Quick Hits

Kirstey Alley was on Oprah to inform us that she's fat. Kirstey's ankles started swelling on Cheers twenty years ago and I'm trying to hold back my shock over this latest pronouncement. Oprah's fat (though I am loving her straight long hair), Kirstey's fat. It kills me how the usual suspects pop up every couple years to remind us of their existence. Stop thinking about your fat. We only care if you're anorexic.

Thank you, Joe Biden, for scaring me sheissless. No flying, no subways, no boning up on American history. He did say he was a rabble-rouser, so he can't help the diarrhea of the mouth. Sometimes the diarrhea is severe, consisting of uncontrollable squirting. Can you imagine NYC not using the subways? The city would shut down. Though, Dish would gladly stay home and get fat like Kirstey. It's something to aspire to.

Tyra Banks's stalker was found guilty. If you've watched that episode of Will & Grace where Jack stalks Kevin Bacon, she is lucky to have a stalker much less a crappy talk show.

Nice gesture of the day: Hugh Jackman buys his fans breakfast. What a cuddly, cute Wolverine he is. Hugh seems like an affable sweetheart. If the swine flu weren't running rampant, I'd go see Wolverine (and secretly lust over Liev Schreiber *sniff*). Go, Hugh. I want you to rule the world.

Dish is turning over a new leaf--doing yoga, running twice as much, wearing contact lenses, and making an effort with hair. Constantly thinking: 74 hours until Desperate Housewives.

Chocolate = Love

It's okay, I've got Godiva now. My box of eight truffles arrived, now half gone. My hips are spreading like a California wildfire but, screw it, I had a mammogram today and my rack was inconvenienced for 5 minutes.

Today, I have to address Ricky Gervais's latest comedy DVD, the one where he wears a crown and cape. Regarding RG, I must quote Annette Bening from The American President as said to Michael Douglas, "I am in love with you. I'm sure of it." He's short, chubby and with girlfriend, but he tickles my funny bone. Well, he looks a little like my grandmother, so I won't go into the Oedipal implications. Like Bill Murray, I generally never laugh in comedies unless surrounded by people (just for show). I appreciate humor and Ricky delights me. My one complaint: the DVD is a little over an hour. Kathy Griffin did two hours of comedy without a breath in between. Perhaps this was edited down?

Exactly 96 hours until Gale Harold returns to Desperate Housewives.

Dish's Overactor of the Year

Goes to Zeljko Ivanek, on Damages. He drawls like a mint julep drinking, porch swinging cute as a bug's eye lawyer from the South. And I thought James Carville was irritating in his own loveable way. On the Glenn Close Show (because everyone else is boring), Dish can smell the acting stinkiness like a wet cat fart. While he must be a nice person, I'm calling him on overly ponderous scenery chewing. Please don't hate me, I felt this way during Pillowman on Broadway, though perhaps it was because I was wearing Jeff-Goldblum-rose-colored glasses. A tall man is the key to Dish's heart.

In other news, Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick are having twin girls via surrogate. I thought they were history but maybe twins will keep their love alive (cause it won't be sex). Thusly the SS Parker-Brod keeps tooting along this wavy ocean called life. Oh hell, I know nothing about these people. Blessings on them both.

Special shout-out to Dishmama who urges me to be less gloomy. So here goes with Dish Cheer: sunflowers greeting the morning, kittens licking their paws, chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream, babies in flower pots, Bo the First Dog shitting in the Rose Garden.

Vacation's All I Ever Wanted

It's nice to take a few days off. Yes, I'm going stir crazy, mostly from work and staring at these four walls. I tried to count how many times Dr. Phil said "panties" on today's show about the Craigslist Killer. Am I a prude or is "panties" totally improper and not an official term? The more he said it, the more I wanted to see the visuals he had in his head. Panties.

After running 3.5 miles, weights, cleaning, salvaging 2 sundresses from my Salvation Army pile, and buying leggings (I have to do everything Lindsay Lohan does, except drink and date stringy girls, which leaves nothing except the leggings), I'm done. Maybe I could start Season 5 of QAF and skip to the Cyndi Lauper episode. The big excitement of the day: a friend might have seen Parker Posey today but he gave me no details. Panties.

