Celebrity Dreams

Though an insomniac, I tend to fall asleep listening to Kelsey Grammer. Frasier talks and talks, then Niles talks, then Roz, then Daphne, hijinks ensue and I'm off to snoozetown. I can blame my dream on seeing bikini shots of Kathy Griffin (well done, girl--if only I looked that smokin' at 40 but my derriere falls out of anything that isn't Spanx). The story begins: I'm like TMZ and stalking celebs, going to their houses. So uncharacteristic of me. Finally, I get to Kathy Griffin's place which is a tiny one-story dump. I go up to the screen door and there she is, lying on the couch and watching television. "Kathy?" I say, opening the door (the audacity). She gets up and I hesitate. She looks tired so I say, "It's okay, you don't have to give me an autograph." She responds with a "thanks" and flops back down on the sofa. As I leave, I become enraged. It would have taken her thirty seconds to sign my piece of paper. Did she? No. Then again, I barged in on her private property, which is worse. I woke up bummed, realizing that not once have I ever asked a celebrity for an autograph nor am I about to start. But I take them if they are donated to the ever-grateful Dish of plenty.

Speaking of autographs, one of the most important ones I own is that of Gramma Dish who is up in Heaven crocheting granny squares, baking pies, overcooking vegetables, and making everyone feel special. Today, she would be 98.