Dish Upon a Star Almost Disappeared

Ladies, I thought Dish was a goner. 20 years of content vanished. For days, I surrendered to the idea that nothing lasts forever. Walk out of the burning house knowing all is lost. I considered starting over from scratch. But then I realized...maybe I'm signing in using the wrong Google account. It's the latest chapter of my new book I'm an Idiot.

I'd wanted to emote about audacious nipples, raging anorexia, and "art" of the Met Gala, but who needs more negativity? That's code for I couldn't find this blog for a couple weeks.

Cutting to the chase, my entertainment recommendations in this order: Legends, The Audacity, Widow's Bay

Secret watching when spouse is asleep: Mean Girl Murders, Dawson's Creek, All the President's Men where I admire Dustin Hoffman's feathery locks. 

I miss a good feather do, i.e. Tom Cruise in MI: 2 and the incomparable Farrah Fawcett, who got us all using a curling iron.

Farah Fawcett Foundation

With everything being bad, I count on the stars for laughs. Like Martin Short's Life is Short (I finally get that the title matches his last name). Enjoyed it, got a little seasick from the shaky camera, went through all the reasons why he annoyed me as a youngster, but became hilarious as I moved into my 40s and 50s. If you've ODed on true crime, Martin Short's doc will replenish your serotonin. What a life. 

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You knew this was coming. Because I'm still obsessed and have no other outlet--family can't bear my Blondie reflections--I am on wedding watch for Taylor and Travis, have been amused by their NYC outings, imagining how they are a mere 5 miles downtown from me. It's okay for me to regress and believe I'm still in my 30s. Just a little while longer.

It's like we're living the same life.

Because I'm on HRT, semi-retired, and have endured emotional love tsunamis already, I can't with the Easter eggs anymore but I love the goo goo eyes between them and her outfits. It's way better than being at war, impoverishing a nation, celebrating incompetence, and watching people proudly showcasing bigotry. Ya know?

I Dropped an Ativan Down My Bra During Jersey Boys

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
...)