Huh?

How did Beyonce's movie Obsessed place #1 at the box office? It looks like ass.

Liberty Ride

Today marks a sad one-year anniversary but I'm burying myself in QAF (and finding out if Jennifer Aniston and Sharon Stone have had recent plastic surgery or botox), where Brian does the Liberty Ride on one testicle, a bloken clavicle, and plenty of gumption. I love the line, "Your prophecies of doom only incite me more." Who else but Brian Kinney could say this?

My thoughts for the weekend--I've unlocked Twilight's popularity. How great is it that even if you're sulky, depressed, and mediocre, everyone wants you. Bella isn't exactly vivacious yet teen boys fall at her feet, not to mention hot vampires. Both her parents adore her and a dangerous vampire tracker singles her out--above everyone else--to kill. What woman doesn't want to be singled out? In there, too, is the popular romantic rape fantasy, where the hero can't stop himself from sinking his teeth into her flesh. Edward often professes fear that he can't stop and she doesn't run screaming in the other direction. Thank god, he does stop because otherwise this special girl would be a dead duck and we really need another mopey teenager in the world. Just in the nick of time, he saves her at least three times, which allows her to basically lie there before prom (I say, just lie there with beer and condoms on a mattress in a van DURING prom). The story also makes statuatory rape and pedophilia acceptable since a 108-year-old vampire can have sex with a 17-year-old girl. Or at least make out a little.

Despite this, I wouldn't mind a savior "teenage" vampire. I've done worse.

Thank You For Being a Friend

Dish celebrates the life of Bea Arthur and blessings on her coming and going. Maude, The Golden Girls, Mame, what wasn't there to love about this tall, boozy-voiced broad? It's shocking that she's now gone.

You know when you do something that you know will open a can of worms but do it anyway? Yeah, that's me, though I'm counting on the universe to lead me back to healthy behavior. Am trying to add purpose to my life and reverse my karma by doing as many favors as possible (if you haven't received a hat, booties, baby blankets, house-cleaning, or a scarf, just wait), though this often runs counter to rage at being a pushover. We're all a work in progress.

The celebrity du jour: the Swine Flu. When I heard of a potential pandemic, I immediately thought I might have symptoms. Then again, it's hot out and I ran 3.5 miles. My back aches because I'm not supposed to run and the chills come from the ice mask I placed my eyes to reduce puffiness. Any future queasiness comes from inhaling this afternoon's duck fat, sauerkraut, and sausage -- typical piggy Dish fare. Work in progress.

Happy Birthday...

...to Shirley MacLaine and Barbra Streisand! To celebrate such mighty births, I had to take the day off, though Dish on vacation is much like Dish at work: wake up, feed cat, pray he doesn't barf before I walk out the door, work, eat, work, gym, work, sleep.

I watched Dr. Phil. He married a couple on the show, with Robin dabbing her eyes with her French manicure. Dish might have shed a tear. I'm trying not to watch so many screens, raided Dishmama's refrigerator instead. Eating mother's leftovers is much like ordering take-out and prevents my random purchases of salami and Cheetos. 10 days until Gale Harold's return to Desperate Housewives, secretly rewatching Twilight tomorrow, this time alone so I won't have to laugh jadedly throughout at the silly love-struck teenagers.

Yeah, not so interesting on vacation.

I've Been Infected

I tried reading Twilight last summer but found it boring. Today, I watched the movie. It's beautifully shot but the dreadful acting gave me church giggles. The problem is: I can't stop thinking about the movie, the story. Yes, the vampire--a boy with greasy hair, seriously pale skin, Ronald McDonald lips, and a nose someone stepped on--bit me in the neck three times. I went to a friend and asked if I could borrow her copy a second time. I'm told this affliction is common among women my age.

Just finished Perez Hilton's book--very intelligent. I need to go hunt celebrities this weekend. Where to go? I see enough without trying (more than enough would require tranquilizers) but I never go out in search. Time to turn over a new leaf. What else am I going to do with my free time--read?

