Oh, and make us barf, already, but 27 girls, all skinny little Katherine Heigl mini-me’s (since is anybody as towering as this woman?), promenaded down the red carpet wearing the “dress” from the film’s poster. How embarrassing! I’d be humiliated if I showed up to a movie premiere wearing the same outfit someone else was wearing. Twenty-six of them should go home and change.
K.H. was polished and perf, annoyingly so, as always. Bet the girl could have worn clown face paint and donned a scuba suit, waddling down the red carpet, and still looked absolutely decadent. That’s why we loathe her so, no?
Oh, and Jennifer Love Hewitt was there, with her fiancé, in a peach frock that only accentuated her powerful new curves. Taking a cue from the Kirstie Alley School of Media Exposure, an extra slice of cheesecake gets your bust size and your name out there more than skipping dessert like every other waif actress.
As I’m engaged to be hitched myself, had to find out from Kathy-poo—who just married musician man Josh Kelley—what the mouthy hon considers most sacrosanct in a union. “Communication,” opined the princess-like gal. “As long as we can be honest with each other, even if that risks vulnerability, or being wrong, or sometimes being overly dramatic.”
No merde! Just glad to know Ms. H promises not to hold back in her personal life, too. ‘Course, any busybody worth her snoopin’ soul is fully aware Heigl bashed her big hit flick, Knocked Up, for being on the sexist side. But that’s old crap. What about newer smelly goings-on, like the just-axed Golden Globes?
“I’m very disappointed,” she sighed. “It’s an amazing night to celebrate among your peers and the people you respect...I understand it. I really support the writers on this one, and if they would have given in on this, it would have diminished how hard they fought.”
Them's fightin’ words, do adore (and agree with them, natch). Think the writers’ strike will continue on through to the Oscars, we inquired?
“I don’t know about the Oscars...I don’t think I’m invited to the Oscars!” she blurted.
No one may be, darling.
Eve, partying with her pearlies at Teddy’s Saturday night. The right-on babe was celebrating a friend’s B-day and holding down the back corner table in the happenin’ club. E, in a white beret and gray and white striped top, was bustin’ some serious moves on the dance floor. She stopped shakin’ her backside to take snaps with friends and had no security in sight, which was so not the case when Jessica Simpson and Tony Romo hit the same joint awhile back. Causing a saliva-dripping stir a few miles south was hot-ass Canadian...
Ryan Reynolds, hitting an Alaska Air terminal at LAX. Heading home for a short bit, hon-bun? Or did you just get back? R2 was trail ready in jeans, parka and boots, and it was mostly the AA flight attendants who were licking their lips while drooling over Scarlett’s whatever, more than ready, it was quite clear, to serve Mr. R coffee, tea or themselves.
Like there’s any question. As you may have heard, a few studios began nixing certain actresses’ requests for footing the red-carpet hoopla treatment (stylists, masseuses, colonic irrigators—no joke, etc.) for their Golden Globe-nominated pics. Hmmm. Was Debra Messing afforded a Globe nod we don’t know about? Isn’t she usually the queen of this freebie silliness? Anyway, one big-ass studio in Hollywood began saying nyet, quite emphatically, to these requests several weeks ago—as in, the offing of the Globes has been determined for a long, long while. This does not bode well for the Oscars. At all.
Gosh, selecting a below-the-radar supermarket and fashionably keepin’ it on the DL...seems like we’ve got a celeb who doesn’t want to be seen. Everybody knows that’s what Whole Foods is for, right, Cameron?
Funny, then, that the low-key F.D. decided to raise up a friggin’ storm while stuffing her cart to the brim with bacon, all the while squabbling, loudly and most unpleasantly, with a store manager about the price and cut of all that fatty meat. The extrapatient Vons employee argued, “The bacon is prepackaged—I can’t control the cut of the meat.”
Talkin’ back to the Diva Dunaway? The meager minimum-waged worker could have been thrashed to pieces with a wire hanger! Finally, Faye Dunny couldn’t help but agree, but she blurted out her home telephone number to get her precious Vons discount—something she felt most entitled to, considering the subpar piggie stuff.
And, darling Faye, I have that number, which was so graciously passed along to moi by a pork-witness. So, you better start shapin’ up and treating the common folk a little less like they’re washed-up movie stars, okay? Otherwise, I just may have to call you up and cut you off.