Cleaning Out the Attic

I love to hate Countess LuAnn on the Real Housewives of NYC (while secretly thinking she's beautiful) but the poor girl just separated from her husband, according to the Post. It's the oldest story in the book (the ugly one in the relationship cheated) so I won't go into details. A new episode is on tonight and I have no fake-venom for LuAnn. I send her Zen chocolate, Italian wine (because her soon-to-be ex is French and Italian is just fine thank you very much), episodes of Will & Grace pre-Leo, and hundreds of dollars of Sephora to slather on face and stare at in the mirror when you wonder where your youth went. Oh. Wait. I never do that.

Random: I'm disturbed that Zac Efron has become attractive to me. Maybe a week of being single has diseased my brain. He's a zygote and I have to prepare myself for the OMPs rather than the studs. Al Pacino = appropriate for Dish; The Jonas Brothers = So wrong.

Letting Go

So, a former Wall Street analyst is coming forward to talk about her becoming a stripper in this tough economy. What an excellent option should things go south for Dish. Just kidding! I would never do that to drooling slobs. Especially since I'm going to let myself go: eat whatever I want, not wear makeup, not date for at least six months, exercise only to feel good, take all XY interaction with a grain of salt. I can abide by all this except I never really pork out. After youthful fatness, my alarm goes off when the zippers become imbedded in my skin.

Save a prayer (Yay, Duran Duran!) for Willie Aames who's fallen on hard times. Star of Eight is Enough and Charles in Charles has gone through foreclosure, divorce, finding Jesus and attempted suicide. Things have to look up. He should start reading Star Jones's new blog: www.positivelystar.blogspot.com or do what I do when depressed: Watch Tons of Television!

Dish watched Celebrity Apprentice for the first time. Verdict: loved every moment without Donald. Her plastic surgery scares me, but Joan Rivers was darling and had a vigorous work ethic, Clint Black = adorable even with the dorky hat, Jesse James suprisingly nerdlicious, the crossdressing b-ball player who used to date Madonna = typical mess, and I enjoyed Ivanka Trump. While she comes from Senior Toupee, she is articulate and smart. Maybe she takes after her mother?

Tempted to try the new sweet tea at McDonald's...

Extra extra

I shouldn't say this, but I will. Dishbrother saw Duplicity and thinks Julia may have had work done. Something was different, around the eyes perhaps because one of them droops. I've memorized every inch of that woman's face so I would notice. Dish is armed to see the flick next weekend. I'll get to the bottom of these vicious rumors I'm starting. Not even our Julia is immune to the pressure of plastic surgery. Who's next? Dish?

I am watching The Main Event, which was excellent when I was 11. Now I have no idea what was so fascinating about multiple shots of Barbra stretching, butt to the camera, that huge mop of hair and Ryan O'Neal's implausibility as a boxer. Will that stop me from watching the whole thing?

Bon Voyage

Dish is off to Connecticut for a day. In my morning viewing of Love Boat, it's an OMP convention with Pinky Tuscadero (who plays an exotic dancer, of course) wooing a one-foot-in-the-grave Peter Graves, a minister. Sin and religion! Oh, the rapture!

Last night I dreamt I was in college biology at age forty. I sat at the front and slammed my books on the desk. Class began, the lights went down and Pearl Jam appeared for their concert. How lucky is that?

Eating Salad Again

Facebook said my celebrity boyfriend is Colin Farrell and I instantly caught Chlamydia. But happiness returns now that I've seen Loretta Swit play a Soviet inspector of cruise ships on The Love Boat. Loretta tries to boink Dr. Bricker (um, ewww) as a sexier and less drunk seeming Robert Goulet woos Juliet Mills-pre-Maxwell-Caufield. Suddenly, I'm ten.

Madonna is adopting again (kinda like she adopted Rupert Everett after the wild success of My Best Friend's Wedding--Malawi is SO in right now--only to make the sh*t sandwhich that I secretly love The Next Best Thing--okay, maybe it's not at all the same thing, Dish has too much free time to think absurd thoughts) but at least she's not hurting anyone. Mercy James will have a better life. She already has a cool name. Madonna should descend on the octoplets next.

Dish is considering Twittering. Will you follow?

Thursday

Here's what I know:

Four consecutive nights of Carvel cake does not a flat stomach make. Dish is a little ill.

Morrissey is playing at Carnegie Hall and I'm so glad I'm not there because he's like every gooberbottom I dated in college. I don't care if he's a tormented asexual vegetarian. Who isn't?

The backlash against Obama's many media appearances cracks me up. As if talking to the public is not part of his job. No one is satisfied! Ever!

Angels & Demons = another opportunity to see Tom Hanks with long hair. Maybe he'll run more in this flick. Fun or stupid as hell?

I'm dying over Dr. Phil who two days in a row is practically humping Octomom. He claims he only cares about the babies and instructed his staff to stay away...AND STILL COVERS THE TOPIC EXTENSIVELY FOR TWO SHOWS! If anyone cared for these children, their thriving in a sane environment, they'd be put up for adoption.

Victory!

I finally had my moment. The elevator opened and Gucci Pig appeared. I took one look, scowled and breezed past her. It's like she wasn't even in my air space. Can't wait to do it again.

Dish seems to be single yet again, but I have recovery down to a science. 1. Eat Carvel cake which neutralizes Sudden Stress Anorexia. 2. Watch girly movies. 3. Switch to Queer As Folk where Brian has to pretend he's unfazed when Justin takes up with that pretentious violin player (who is so not even in the same league as Gale Harold). 4. Transformation is complete. 5. Repeat as needed, especially with Step #3.

Tonight, I laughed all the way through Sex and the City: The Movie. Oh, the absurd conflict and forced drama! I love it when Carrie hits Big with her wedding bouquet and screams, "You've humiliated me!" How about, "I'm humiliating myself on a bustling city sidewalk while wearing a ridiculous peacock feather!" I wish I had a dime for the number of times the girls squeal over Samantha's endless returns. Charlotte poops her pants and Miranda doesn't wax (I don't blame her but way to play up the busy mom/woman stereotype). The only sane person is Jennifer Hudson whose loveability rages throughout. Wish it had been Jennifer Hudson and the City. Will admit, SJP looked pretty fetching when she made up her mind to be a brunette in her recovering-from-devastation period. Which makes me think...time for a huge hair makeover?

In the words of Meatloaf, Let me sleep on it...

Rage in the Cage

I'm still holding my nose over the smell. Last night, I dreamt Dishbrother transported me to a large building where I could star-gaze. The place featured wrestlers. As if stinky steroid boys blew my hair back. Like a good stalker, I waited, watched. No sooner did I strike a pose than Nicholas Cage approached me, flashing a high-wattage smile I haven't seen since the glory days of Con Air. We chatted and I was under his spell. What's more, he found me fascinating. I made myself wake up since this is kinda my worst nightmare (loved him in Adaptation and think he's a good actron, just smelly). Is this a lesson not to judge on the appearance of stinkiness?

Update: Dish's excitement is The Real Housewives of New York (I love to hate LuAnn!) and a Carvel ice cream cake.