Puttin' On the Ritz

My vacation was stupid awesome phat deadly, man. For 5 days I stayed at the Ritz Carleton, Key Biscayne. There, I met Martha, my breakfast server and dream girl. She was a Latin lovely, late 30s early 40s, maybe 5’4”. She was sweet, friendly and efficient. Every 8 minutes Martha would come to my table with coffee and fresh-squeezed OJ in hand, and she’d fill my cup and glass until I said, “No thanks, Martha. I'm finished.” (The filling of the cup, for those not playing with a full deck, was a symbolic gesture.) She remembered that I liked my waffle with strawberries and pecans on the side. The urge to inappropriately hug her, press her close to my bosom, raged inside me. One morning when I walked in to the restaurant, Martha was nowhere to be seen. Panic struck. I couldn’t eat without her. I’m sure I looked like Bambi did when his Mom got whacked. Did Martha have a life outside my breakfast? Was she at the dentist? Fired? In the arms of an unfaithful lover? God knows she couldn’t have a day off in the middle of my stay. Impossible! Unthinkable! Right when I was about to call my shrink in a freakish K-hole of abandonment issues, Martha appeared like the Virgin Mother. Hail Martha, full of grace. Blessed art thou amongst servers and blessed is the fruit you bring to me a la carte. Yes, I’d love a refill. Amen.

My friends and I entertained the thought of kidnapping Martha. Fine, it was all my idea, but they wouldn’t have protested when her cheery smile, calming presence and fresh toasted bagel & banana in hand, greeted them on the way to the express train. Martha is worth doing the time. But there was a dark side of my fantasy, too. In it, Martha is with me in NYC (where she once lived for 14 years), but she keeps ignoring my demands. She goes out with friends, attends church regularly and volunteers at 3 local hospitals. There they call her Miracle Martha. Yeah, sure, AIDS babies need love, burn victims, too. But what about me? Where’s my banana? And why aren’t my pecans chopped? What the hell? She’s constantly leaving me, telling me that she’ll be right back after she tends to our community garden. My therapist would definitely agree with me: I have to get in her grill about it. I have to sit Martha down and explain to her the conditions of her captivity because she’s obviously confused. I write a thorough imprisonment contract that details the finer points of what will and will not be tolerated. She's mine, M-I-N-E! I don’t want to have to release her. That’s too severe a punishment. I could never do that to my girl.

Martha and the entire staff at the Ritz were outstanding hosts. I felt completely at home. Each time they said things like, “Come back and join us at the spa. Take full advantage of all the services we offer. We’d love to see you again,” I completely believed them. For 5 days I got the royal treatment, and I’m still glowing despite a 4 hour layover in Raleigh-Durham (great place to watch paint dry) and this morning’s lack of Manhattan bound service on any train out of Brooklyn. Nice try, NYC. Thanks for shoving your ever present middle finger into my peaceful, happy face.

Now I know why places like the Ritz Carleton have the reputations they do. Complete strangers welcome you to their world. You, the guest, are important to them. They wait on you, offer you the best of everything they’ve got, and there’s nothing servile about it. Unlike many of us in our chosen (or accidentally necessary) careers, they seem to enjoy what they do. But even if they don’t, they managed to make me feel so special. What I’ll remember most is their signature phrase. When a guest said, “Thank You,” they’d always respond, “It’s my pleasure.” Au contraire, Martha and friends. The pleasure was all mine.

Buff It, Wax It, Buff It, Tan It, Burn It, Buff It

I went to get my obligatory first wax of the summer today. If anyone reading this would like to know what waxing feels like, perhaps this will shed some light:
Imagine getting gang banged by a horde of melted crayons. Put a 2' strip of electrical tape on your shin and just yank it off as quickly as you can. You've seen a kid open a present. Do it like that. IT FEELS AWESOME! So does a colonoscopy, or so I'm told.