Doing Damage

Jeremy Irons was in a movie called Damage where he boinks his son's girlfriend, Juliette Binoche. This flick made me laugh because their lovemaking is so intense, they put their hands over each other eyes. Who does that? Especially when you're boinking Jeremy Irons, though his cigarette cough might grate on me. I'll take ear plugs but he's still pretty to look at (for an OMP). Or maybe he thought Juliette Binoche was hideous. Bottom line: Passion makes you act freaky. So anyway, Jeremy was in Reversal of Fortune with my favorite scenery chewer and grand actress Glenn Close, who is on a TV show called Damages, which I'm watching now. It's so juicy and throughout Glenn always looks and acts her best with her gray suits, striped shirts, sparkling earrings, perfectly feathered blond hair, and a work ethic to rival Hillary's. Today, Glenn is my life.

On this Earth Day, I'm eating several leaves of lettuce to celebrate the fruits of nature, planning to see that movie Earth--elated not to have another Morgan Freeman voiceover though James Girl Jones is #2 on my "list." Dish is also thanking the great cosmic goddess to be single again. Superman (Exbf18) might have been serial killer strange to the point where Dish dodged a bullet. From now on, I'll focus all adoration on my imaginary boyfriend, who does me no harm. I can turn him on and off with a flick of my remote.

Star Sighting

6:25pm, 15th and 7th Avenue: Clad in my fat-ass jeans, I ambled down 7th Avenue with my black raincoat flitting with the wind like a superhero cape. For fear of running into exes, I glared at the ground until my nerve endings came to life. I looked up and noticed a big familiar bear bounding toward me. He was super-tall, super-boyish in a tee-shirt and hoodie--none other than Nuke Laloosh (aka Tim Robbins)! I felt instantly better about humanity. After he passed, I whipped out my cell phone to make a note to self. As I spoke to myself ("Just saw T.R. and he totally has a belly and I heart him!"), I turned and he was right behind me. No doubt mesmerized by my strange beauty, Tim Robbins was following me. I let him pass and made sure he wasn't following me by following him two blocks until he pulled a sneaky move to go into Chase. My only disappointment was seeing the barely-there hippie ponytail held by a lowly rubber band. Considering the breadth of TR's work and talent, I can forgive.

Chariots of Fabulous!

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A Little Romance

I'm not sure why I watch The Wedding Date every time it's on TV. The premise makes no sense. An insecure mess, Debra Messing cashes out her 401K to hire a male whore who just happens to be Mr. Perfect (more like Mr. Syphillis). She's too crazed to attend her double-whorish-sister's wedding alone. Male-prostitute-on-stilts Dermot Mulroney swaggers and flashes dark, sexy looks, making Debra all quivery inside her fantastic wardrobe. She's clumsy, mussed up, awkward, ya know, like EVERY SINGLE ROMANTIC COMEDY HEROINE. Somehow, the key players around them are British, imbuing a little Four Weddings and a Funeral pretention but without the characterization. The goddess Holland Taylor is woefully underused and I can never take Debra seriously when she boinks someone (her garters and hose in A Walk in the Clouds sent me screeching) in the same way Julia Roberts rolling around in bed (Sleeping with the Enemy} renders me uncomfortable. Debra will always be Grace to me, which I'm sure she'd hate. Despite not finding anything realistic in this movie, I'm drawn to it. I know you're thinking I have become a little Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory.

In other news, I took a nap this afternoon and dreamt that I had an in-depth discussion about Brett Michaels as a celebrity. Not sure why I destroy more brain cells on that topic either.

Under the Wire

Almost midnight. Dish has been party central but never too busy to think about the stars. Today, I needed to iron so I watched The Love Guru, which stunk almost as hard as Glitter--though Mariah entertains me for the wrong reasons. Love when she has that sideways ponytail and thinks she's all hip. Dishmama used to do that to my hair when I was two and it worked for me. In The Love Guru, Mike Meyers stars as Austin Powers who acts as a Deepak Chopra knockoff (overstepping); Jessica Alba just smiled in a disposable role as the hot young love interest to a much older and unattractive man (typical!); Justin Timberlake played a character who had a big shlong (exciting); Ben Kingsley was kinda funny mostly because he was cross-eyed; Mini Me was mercilessly ridiculed with short jokes; and Stephen Colbert couldn't help but sparkle no matter what stupid words were given to him. Though I was mildly entertained in some areas, thank goodness I was ironing otherwise I would have turned it off.

