WORLD'S NOT A BIG ENOUGH STAGE FOR THESE EGOS

NICKI:
"I absolutely LOVE Mariah! 
She's like a grandmother to me!"
CarrieNelson1/Dreamstime.com

MARIAH: 
"I have two words for you, you cheap,
 fake-hair-wearing, throne usurping ho ... 
Actually, wait. I have way more than 
two words for you."
Featureflash/Dreamstime.com  

There's been an awful lot of smack talk about the "feud" and "jealousy" between American Idol judge/divas Nicki Minaj and Mariah Carey. But don't you believe those silly ratings rumours for a moment.

I'll have you know that Nicki told Access Hollywood yesterday she has nothing but respect for Mariah and that she was worshipped her since she was a child. 
"Mariah is a legend and I just want to say that . . . I am sitting next to a woman who I've looked up to since I can remember enjoying music," she said. (Which, if you think about it, is not really a compliment at all.) 
And then Mariah turned to Nicki and said, "Bitch, you  just called me old!" 
And Nicki replied,"Well you are!" 
And Mariah said "Well you got BUTT IMPLANTS!" 
And then they scratched and clawed and tore at each other's hair and Nicki's weave came out in Mariah's hands. 
Well, not really. But it's totally going to happen. Just you wait ...

WHERE THERE'S SMOKE, THERE'S LILO

"IT WAS, LIKE, THE WEIRDEST THING!"
One minute I was fine, the next minute I was 
coughing so bad I could hardly finish my smokes!
 SBukley/Dreamstime.com

In today's dubious-afflictions news, we have Lindsay Lohan being hospitalized in New York City. For, uhm, well let's call it "asthma." Cuz that's what she's calling it and I'm sure it couldn't possibly be anything else, what with the monk-like lifestyle she leads.
There was some confusion in the aftermath of Lindsay's brief hospital stay when her mad-as-a-hatter mom Dina told reporters that "high pollen counts" were to blame. She'd been terrorized by pollen all week, the poor thing, and eventually she had to check herself into the hospital JUST TO GET AWAY from all the damn flowers that were trying to kill her!

Then Lindsay's own "pals" tattled to TMZ that, no, it wasn't asthma, it was "walking pneumonia." (Hmm. Well as long as it's not "driving pneumonia," I suppose that's all right.) And that, combined with the stress of being arrested for allegedly driving into a pedestrian days earlier, exacerbated her walking asthmapollonia to the point that she had to be rushed to Mount Sinai. (TMZ also gratuitously tosses in the fact that Lilo racked up a $686 cigarette bill at Chateau Marmont hotel in August, but I would say that's just a mean-spirited red herring, since cigarettes have never been linked to any kind of respiratory ailments whatsoever.)
Thankfully, Lindsay is now resting at home in the care of her mom, who will no doubt exercise the same exemplary parenting skills that made Lilo the fine young woman she is today. Expect the days ahead to be filled with healthful, recuperative activities such as doing Mother-and-Daughter vodka shots, playing Spin the Pill Bottle, and chain-smoking.

SOFIA SELFLESSLY REVEALS HER OTHER CLEAVAGE

OLA, FANS! KISS, KISS, KISS, TI AMO!
You can be sure that if anything I am wearing 
ever splits open, you will be the first to know!
carrienelson1/dreamstime

Sometimes I wonder how we ever functioned in a pre-wired world. How did we get through the day without Kim Kardashian's every-hour-on-the-hour tweets or Facebook's incessant invitations to join a rousing game of Farmville?
Because I'll tell you, my day would not have been complete today if I had not seen that photo of Modern Family actress Sofia Vergara's Emmy wardrobe malfunction and resultant butt-crack. 

Thankfully, Sofia is on top of this social media thing. She immediately instructed her assistant to take a photo of her "other cleavage" and tweet it for the entire world to see. And then put it on her website as well.  

The photo also gets top billing on perezhilton.com (here's the link, should you want to see it, and please don't even bother to pretend that you don't, at Emmy Butt!). Perez graciously notes that "Sofia was kind enough to share the bootylicious blunder on Twitter."
Yes, "kind" is the very word I was looking for here, Perez. I feel blessed to have been party to that visual of Sofia's surprisingly tiny bum. It was incredibly thoughtful of her to share that with us, because after all, it happened in her dressing room. So no one really had to know. It could have remained private. In another era, it would have remained private. And just think how awful THAT would have been. 

Editor's note: Wow! (Clicking on link. Pausing.) That woman is a saint. This should banish anyone's suspicions that she is motivated by anything other than selfless devotion to our Lord.

GOING UP? PLEASE READ THIS FIRST

I'M SORRY, I CAN'T LET YOU IN 

Unless you promise 
not to talk or defecate.

