Trapped between Typhoid Ted and two nice people close to death, I knew I'd get jittery by "Opus 17." It takes lot of effort to dodge coughing fits and seek alternate routes should Grim Reaper start singing "Oh what a night..." Dish flees in a crisis. I put off medicating until right before "Too Good to Be True" when the fidgets got too Sybil, even for me. I deftly reached into my purse, brought out my First Aid Kit, and oh-so gingerly pulled out the little white speck. The minute I put it up to my mouth it dropped into the abyss. I started laughing, thinking, Thanks, Universe. Message received. So I closed my eyes and just listened, felt so much better naturally because of that fabulous song.
More drama from the Met Gala. Gwyneth Paltrow didn't like it and now we hate her even more. Imagine, a costume party that's not FUN. Can I go in her place next year? And also, now that Randy Jackson is leaving Idol at the end of the year, I'm volunteering to replace him, with all my years of experience. Oh no, wait. I can't sit with Nicki Minaj. Mariah, yes.
Allegedly, Real Housewives of NYC have threatened to walk if they don't get gigantic paychecks. I say, Andy Cohen, drop this particular cast immediately. This past season was a big fat snore. (I'll be a housewife for free--plus 100K