So that's the weekend so far. I'm gazing at my homemade Gale Harold coaster, who has a little splotch of latte on his forehead, and counting the days until his return to Desperate Housewives. Can you tell I'm desperate?

Making My Brown Eyes Blue--And Not Just From Cataracts

You think Dish is all about TV, movies and stars. Well, I'm not. I'm an intellectual. My glasses are on, spine straight and I'm focused on Tina Brown's informative tome, The Diana Chronicles. It's important for me to know what Prince Charles likes when he orgasms (to be called "Arthur"). When I look at this pic, I think, "What was she thinking?" It's like Beauty and the Man-Who-Went-Through-a Pencil-Sharpener. Though I did have a little crush on Arthur when I was 11. Immediately after I finish this tacky tale, I'll launch into Perez Hilton's Red Carpet Suicide, which will enlighten me in a literary way about entertainment. My fluff reading is the Huffington Post's book about blogging, as if I need to know anything else.

So yes, I'm a great reader and certainly not playing Dateline (I miss Stone Phillips) in the background to learn about that Michigan woman who disappeared. Not even a little.

Boyle Me Over

I'll rehash what everyone is talking about: the marvel that is Susan Boyle. During Dish's bad week, I kept seeing this frizzy haired woman (who needed a huge eyebrow tweeze) on a Simon Cowell show. Then this morning, I succumbed to curiosity and played the snippet. Soon after she started singing, tears spilled down my cheeks (though this often happens when I'm sleep deprived). Not many people can make Simon Cowell smile like that. She was otherwordly, with the kind of confidence formed from spending a LOT of time in her own skin, pushing past the endless stream of crap, and just waiting for her moment. I hope the rest of her life is spent singing and in the spotlight (however she wants that to happen). My fear is that media scrutiny will pressure her into tweezing those eyebrows, getting a facelift and liposuction. Her luster would be lost if she changed anything. Okay, maybe just the eyebrow tweeze. She is just perfect. Brenda Blethyn or Shirley Valentine in the movie version? No wait, this is Hollywood. It would be Madonna.

Entry

Dear Diary,

Went to Victoria's Secret--check
Locked myself out of building by leaving keys in mailbox--check
Took a moment of silence to pray that the Star's claim of Angelina's pregnancy is false--check
Ate 5 Butterfingers Easter Eggs--check
At gym, ran into mild celebrity who once checked out my online personal ad--check
Didn't spend a dime on food--check
About to watch Mistress/Goddess Kathy Griffin--check
Watched The Real Housewives of New York last night and was HORRIFIED--check--okay, I'll list the following outrages:

1. Jill bought a 16K purse the same shade of lipstick I used to wear in the 70s (yes, I looked like a 10 y.o streetwalker). Then she got a new SUV--all for her birthday. I used to like her but now I think she's got her head up her ass.
2. I signed off two weeks ago on LuAnne--the pity for her impending divorce forgotten--when she asked a group of underprivileged schoolchildren if they knew what a "countess" was and then told an overweight girl/aspiring model that she needed to lose weight.
3. Kelly was never my favorite because she can't speak ("To be honest with you...", "Honestly..."), her skin is strange, and she picks fights where none are needed. Last night's ridiculousness had her showing off how she likes to run in the streets, being "out there", clad in jog-wear, hair flowing all over AND JOGGING IN FRONT OF SLOWLY TRAILING CARS!!! If Dish did that, she'd be run over in two seconds! Is this New York? More like Fantasy Land!
4. Ramona is batsh*t crazy and mean, the girl who's friends with you, then stabs you in the eye with a fork.
5. Alex, I might be able to handle since she's smart.
6. My money is on Bethenny, who seems to work like a dog. Though if rumors are true that she's dating A-Rod, I'm done.

I say, there should be a new show: The Real Women of New York Who Live on Planet Earth and Don't Cultivate Tired Stereotypes of High School Bitches We're So Over.