There are some things that are such a basic part of  daily life one would think we don’t need RULES to explain their proper usage. Sidewalks, for example. Toothbrushes, for another. 

Oh, and how about elevators? Did you just lump them in that “too basic for rules” category? If so, you are wrong. 

In fact, there's an entire website, ElevatorRules.com, devoted to grooming you bumpkins in proper elevator etiquette. In a perfect world, this website would not be necessary. However, this is not a perfect world and never will be as long as Sarah Palin, Mitt Romney and Carrot Top are in it. Which means you need to read these rules or risk  a fantastically embarrassing gaffe that could see you banned from lifts or possibly even jailed. Imagine, for example, the horror of sharing an elevator with someone who hadn’t read this crucial rule: 

"Never, under any circumstances urinate or defecate in an elevator. It presents a serious health risk to elevator riders as well as maintenance personnel." (Thank God I read that one before I left for work this morning!)

Some other rules worth committing to memory:

"Conversations in the elevator are generally discouraged." 

(That would be news to almost everyone I’ve ever shared an elevator with.)

"Do not make fun of people when they get off the elevator."
(But, but…that’s the best time to do it!)

"Riding an elevator while intoxicated should be avoided. Your impairment could present a danger to yourself and other riders. Take the stairs and use the hand rails."
(In my experience, taking the stairs when drunk has presented a far greater danger to myself than any elevator ever could. Tumbletumbletumbletumbletumblegroan.)

So now you know. If you haven’t visited this website, I encourage you to do so, especially if you ever plan on riding in an elevator with me. Here’s the link: elevatorrules.com

ARNOLD BARES HIS 'ROID-ADDLED SOUL (FOR $36.99)

WHAT'S THAT? YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I CHEATED ON MY WIFE?
Well, I'd like to say "I don't recall," but that's a 
problem when your book is called Total Recall. 
So I'll give you the next best thing: the truth, 
only ... untruthier.

SBukley/Dreamstime.com

  
 

And now from our "What Years of Steroid Abuse Will Do to You" files, we have some titillating tidbits from Arnold Schwarzenegger's new autobiography, Total Recall. Arnold wants to come clean, as it were, to help us understand "the real reasons" he cheated on Maria Shriver and fathered a child with their housekeeper, Guatemalan trollop Mildred Baena.
To which I say: Nyeah, that's nice. But let's face it, there's only one "real reason" for cheating: "Because I felt like it." 

See, what pisses me off about this "confessional" is that this is yet another high-powered, Clinton-esque creep who really only feels bad because he got caught. And who now stands to make millions by putting it all in a fucking book about how he got caught.
But since the man had a paid assistant go to the trouble of writing a 624-page tome, let's just indulge him, shall we? 

Q: So Arnie, what is the "real reason" you cheated?
A: Maria was away with the kids and I was "stuck at home" in our lonely mansion, filming Batman and Robin. (And also, I I felt like it.)

Q: Rrright. But why did you allow the maid-whore to stay in your home with the child you had fathered, under the same roof as your wife and your four children?
A: Well, it sounds silly now, but "I had convinced myself" that I wasn't the kid's father.

Q: But that could only be true if you DIDN'T have sex with his mother.
A: Well I ... that question confuses me. Was that even a question?

Q: Yes, the question is, did you or did you not have sex with that woman?
A: Oh. Yes. In the guest house. While Maria was away.

Q: (Pause, barfing noises, blechblechblechhh.) Ahem. And how did you explain this to your wife when she confronted you?
A: Well, what I did was, I lied.

Q: Pardon?
A: I lied. Fibbed. Made up "lame excuses," hoping she would be thrown off the scent. But the scent of asshole is pretty strong, so she stuck to it and eventually I realized I had to 'fess up.

Q: Wow. She must have been devastated. Did you attempt to comfort her?
A: Of course! I told her she still "turns me on." Because even though I had ruined her life, it's still kinda gotta be about me, right?

Q: Right. Well, I've heard enough. I completely commiserate with you and have concluded that you are a creep.
A: THE HELL? 

Q: A creep. C.R.E.E.P. 
A: C.R.E... Hmm. I will have to ask my assistant to explain that to me. But you're still going to buy the book, yes?

Q: Oh absolutely. Right after I marry Ryan Gosling and win the Powerball lottery and become Queen of Esplendidia.
A: Excellent! Total Recall, Simon & Schuster, $36.99. Available everywhere. Maybe even Guatemala. 
 

MADONNA: 'VOTE FOR OBAMA, CUZ HE'S A MUSLIM!'