But God bless those Russian aestheticians. Those women are efficient and professional. Don't go Korean. It's just not as cool. I once had a Korean waxer lady joke around, and threaten to turn my forest into a heart-shaped paradise. When I jerked away and pleaded with her, she was all "Hehehehehehe. I'm yust kidding. You looka twerve." What 12 year-old is sporting that kind of growth, lady? Anyway, as I was saying, the Russians aren't messing around, and they care about your body shyness less than they care about the lasting legacy of Warren G. Harding. So, hop up on that table and spread 'em like a pro. Lay down. Get ready, and before the main event begins, you'll be told "This will hurt a little." That's service industry speak for, "You will cry like baby." When they ask you how you're doing, you'd better say fine because they're Reds. I'm talking Kremlin, line for McDonalds, 48 lb. gynasts, Soviet stoicism. Yelping "ouch" is an insult. It also makes you American wussy, yes? Yes. I always say fine, with my teeth clenched, crying like baby. It's shameful really. I'm a tough American lesbian. Waxing isn't supposed to hurt me. Hell, I shouldn't even be there, conforming to the culture-based obsession with perfecting a woman's private Netherlands. I'm a victim of the phallacracy and I should have more of a backbone. But I am surprisingly hairy for a blond and considerably girly for a dyke. Vanity is NOT a sin, it's a virtuous trait.

The Shan will be spending Memorial Day weekend on a beach at the Ritz Carleton in Key Biscayne. I am not kidding. Not even a little. I owe my good fortune to having great taste in generous friends. It's the perfect getaway for the beginning of summer, my favorite season. Je t'aime le chaleur. I am a sun-kissed beach bunny, an outdoors-y type who just soaks up the rays of glorious mother sun. I am Baywatch. Baywatch is me. SPF who cares?
BULL.
I get a sunburn just thinking about sand. Skin cancer on legs, c'est moi. The least I could do to fit in is manage the jungle. For anyone in the Miami area this holiday weekend, the blinding light is my exposed flesh. Be sure to wear polarized lenses.

For the record: I can swim like a fish. That's the truth.

Chicago Trifecta

I have just returned from a brief visit to the homeland of The Shan, Chicago. There are a few little bits of interest:

• The Cross-Town Classic, Cubs vs. White Sox, took place while I was home. My Mom and my brother, and nearly every other member of my family, are White Sox fans. It’s a Southside Irish kind of thing. I, however, place my loyalty with the Northside Cubs. I guess I just like them better b/c they’re prettier; their stadium (Wrigley Field, baby!), their uniforms and yes, their fans, are just prettier. White Sox fans often poke fun at the “glamour kids” of Wrigleyville. They say that we only go to the ballpark to see and be seen amidst an ivy backdrop. You know what? It’s true, but we love our boys, too. It’s just that over the years, if our primary focus was only baseball, we’d slit our wrists. So sue us if we go cruisin’ in the bleachers. Without question the Cubs are a sadder sack of losers than the White Sox. Sure, the Sox have the whole 1919 World Series “Black Sox” debacle, and they can’t manage to put a pennant in their pockets b/c they’re perennial second placers. But the Cubs? Don’t even try to suck worse than we do! We’re the chronic wife beaters of MLB. Every year, we promise that it will be different, and sometimes we even manage to get close enough to taste a morsel of victory, but as soon as you can say “Cubs fan, Bud man,” we’re knockin’ our old lady around again. Don’t let the pin stripes fool you. Underneath our class act jerseys are pit-stained tanks and tattoos with naked ladies on motorcycles.
  The Sox took the series 2-1. They’ve got the best record in the league, and are about 18 games over 500. The Cubs, on the other hand, are bruised and battered with way too many standouts on the disabled list. They will live to suck another day.

• On the plane last night, the guy sitting behind me had the worst breath. I could smell its toxicity a full row in front of him. Yuck! Every time I cocked my head a bit right, to see something out the window, I was punished for wanting see more clouds. Stink. Stank. Stunk. Would it have been rude to just launch a couple pieces of Orbit back at him?
  

• My family is so gay. But I don’t mean gay like homo gay, I mean gay in a fastidious, linen pants, pin curls, ascot, Gatsby sort of intellectual sense. We can be too cute by half, too smart for our own good. And while I was at home, I realized how this must play to outsiders because I pulled back and tried to listen to us as an outsider would. That’s when I realized that if I were to play Trivial Pursuit with us, I’d probably punch somebody. Four of us, all cousins, all between the ages of 32 – 28, were discussing songwriters because I had mentioned that I really enjoyed a cover of “Blue Skies” that Lyle Lovett did a few years ago. Immediately my cousin asked, “Now, who wrote ‘Blue Skies’?” Boom! Gayness had arrived.

“Hmmm. Not the Gershwins, right? Ira and George.”

“Mmmm, I don’t think so. Interesting fact: do you know who wrote the lyrics and who wrote the music?”

