as recreational outrage. "Two hundred thousand dollars for a dress she'll wear once, while my kid's math teacher is buying pencils with her own money."

I hadn't watched the ceremony. I was busy helping my neighbor Mrs. Goldstein, who had spent the evening attempting to teach her cat Moishe to use the toilet instead of a litter box. The project wasn't going well, but it still felt more worthwhile than watching Hollywood's self-perpetuating cycle of industry celebration, where people who play pretend for a living congratulate themselves for playing pretend particularly well that year.

"You know what we should do?" Lisa continued, undeterred by my silence. "We should start our own awards show. But flip it. Make the real heroes feel like royalty for once. We could call it the Actually Important Things Awards."

My sister has a history of three AM ideas that sound brilliant in the moment but reveal themselves to be completely insane by breakfast. Like the time she suggested we solve homelessness by converting empty Hollywood Hills mansions into shelters, pointing out that the budget of just three superhero movies could house every homeless person in Los Angeles. "Those movies didn't even have good endings," she'd argued.

But this idea stuck with me. I imagined the red carpet, but instead of skeletal actresses draped in borrowed diamonds, we'd have Mrs. Peterson, the third-grade teacher, arriving in a Rolls Royce, wearing a custom-designed gown and $50,000 worth of jewelry that she'd get to keep. "This necklace," she'd tell reporters, "is worth three years of classroom supplies."

The gift bags would make headlines: "Teachers, Nurses, and Firefighters Receive $10,000 Cash, Luxury Vacation Packages, and Lifetime Supply of Actually Useful Items." Meanwhile, any actors in attendance would receive a tote bag containing a single apple, a hand-written thank you note, and a $25 gift card to Target – just like what teachers typically get for Teacher Appreciation Week.

"And the Actually Important Thing goes to... Janet Martinez, the stay-at-home mom who successfully managed to keep three children alive while simultaneously preventing them from burning down the house or eating tide pods!" The audience would go wild, their applause no longer muffled by oven mitts because they'd all been given personal chefs for the year as part of their nomination package.

The categories would be revolutionary. "Best Performance in a Crisis While Severely Underpaid" would go to every public school teacher in America. "Outstanding Achievement in Saving Lives While Politicians Debate Your Funding" would be awarded to firefighters who battled climate-change-fueled wildfires. The postal workers who delivered mail through natural disasters would get lifetime achievement awards, presented to them by former actors who now work minimum wage jobs "to help them stay grounded."

The "In Memoriam" segment would feature not just Mrs. Goldstein's previous cats, but also all the dreams and aspirations of Hollywood executives who thought the world needed another $300 million superhero movie instead of, say, feeding hungry children.

I pitched this idea to Hugh later that week. He was sitting on our couch, watching a replay of some awards show where celebrities were thanking their agents for helping them pretend to be other people convincingly enough to win a golden statue. "Did you know," he said, "that the budget for this ceremony could fund several schools for a year?"

"The problem," Hugh continued, "is that real heroes don't have time to sit through a four-hour ceremony. They're too busy doing actually important things."

He had a point. Mrs. Peterson would probably spend the entire show grading papers, even in her designer gown. The stay-at-home moms would be breaking up fights over who got to play with the iPad first. The firefighters would keep running out every time the alarm rang, which would really mess up the show's pacing.

Still, I like to imagine it sometimes. The winners wouldn't thank their agents or their personal trainers. They'd thank the coffee maker that kept them going through night shifts at the hospital, the reliable babysitter who made it possible for them to work three jobs, and whatever deity invented dry shampoo. Their speeches wouldn't be cut off by orchestral music but by the sound of reality – a baby crying or a smoke detector going off because someone tried to make toast.

The after-party wouldn't feature champagne and caviar but rather box wine and whatever casserole could be thrown together with ingredients found in the back of the freezer. And instead of trading industry gossip, guests would exchange tips about removing grape juice stains from carpet and dealing with the DMV. Any actors in attendance would be required to serve the drinks and clean up afterward, for minimum wage, of course.

Lisa still brings up the idea sometimes, usually after reading about another $200 million movie that could have funded healthcare for an entire small town. "We could at least have gift bags," she'll say. "But instead of skincare products worth thousands of dollars, we'd fill them with practical things like grocery store gift cards and good pairs of socks."

I have to admit, it doesn't sound half bad. Though I suspect Mrs. Goldstein's cat would still steal the show – which is fine, because at least Moishe never needed a 20-million-dollar trailer with a personal chef and aromatherapist while learning to use the toilet.