OH, MADGE, MADGE, MADGE.
How would you like it if Obama
went onstage and urged everyone to buy 
your Celtic Lesbian Folk music? 

featureflash/dreamstime.com

Ah, Madonna. You've gotta love her (or she'll club you senseless with her meaty thighs). She's a shrewd businesswoman, an amazing entertainer and her entire body appears to be made of bull sinew. 
But lately, Madge has taken to some very grating affectations.
That British accent, for one.
Her habit of using her back as a billboard, for another. 

But even more annoying is her sudden urge to spout politics at every opportunity. Even when she clearly doesn't know what the bloody 'ell she's talking about.
For weeks, she's been "surprising" concert-goers by whipping off her shirt to reveal the words "Pussy Riot" on her back. Not only because she loves the word "pussy" but also because she supports those Russian chits who earned the deadly wrath of Vladimir Poutine. (Ack! Sorry, sorry, don't arrest me, Vlad, I meant Putin! I'm just kind of hungry right now, is all!)
Then on Monday, she dragged the President of the United States of America into her act. Whether he wanted her to or not.

During a concert in Washington, D.C., Madonna launched into a rousing, profanity-studded rant in which she urged the crowd to vote for Obama "g*ddamit."
"It's so amazing and incredible to think that we have an African-American in the White House ... we have a black Muslim in the White House! Now that is the SHIT!" 
Wow, right? So passionate. So inspiring. So completely inane. Because not only is Madonna NOT a politician, but more importantly, Obama is NOT a Muslim. And it doesn't particularly help his cause right now to be mistaken for one. But thank you so much, Madonna, for confusing thousands of young voters, who were all no doubt wondering, "But why isn't she singing? We came here for the singing."

And of course, I wasn't at the White House immediately thereafter, but I have taken it upon myself to visually recreate the scene nevertheless:
Oval Office. Phone rings. Barack shakes head and moans.  "Oh for heck's sake, that's HER on Line One! What am I going to say to that madwoman?"
Michelle. Steps in, flexes fabled biceps. "It's OK, babe, I got this one."
Picks up phone. "Hello, Madonna? I suppose you're calling to apologize for calling my husband a Muslim. No, it's fine, I'm sure you were just dehydrated or whatever, but just so you know, he's a Christian. ... Yes. Yes. ... No please don't, it's such a long name to write on your back; maybe you could just write "Mitt" instead? Mmhmm. Oops, that's Elton John calling on Line 2, I'm afraid I'll have to let you go. Byeeeeeee." 
Looks at Barack. "I could barely understand a word she said. She spoke in Cockney rhyming slang the whole time."  

EDITOR'S NOTE: Well there's been an update, hasn't there? Madge now tells the press she was being "ironic" when she called Obama a Muslim. And then tomorrow she'll have to tell the press she was being an idiot when she said she was being "ironic." It's a slippery slope, my friends . . .

SOCKS AND THE CITY: THE SECRET JOY OF SINGLETONS

At left: Me      At right: Sock
I really don't think it's that hard to 
tell us apart. The markings are quite distinct. 
Nor do I see what is so troubling about 
seeing either of us on our own ... although a 
lone sock does raise the troubling question:
 "But what will the other foot do?"

Is it just me or is there is something about single people that drives coupled-up people absolutely bonkers? We seem to evoke the same reaction in them that crippled birds or orphaned puppies do. They want to cuddle us, fix us, make things right. "Gosh, that's so sad. She has no one to go home to and cook for." (Our little secret: WE  friggin' LOVE THAT about our life!) 

Others seem to view us as a hobby. 
"Oh, I know the perfect guy for you!" (No, trust me, you don't. I'm still disinfecting myself from that last "perfect guy" you introduced me to.) 
Still others look on us as something of a threat. "Oh-ho-ho no, she ain't bringing her single-girl ass over here to go giving our perfectly trained husbands ideas. They must never be allowed a glimpse of the life they left behind. Wives! That's what we want to be surrounded with! WIVES!"

Whatever the reason, as soon as a coupled-up friend finds out I'm unattached, she (it's always a she, guys totally get that maybe we don't want to be tied down at the moment) is consumed with a sudden and uncontrollable urge to pair me up.

My dear well-meaning friends: pairing up is for socks. For people, it is okay, sometimes even FANTASTIC, to run around solo for awhile. We are not bereft and useless without a matching mate. We are not sitting at home in our pajamas, sad and alone and eating ice cream straight out of the container while we watch Sleepless in Seattle. (Ok, maybe yes to the ice cream and movie part...)  
You may be assuming that I would rather be in a relationship. Let me be clear on this: I would not. I spent the better part of my adult years in one relationship or another and I am enjoying (revelling in, actually) my newfound freedom.  
One day, I may come to my senses and decide it's time to find a matching sock. Or I may just run around with one naked foot for the entire rest of my life. Either way, it's okay. 
In the meantime, thank you for your concern and for your tireless efforts to find me a match. Now please stop.  