The Stars Are Aligning

So many cosmic events:

Mel Gibson divorces.
Candy Spelling writes another attention hogging open letter to Tori in the same second that her daughter's book lands on the shelves.
Lindsay and Samantha break up.
The President acquires a new gorgeous dog (Did we ever think he'd get a scruffy mutt?).
Tori Spelling gets her photo snapped, revealing how frighteningly thin she is. I want to be her friend and give her some of my Easter candy.

The most heinous crime of all:

ASS LIPS POSES FOR PLAYBOY!!!

I would go and celebrate a forty-five-year-old woman flashing her special gifts but Ass Lips has had too much work done. On Extra, her cheek implants practically knocked out the glass in the camera.

The Lady and the Tramp

Heidi Klum's ex-dog finally made peace with me--not piss. The little powder puff bounded onto the elevator and put her paw on my thigh. I smiled at her, she panted back. I scratched her sheeplike fur without fear. This is the end of her wizzing on my doorstep.

Speaking of dogs--ladies, if you're unattached, stay indoors because OMP Mel Gibson is single again. Remember when he was desirable? Around Braveheart, the crazy leaked out. His Jesus movie made torture a little too homoerotic and the crazy leaked out even more. Around What Women Want, I started to feel embarrassed and his arrest was pure comedy. It's a sad downward spiral where he needs to hibernate, learn how to be a loving and tolerant human being, and re-emerge enlightened. Would that he could return to The Year of Living Dangerously genius.

(How much do you wanna bet he had sex with Britney Spears when he was supposedly "helping her" through a rough time? Dish sees the evil in everything.)

Reality is the New Skank

I've fallen prey to bad television this week with Rock of Love, Real Housewives of Orange County and New York, and previews of that new show The Cougar, where a forty-year-old tries to look like a twenty-five-year-old with leatherish miniskirt, overflowing top and dyed-to-excess blond hair. I'm wondering: where are the stylists, the libraries, the elegance? Reality shows are all about showing the train wreck. So, my perception is that real housewives wear overbright colors, fake tans, and pretend to work. You can't get in the door without a boob job, back-stabbing loyalty, and a thong. They can't speak, discuss, converse or argue. On Rock of Love, if you can do a striptease while ironing Brett's clothes, you're in. If you do it drunk with several wardrobe malfunctions, even better.

Of course, the contestants want notoriety. If I'd been publicly dumped by The Bachelor, the last thing I'd do is go on Dancing with the Stars--courageous but desperate to be noticed. Wouldn't it nice to see someone a little more serene, smaller boobs, can iron and starch without dancing, reads for pleasure instead of doing shots (or can do both). Such a tedious and obvious argument and would probably make for bad television...I haven't seen The Cougar. She may have memorized the table of elements, in which case, I'm in.

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.

Good Friday

I'd like to wish a Happy Birthday to my favorite lardass, Steven Seagal! He acts, he sings, he kicks butt, he sires tons of children, he meditates. To honor his beloved fatness I'm watching Today You Die, which brings me to Jesus, who died today 2009 years ago. Oh wait, no-1976 years ago. Why is that Good Friday? Must not dwell on the negative.

Maybe just a little more negativity: Dish might have lost all her electronic data--all photos, 6 novels, 10 screenplays, all email, all letters, business invoices, backup system. How do I cope? Quartering chocolate bunnies. Also, I plan to find a Nerf bat and some cute stuffed animals and I'm going to hit the hell out of them.

Avast, Ye Mateys

What's the deal with these freaking pirates? They are so retro in a bad way--bad fashions, bad manners--though not so removed from money-grubbers in the financial world. I'm probably one of the few who fell asleep in Pirates of the Caribbean though I did love Johnny Depp.

Non sequitur: Do you think because Madonna donated 500K to the Italian earthquake victims, the Malawi courts might grant her that baby?

Dish almost did something terrifying last night, but it could be the plot for a romantic comedy. Backstory: Exbf16 exited stage left a year ago. I still haven't erased his number from my speed dial. This would involve digging up my phone manual for directions. I'm not sure where the manual is. An accident was bound to happen. Any Jungian would tell me I wanted this to happen. At 5:30 pm last night, as I tried to phone Dishmama, I realized I had phoned Exbf16. Screaming, I hung up, let's hope before it registered on his I'm-utterly-lame-but-masquerading-as-perfection-iPhone.