“With those two? I don’t know.”

“Ira wrote the lyrics and George did the scoring.”

“Excellent.” Turning to her husband, “Now, you should know that.”

“Whaaa? Why?”

“Actually, I only got it right because I had a 50/50 chance. Well, that’s not true. I watched that PBS special on The American Broadway experience or whatever. Did you see any of that? It was marvelous. Didn’t Ira die at an early age or something?”

“Yes, I did see some of it.” Turning to her husband again, “You should know it because it’s your field, theater.”

“O.K. But who wrote ‘Blue Skies’?”

“Cole Porter?”

“No, not clever enough.”

“Um, could it be Harold Arlen? He wrote ‘Over the Rainbow.’”

“Didn’t he just die?”

“No. He died in ’86, I think.”

“I can’t believe we don’t know who wrote ‘Blue Skies.’”

A tragedy, isn’t it? Can you believe how uptight and nerdy we are? I was prepared to get on the web ASAP to find out, but we dropped it, or rather “pickled it” for later. And just to have the last word, Bill & Andrea, it’s Irving Berlin. He wrote ‘Blue Skies.’

This same group once laughed hysterically because one of us mistakenly referred to the Queen Mother (when she was still breathing) as a centurion. The intent, however, was to say ‘100 years old’ in the most dignified way. Unfortunately, a centurion is a commanding Roman soldier, not a 100 year old matriarch. Oops! Sorry, Queen Mum! The correct word was centenarian. This was so funny to us that we were in tears and gasping for breath. We could not stop. How funny would it have been then to call her a centaur? Ahhh! Oh, stop the hilarity! My girlfriend at the time witnessed this conversation, and I remember her staying completely silent, not cracking so much as a weak smile. I’d imagine that, for her, the interaction was bizarre, and not unlike giving a dictionary to a bunch of clowns at a think tank, telling them to write a sketch. A “Who’s On First” for geeks.

I used to be embarrassed because I was a dork. I cared about the minutiae that no one else did. And I also used to be embarrassed for being a homo because it, too, made me so different and isolated. Now, though, I have to admit that I really like all my gay. I love my un-gay but really gay family, too.

'COPS' Across the Street

I love my neighborhood.

This morning, I was treated to the most fabulous live episode of 'COPS' ever. Across the street from me, this huge bald dude (not sure of his ethnicity, definitely some strain of Hispanic or Latin) shouting "AND I STILL LOVE YOU!" over and over and over again. I peeked out the window to get a look at what was going on and I could see a full-bodied 'Mommy' listening to him, stone-faced, hands on her hips. He went on repeating "AND I STILL LOVE YOU," as he listed a bunch of different qualifiers, one of which had to do with her getting fat. Good to know that despite a thicking waistline he was prepared to stand by his woman.

Things got really interesting when our Romeo noticed some other guy further down the street. He immediately began yelling for this guy to stay put. Let's call him Yellow Shirt. Yellow Shirt kept coming down the street toward Romeo, little by little, taunting him. It was at this point that I realized a throw-down might be on the horizon. Yeah! A fist fight before 8 a.m.! Brooklyn in the hizzouse! My enthusiasn was jacked-up when I saw that Romeo had some kind of stick in his right hand. Oooh, weapons, just like the "Beat It" video! Then I noticed yet another Mommy with Yellow Shirt who, while Romeo shouted, "Come on! Bring it!," tried to hold Yellow Shirt back. Fat Mommy was trying to hold Romeo back at the same time. It was exactly like the strong man contests on ESPN. Both these dudes were literally pulling this dead weight as they lunged toward each other. But the Mommy's plans worked. They kept the guys from "engaging." (I was destroyed, crestfallen. Not even one punch or slap? I mean, I ride the subway like a dork and sit at a desk all day. The least they could do was knock the crap out of each other for a few minutes out of sympathy.) So, at this point Romeo renews his shouting, "You think you're strong like that?" Awesome. The police show up and a blond girl cop who's no larger than I am gets out of her cruiser and attempts to calm the situation. Hah hah hah hah hah! Right. You go Angie Dickenson! Fortunately, Pepper had a partner, a big dumb bo-hunk. Not that she couldn't handle herself alone, but it helps to have a bo-hunk there just to clean up the carnage. They quickly assess the situation and there's LOTS of shouting now. Yellow Shirt's baby Momma is the loudest, tho, and is most upset. "You're gonna have him arrrested? He didn't do nuthin'! You're gonna arrest him now? This ain't your show!" I don't know what she meant by that, but I've decided that I will endeavor to say, "This ain't your show!" whenever I can.