Editor's note: Are you sure? Because I know this really  nice guy . . . 
My note: And I know this really nice editor, who'll work for a lot less than you do. So watch yourself.

NOTHING TASTES BETTER THAN OTHER PEOPLE'S FOOD

"I wonder where darling Mother is?
I could really use a hand 
with this soup!"

At first, I thought I'd had the perfect weekend. I spent every second of Saturday and Sunday visiting with family and friends. But then afterward, as I lay in bed watching TV, a thought occurred to me: "I just spent the entire weekend eating other people's food." I didn't plan it this way, but this is how the weekend unfolded.

Saturday afternoon: Daughter and husband host a housewarming. Aside from the tour of their beautiful home, a lavish brunch is the highlight of the festivities. While Jade (a former caterer) is putting the finishing touches on the feast, I do what any normal mother would do: I go into the bathroom and take pictures of myself. 
Menu: Coconut shrimp, cold cuts and cheese platter, roasted red pepper and rice soup, arugula and feta-stuffed chicken with creamy pesto sauce, whipped  parmesan sweet potatoes, roasted root vegetables, pumpkin pie with shortbread crust. The only thing that could have made this better would be if Ryan Gosling had walked in the front door and taken a seat at the carefully laid place I always save beside me, just in case. 

Saturday evening: Off to visit friend who lives near daughter's new home. We crack open a bottle of Syrah and she starts bringing out plates. I instantly protest. "Oh, no need! If you could see what I just ate. I am absolutely STUFFED! . . . What kind of cheese is that?" 
Menu: Next thing you know, I've polished off a plate of summer sausage, some sort of creamy Asian noodle dish, half a block of parmesan cheese and some bread. With a dollop of shame.

Saturday night: Back to daughter's house to watch Precious. Been meaning to watch it for years but feared it was too sad. Which it was. Halfway through, Jade brings out a platter of snacks. Because she is a good daughter who doesn't want her poor malnourished mother to pass out halfway through the movie. I open my mouth to object but nothing comes out except, "Ooooh! Chips!"
Menu: Chilean lime chips, crusty bread, cheese, sliced pickles, grapes . . . with a generous bowl of self-loathing.

"I like the way my skin glows 
under these bathroom lights!"

Sunday: Wake up late, call Mom to see how she enjoyed the housewarming. Mom says she's just in the middle of making a dinner. Would I perhaps like to . . .  "Oh, no, no, that's not why I called. I just . . . uhm, what're you making?"
Menu: Chicken in mushroom sauce with white wine and red peppers, baked potato, fresh steamed vegetable medley. For dessert, utter shame and mortification.  

EDITOR'S NOTE: Marie is too embarrassed to face you all right now but she would like you to know that she feels like a mooch and a freeloader. I'm going to let her stew for awhile, but the truth is that some weekends you do the hosting and other weekends it's nothing but OPF (Other People's Food). Those are good weekends. One should enjoy the heck out of them. 

GREAT MOMENTS IN TRAVEL: CAMBRIDGE, ONTARIO

If you have ever visited Cambridge, you may think it's a picture-pretty little town nestled on the banks of the Grand River. If you've actually lived there, however, you'll know that what it really is is one great big roiling Newfie village. I had the indescribable pleasure of living there for much of my adult life. (Every single year, I'd say, "I'm not going to stay here. It's not my kind of place. This is just temporary." This little charade continued for 23-odd years.) I met a lot of wonderful, unforgettable people during my extended exile, but the prize for Most Memorable and Also Possibly Insane Acquaintance Ever goes, hands-down, to the big-hearted, hard-partying, good-time-lovin'  identical twin Newfie brothers I lived next door to for five years. I still go back and visit them once in awhile when I need to be reminded of the opposite of Toronto. 
The photo above was taken during one of these surreal trips "back home." In this shot, Newfie Twin #1 is pouring gas into his latest unlicensed toy: a dirt bike. This is great news for his  just-as-crazy buddy, right, who shortly thereafter will take off on an illegal, full-throttle jaunt while Newfie Twin #1 pelts down the street after him screaming: "BRING THAT BACK! I'M NOT KIDDING!" and the neighbours look on in horror. What I especially like about this shot . . . and as God is my witness I didn't notice it when I was taking the photo . . . is the dude who appears to be relieving himself in the corner by the shed. This is precisely the kind of image they had in mind when they coined the phrase: "A picture is worth a thousand words." (And also "Good fences make good neighbours.")