Star Sighting

2:30, 19th and 7th: Baby-faced OMP Gilbert Gottfried passed me as I went to get tea. He sported some stubble but that didn't sex him up any. Maybe I'm bitter because he didn't notice me as anything more than an atom on the butt of another universe. Then again, I was in disguise--freshly showered, hair brushed, makeup, lovely brown suede jacket.

Now that Gale Harold is coming back to TV, I just feel pretty again and I want to show the world.

The Bitch is Back

Thanks to my Gale Google alert, I just learned he's returning to Desperate Housewives on May 3rd. Can greatness be far behind?

Now for the bad news: Dish didn't like Slumdog Millionaire. Taylor Dayne would tell me I have a heart of stone. The "Best Picture" had moments but was too sentimental and crapola for me--except for when the little boy crawls through crap to get an autograph. Dish would do the same thing.

Dish is a Twit

Follow Dish on Twitter. I am Dish Snacks, but username is--well, what else would it be, but all one word. Don't have pic up yet because my computer--the one that just filled with smoke--has all my pics. If you're already on Twitter, make sure not to follow Ashton Kutcher. Girlfriend is constantly updating and I don't think he has much else to do.

Star Sighting

5:20, 15th and 7th Avenue: Tonight, I encountered beauty itself. I've waited twelve years to run into this goddess. She's little with hair as red as mine and a gorgeous face. I wanted to thank her for all her good works, for Bull Durham and for making me see how nuns can be sexy. She's the original cougar but far too complex to be categorized. And besides, she wouldn't give a sh*t.

Yes, we made eye contact and it was consensual.

Star Sighting

3:05 pm, b/w 18th and 19th and 8th Avenue: Supreme OMP Harrison Ford on the street. He wore a blue shirt, sunglasses, and flashed a smile at someone. He's such a stalker. This is the third time I've seen him in ten years. He used to live in my neighborhood uptown, now come to hear he's in Chelsea, a block from Dish! Well, I would let him make me breakfast (even though he could be my father).

So, Dish has a big announcement: Saw Duplicity today and must assert that JULIA HAS NOT HAD WORK DONE. My sources were faulty. Girlfriend just wore freaky eyeliner, which can make that area look strange. In the opening scene, her face is suspect but I blame it on bright lighting, false eyelashes and her profile. It's the same face as Charlie Wilson's War. Julia is gorgeous and makes 41 look sexy, romantic and full of possibility. My only criticism is that her hair is like ratty vines throughout. Was this on purpose? Hair is a topic in the film. When she pulls it neatly back, I can breathe again.

The movie itself is worth seeing, as long as you imagine Clive Owen is twenty pounds heavier. He has joined the Lollipop Guild with a huge head and stick figure body. A wonderful actor, he could still make me breakfast--as long as he ate some himself. The story itself forces the viewer to use his/her brain. If you're not used to this, go see the new Hannah Montana.

Lastly, Dish must confess a new obsession: Suze Orman. She's all over the place now that the recession is the new black. I love her bright personality, her reactions to callers, and her no-nonsense advice. She's a delight and I can't watch her enough.

Stop This Salad

I caught ten minutes of Camille Claudel, which put Isabel Adjani on the map (after her boinking Warren Beatty, which prompted the disaster Ishtar). Izzie is impossibly beautiful and it’s no wonder Daniel Day Lewis fell in love and had to impregnate her. In this story, Isabel is a gorgeous genius in an age of male artists. It's so hard for her until she wears black when Victor Hugo dies and Rodin (played by Gerard Depardieu, who is starting to get super-fat) must have sex with her. The clash of the Titans ensues and Camille needs more. She screams and screams and Rodin says, “Arrete avec cette salade!” because Camille is an insane artist squashed by a famous gigantic bearded fat man. After a while, Rodin isn’t that into her, and I keep thinking that if she’d had some good meds, Camille might have been able to deal with Rodin’s sexist-it's-all-about-me ways. Over a hundred years later, I still love Camille's art more than Rodin's. He seemed all about the crotch. Her work exudes more emotion.