O.K. By now there's a crowd, and a third baby Momma comes out of the apartment building and she's lecutring baby Momma number two (Mrs. Yellow Shirt) about how she was gonna press charges, too. She mentioned knowing that this would happen, and she pointed at Yellow Shirt, who was leaning on the police car. Shaking her finger, she was all, "Because you know you can't stay here. You know that."

While I hated to, I had to get dressed or risk a lecture on punctuality. And the action seemed to be dying down anyway. I wasn't going to miss anything. But UGH! No hitting!?! Boo! On my way downstairs I ran into 2 of my housemates, and I asked them how they liked the live episode of COPS. "AND I STILL LOVE YOU!," one of them yelled. To which I responded, "This ain't your show!" Funny that the scuffle allowed us to bond. I giggled all the way outside, and when I emerged, Romeo walked right past me. He didn't look so big up close, and he had one of those faces your Grandma would call honest. He might as well have been Madonna or Elvis, considering the way I gawked at him. Wow. Romeo up close. Would he still love me?

As I walked toward the subway, I rubber-necked because all of The Players were still gathered. I wanted them to take a bow so I could clap and let them know how much fun I had. But by far, the very coolest thing about this scene is that directly next to my house, there's a church. And every Spring, the church plays host to youth groups...from the South. Every 2 weeks about 50 of them hop off a bus to praise the Lord in New York City. (It's great b/c there's always a free BBQ. Their politics--and I'm assuming here--disgust me but, heck, I'll eat a cheeseburger with Nosferatu if it's free.) These kids are all Freshman or Sophmore age Bible lovers. When I walk past them, they smile like only those who love Jesus can, and they say things like, "Howdy." They're really sweet kids, and I feel bad for them stuck in Park Slope without a clue. Walking past the church I summoned up a mental picture of 50 boys and girls, mouths agape (some w/ retainers) in their P.J.s huddled around the street level basement windows. This was totally their show. Rated R for language.

Ennis Pussycat Problems

Wednesday was a close shave for the Ennis family. Our kitty hadn't been feeling very good lately. She suffers from a wee bit o' arthritis, but my Mom noticed that she'd been experiencing added difficulty moving around. So Mom made an appointment for Dixie Ennis to visit the vet.

The Ennis clan (Mom, my brother M.J. and I) is unusually attached to our furballs. Please note that we are, by no means, "animal people." We don't really do warm and fuzzy. Every conversation topic in our household is subject to dismissal, scrutiny, skepticism, a smart-ass comment or outright mockery. But not our kitty lovin'. Nuh Uh. That's sacred ground, and we freely express the depth of our devotion. For example, M.J. loved to hold Dixie when she was a baby, but she hated it. She'd meow and squirm and try to break free. M.J. ignored her protests and tried to pet and kiss her, explaining to anyone who'd listen, "She's mewing 'cause she loves me." Right.

Our first kitty, Snuggler, was with us from 1981 - 1991. My father passed away in '82. M.J. and I spent more time with, and were arguably closer to, the cat than our own father. In our experience, there were no mere wake up calls. Snuggler's passing, and my father's as well, came as life altering shockers whose effects were immediate and irreversible. On a freezing cold Chicago afternoon, my Dad complained of chest pains. He left in an ambulance, and by 5 o'clock he was gone. With Snuggler, we went into the vet with an occupied kitty carrier, but left with an empty one. Before we agreed to put him to sleep, my mother actually considered getting the cat a kidney transplant! Sure, she bought the cheap Band-Aids for us, but the cat was going to get Garfield's plastic surgeon! I vividly recall going as a family to see "Backdraft" that night, and we bawled shamelessly in the darkened theater. We also downed our body weight in popcorn and SnowCaps.

So naturally, upon hearing of Dixie's declining mobility and upcoming trip to the Saw-Bones, we feared the worst. Full kitty carrier one minute, empty kitty carrier the next. It's practically expected with us. Once someone mentions a possible "uh-oh" scenario, the Ennis' are already in aftermath mode, dreaming up the next imminent disaster. Better to be prepared than blindsided. That's our motto.

