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.