To cope with copious ironing, I also caught a gander of Oh, God! which reminded me of John Denver's sweetness. It almost made me cry how nice he seemed. Another one who left this earth too soon...

At Least *Someone's* Getting Married

I pulled my left anterior deltoid muscle from--wait for it--accidentally stepping onto a moving treadmill. I like to keep to my WASP roots and not express hurt or outrage but the "OH!" was loud. Dish went flying but I pretended nothing happened and ran three miles immediately. This happened two days ago. I thought I was fine until last night, I tried to open a jar of peanut butter. Like Michelle Pfeiffer's character in Frankie & Johnny, I can open any jar. It took two attempts and I felt my muscle saying, "FU, Dish," then shatter.

What did I do to ease the pain? Filled a cup with granola (because I'm trying to eat what's in my house thanks to Suze Orman) and sat down to watch Rachel Getting Married. I'm not a big Hathaway fan but she got raves for her work. First of all, I'm pissed at Steven Soderberg because ever since the shaky camera in Traffic, EVERYONE is doing the shaky camera in indie movies. I get it, show the chaos, the frantic and real life--and make your viewer nauseous and nervous. I expected more from Jonathan Demme. When the opening credits ended, I thought, "Cool, he's going to make his characters talk into the camera. He can't help himself." None of that. All shaky camera and Anne Hathaway with her crazy assymmetrical hair (hmmmm, to show how crazy, off kilter and druggie she is?) pissing everyone off. Dysfunctional but loving family, people going bananas at a wedding, someone gets smacked, crisis ensues, suck it up for the big day. That's every single day for Dish. At least in Margot at the Wedding Jennifer Jason Leigh pooped herself. Anne's transformation at the end is effective and there, you don't see her acting. Debra Winger continues to be Lovely and Amazing (ha, that's an indie movie, too).

I give a lot of credit to Hathaway for doing this role. She has talent and courage. If I were America's Sweetheart, I'd be installing a beer bong around my head for the cameras. Let's hope she continues to choose challenging roles.

Nutritious

Dish bristles when someone talks excitedly about "veggies." I'm eating this crap called salad but I won't use endearments to describe what is merely a carrier for dressing. Does Michelle Obama get aroused by grilled vegetables? Probably because lately she's the empress of all earthbound territories and I don't blame the world for loving her. Now that Julia Roberts proclaimed her love for Michelle, I must bow down. I got a little buzz by her meeting Queen Lizzie (who is bubble gum adorable in pink), her confidence and big smiles. My one beef, the Obamas complained to her about their busy-ness and jet lag. When meeting the Queen, hello, everything is perfect. Must agree with eye-twitch Tina Brown that the iPod gift filled with videos of Lizzie's visits was "inspired." They could have brought her a commemorative Obama victory plate (on which Lizzie could eat her veggies).

Off With Her Head!

In Dish family legend, Anne Boleyn is our relative. What better way to celebrate her than to watch The Tudors (pronounced Tee-oo-dahs) starring that little sexy beast Jonathan Rhys Meyers. Though, he makes me laugh the way he storms around, banging babes and pretending to be super in love with Anne. You know Henry and Thomas More and the Pope (Shout out to excellent Peter O'Toole) are having a gay old time together running Europe and throwing back buckets of red wine. Even funnier is that Henry VIII is supposed to look more like John Goodman and not hunkalicious Jonathan. Unless being married made him explode later with his twenty chins. I've seen it happen 100 times. In any case, I'm watching, knowing my little upstart trollop relative will get her head chopped off eventually. He just got rid of his cougar first wife Catherine of Aragon, though I would have gotten sick of her too with all her Jesus talk. Plus, she seemed like such a downer. Anne was funner, perkier and knew The Rules (i.e. abstain from sex as much as possible, act like you don't care about the man, and pretend to be a virgin). Right now, Henry, sporting a Prince mustache circa 1986, is trying to cop a feel but Anne puts him off. Way to go!

Update: Dishmama assured me that we are, in fact, related to Anne. She's like my great-grandmother practically. Does this mean I can marry Prince William?