The good news is that Dixie is going to be O.K. (Pray for her speedy recovery, though. She's old and could use the positive energy.) So what was wrong with her fat, lazy behind? Hemerrhoids. Sorta. Most four-legged animals have these sacks of fluid on each side of their back end, cushioning their brown eye. Frequently dogs' sacks can become too full and cause serious discomfort and swelling. Since Dixie is such a non-comformist, her cat booty sacks were inflamed big time. So much so that during the operation, when the vet went to lance the first sack, the excess fluid squirted all over him. (Hah! Hah! That's my kitty. She leaves quite an impression, huh?) A trooper to the core, though, the Dr. was able to regain his composure, thus turning his attention to the successful clearing of the sack. That should be the hot new insult. "Oh, yeah? You want to start somethin'? Why don't you clear my sack, pal?"

Dixie is, without a doubt, a true Ennis. Not only does she bear our last name, but she seems to have inherited our same struggles with crappy teeth, weight issues and a unpredictable butt. Mom, M.J., Shannon and Dixie need to floss like muthas, watch what we eat and never leave home without our travel-size TUMS and Pepto. We don't have kingdom, phylum, genus or species classifications in common, but we share what's really important: a bathroom.

**This entry is dedicated to Jimmy Carter, the cat , not the President.**

Come out, Come out, Wherever You Are!

What are you doing reading this? Are you inside? Of your own volition? Today? It's absolutely gorgeous outside!

If you cannot leave work under penalty of death, or are otherwise unable to enjoy the perfect day, I am deeply sorry. The rest of y'all had best spend some time out-of-doors ASAP because this weekend is supposed to be rainy and gloomy. Boo, weather forecast! Boo!

I'm off to hang in Madison Square Park. Have a bright, sunshine-y day!

Comments, Anyone? Bueller?

Do you mean to tell me that I crafted a salacious, blow job-centric blog entry, which included more than one cute as hell euphemism for said act, and no one had anything to say about it?

I feel 4' 9". Happy?

Big Babies

**Addendum**
When I first posted this pic, I took a cheap shot. Today, however, I read that the boy pictured below is NOT 22 months old, as I previously wrote. He's only 11 months old and he's not doing too well. His name is Lokman Hakim Mondol, and I owe him an apology. Lokman, hang in there. I have rewritten the caption, and I am sorry for being a shit.

This infant weighs 50 pounds and he's not even a year old. I weighed 45 pounds until 4th grade. We're both freaks of nature. Whereas I had really tiny DNA and was unusually attached to my wardrobe, doctors suspect that this little guy is suffering from some type of hormonal disorder. (Doctors are so smart.) Lokman, my fellow genetic wonder, I'm a big baby, too. Fortunately, I believe that there's hope for both of us.

No Charm in the Trouser Snake

THE REQUEST:
Just once I'd like to perform at a show where not one single comic makes a blow job joke. There exists infinite fodder for material in this marvelous, wide wide world that has nothing to do with some chick's mouth on some dude's dick.

ADMONISHMENT BY A LESBO:
For the blow job jokers out there: It's all been done! There is no new blow job territory to mine. That monkey has been spanked...to death. No bit that revolves around 3rd base will ever be cutting edge. At the risk of sullying all puns forever, blow job material sucks.

THINK OF THE CHILDREN:
Must innocent, trusting audiences be subjected to each and every detailed nuance of 2 or 3 keg-induced college hummers? (Ah, the good ol' days when your body was thin, not your hair.) I'm no Freud, but there is some weird Oedipal shit going on if a guy invites crowds to laugh at the fact that he once got his helmet buffed. "And one time, at band camp..."

WHAT A PREACHY BITCH:
Mine is not a clean act, so my intent here is not to hurl any stones or judge someone's glass house or whatever adage I'm "blowing" right now. It's just that I happen to really like what I do. The best part of this whole comedian schtick--other than all the pussy I get--are the other comedians. It's constant on the job training with these folks. I'm frequently awed by my chuckle-hunting brethren. To learn how to be a better stand-up, I want to surround myself with funny. Exciting funny, thoughtful funny, ridiculous funny, clever funny, even mind bogglingly perverted funny. NOT, I repeat, NOT EVER blow job funny.

THE CHALLENGE:
Give it up, bitches! No more zingers about who zoomed your zipper lizard.

EPIPHANY:
Woah. I feel the same about blow jobs on stage as I do off. If asked, I'd characterize my sentiment as 360 degrees of satellite disinterest.

The press loves manipulating a real "ugly bitch" picture like this."That loudmouth dyke Rosie O'Donnell is at it again."  

Rosie's Pissed...Again

"Ian McKellen, you come out when you're 92 and you're going to cast blame at me? Fuck you and your Sir Knighthood. I was so pissed at him. And he sent me a letter, 'I hope you're all right,' ... and I thought, 'You know, sit and spin, fucking prick.' I'll never speak to him the rest of my life. I could give a shit about Ian McKellen, and his little judgment of everyone else. I really could. Who is he?"
-- Rosie O'Donnell to the Boston gay newspaper Bay Windows, March 10.

Umm, at least he can act. He's a MALE ACTOR who came on the public scene in the 60s and 70s! I doubt his saying, "I love the cock," would inspire a producer to reply, "Good for you. Would you like to play Lear?" What was your excuse, comedian/talk show host/Madonna's buddy? You sure went out of your way to tell us how much you loved Tom Cruise and thought he was a cutie patootie. I don't recall Ian McKellen bragging about how he had the hots for Maggie Smith and Judi Dench, but just couldn't decide who he wanted to bang more.

As someone who used to defend you, I officially give up. Can't you just shut your trap about who you hate, who did you wrong, and how you'll be pissed forever? It's the vitriol you're spewing that people can't stand. So many stereotypes are reinforced b/c you come off as a crazy, angry dyke (which you apparently are), thus rendering it impossible, even absurd, to speak truthfully on your behalf.

For so many years, Rosie, you smiled real wide and played the game. You got yourself a talk show, worked hard for your well-earned success, and you helped a lot of people along the way. Children charities galore, the Broadway community, breast cancer awareness and so much more. Your generosity was unparalleled, limitless.

Then, you came out. And it wasn't just the closet you left. Whether you did it intentioanlly b/c you were just tired of kissing ass, or it was a planned departure, your daytime TV manners got locked up in that closet all by their lonesome. That obsequious "like me, like me" persona was replaced with the smart-ass Rosie from your stand-up days, and we re-embraced you. Maybe a lot of America's housewives were devastated by the trasformation (which was not a 180, but actually a return), but the queer-'mos were damn happy. For a while. We'd always known you were one of us, a sailor on Dinah's Shores, and we welcomed you to the family. You were all there for everyone to see, The Queen of Nice, out loud and proud.

But you wouldn't shut up. Every time you opened your righteous and indignant trap, more and more of us just rolled our eyes. Morally superior, condescending and abrasive communication appeals to no one. In that sense, you're no better than Falwell and cronies. Sure, many of us paying attention noticed that you weren't getting ANY help from "the media." Who could forget that picture with you in mid-shout, bad hair cut and everything, that everyone from THE NEW YORK TIMES to the NATIONAL ENQUIRER to NEWSWEEK and THE ADVOCATE published over and over?

Lately, though, it seems as though you don't like anybody. Kirstie Alley? You hate her b/c you think she's fatter than she admitted to being. Wow! Stop the presses. Her copping to the considerable weight gain, and having done so with humor and deflated ego, poking fun at herself at every opportunity ("I'm going to fuck Kid Rock.") has had a powerful impact on women's perceptions of body image. Is admiting to carrying another 40 pounds of more value than that? Oh, and do you really want to hurt him? Why are you and Boy George on the outs? Everyone knows that bitchy English queens are difficult to work with, but you guys put a show on Broadway together. That's an amazing shared experience, like donating a kidney or experiencing multiple orgasms at the exact same time.

Finally, your recent refusal to promote Riding the Bus With My Sister on Letterman baffles me. You blew off an opportunity to ask viewers to give your Hallmark Hall of Schlock a shot because they didn't take you up on your offer to host the show when Dave was ill? Welcome to show business, Ms. O'Donnell. When you're hot, you're hot and when you're not, they don't ask you to take the place of a late night legend in the making. Now, were any of the guest hosts better than you would have been? Not really. But who cares? Instead of crying to the press years later, let it rest. It's their loss. For someone who's got a buttload of money, who never has to work a day in her life ever again, who is newly married to the woman of their dreams and who has the family life she fought tooth and nail for, why do you go out of your way to moan about some conspiracy-theory-type slights? Shut up and smile like you mean it.