Jennifer Lopez

[Photo: BauerGriffinOnline.com]

"LOOKIT! HAHAHAHA! Now who's winning medals, eh, Dolphin Boy? Did YOU have two babies first? Did YOU have to wear bike shorts and arm cuffs? Did YOU swim your silly laps with a stubbed toe -- ay, I mean, a DEVASTATING and RARE injury that affected the part of your foot that you use to judge clothes? Is medical science going to name the 24-hour cure for that condition after YOU? I DON'T THINK SO. Your medals might be gold, Freak Giant, but my medal is the color of SACRIFICE. Dig it, tonto! DIG IT HARD!"

Let's see....what happened yesterday? We did not end up stuck in an elevator with Anna Wintour. (If this happens, I plan to talk to her about tennis.) We did not talk our ways into a cameo on Gossip Girl (I want to play the crafty blogger who makes out with Chuck as a way to help him make Blair jealous).  We did not trip out of our high heels and land in the laps of any luminaries. However, we did see this:


"Hee hee! Tell me again how pretty I am, Mr. de la Renta. TELL ME!" If you can only have one celeb at a show, it might as well be Ms Lo.

Also included with purchase:

Emmy Rossum + Leighton Meester = I don't know how to feel.

It turns out that Lauren Conrad is lovely in person and Lo looks like she's about to tell you to f' off.  And, in fact, probably wants to, at least in my case.

Blake Lively was very pretty at Michael Kors, but could she outshine BETTE FREAKING MIDLER? What do you think?

Oh, Amy Lee. Your name rhymes with Anna Sui. And how crazy you be.

JENNIFER: No, no, amiga, OPEN your mouth. Make them think LOVE is about to come out.

POSH: I'm just... I think the hair is bad. People are looking at me oddly.

JENNIFER: Pish! Do you know what I say when that happens?

POSH: What?

JENNIFER: NOTHING. HA HA HA! Nobody ever looks at me oddly. They know better. But seriously, twig lady, do you really care about them? Eh?

POSH: No...

JENNIFER: Do you know what I said when everyone asked me to congratulate Ben and his walking nap for having another baby? I said, "ONE AT A TIME IS FOR LAZY PEOPLE."

POSH: Right...

JENNIFER: And when the world licked the feet of that silly Flipper Boy who won all his medals just for swimming a bunch of laps over and over again, do you know what I did? I went out and trained for a triathlon and shouted, "ONE SPORT AT A TIME IS FOR BORING LITTLE MAGGOTS WITH JUG EARS. GET BACK TO ME WHEN HE GIVES BIRTH AND HE HAS TO FIND TIME TO WORK OUT WHILE PICKING OUT CRYSTAL CHANDELIERS FOR THE BABY'S CLOSET!"

POSH: So you're saying I should buck up and do my own thing, then, yes?

JENNIFER: Si si, Cheekbones!

POSH: Maybe you're right. Maybe this haircut WILL work.

JENNIFER: Yes! Go get them, Halle Berry!

POSH: Wait, no. It's not Halle, darling, it's Victoria.

JENNIFER: AAAAAH! Victoria BECKHAM? ARE YOU SURE?

POSH: Fairly.

JENNIFER: MADRE DE DIOS!!!! IT CANNOT BE!

POSH: But you just said...

JENNIFER: Ay, no, I cannot be here. You are TOUCHED. Step away from me now before I catch your devil insanity.

POSH: ... Great.

[Photo: INFDaily.com]

"Hola, it is your favorites here -- me, my Marc, and the twins! And my babies are around here somewhere too. HA HA! But seriously, do you not love my cleavage? Does it not bob like a balloon on the winds of love? My Marc, he said that I couldn't find a yachting caftan that still showed off my assets, but poor, sweet, hungry Marc doesn't understand my power. This is what Princess Leia SHOULD have worn, no? Forget the turtleneck and the Cinnabons, estupida! Oh, amigos, that movie would have been so different if I had made it. There was not enough FABULOUS, although that one old evil hombre had VERY hollow cheekbones, which is so sexy. I like to sip mimosas from Marc's when he is lying down. It is our little game! I drink from his cheekbones, and he drinks from my wrist. Sigh. We are so in love. Italy is muy romantica. Certain other couples are out there on a holiday weekend dealing with rumors that they are fighting -- probably about how she won't stop wearing sneakers, or he won't stop being Ben -- but Marc and I, we are SO HAPPY! Don't you see? We on our way to go boating! On the ship of some famous clothing designers! You don't see Dolce and Gabbana dropping by the Brentwood Country Mart to buy apple sauce! NO! They are waiting for ME on the deck of a SHIP! DRINK IT IN, STUPID BORING GIRL!"

Dear Bennifleck,

Hola. How are you? I hope you are hell. Just kidding, I meant "well." OH WAIT, NO I DIDN'T. I just wanted to say hello, and thank you for the generous baby presents that I assume you bought for me but which clearly got lost in the mail because one of you is too busy being BORING to write the address correctly and the other one of you is Ben. So, si, idiotas, I LOVE my MISSING PRESENTS so very much. As Marc said the other night, you put the "ass" in "Muchas gracias." HA HA HA HA. At least, I think that's what he said -- he was drinking a can of V-8 through two straws stuck on his incisors, but I am pretty sure I understood correctly because that is what love is about, people. Straws and red liquid. Because when you put those two together for a few days straight you get LOTS of horizontal mambo and then LOTS OF BABIES!

Oh, wait, what is that you are murmuring? You could only do ONE baby at a time? WEAK SAUCE, Mrs. Bennifleck! There is WOMB FOR TWO in this lady -- ha ha, that was Marc again, he is so funny when he's playing with his straw fangs! -- and I wore heels the entire time, and we haven't slept in 120 hours and I THINK maybe Marc is shrinking because his coat doesn't fit any more but I am HERE and I am swathed in a CURTAIN and I am your superior in every way! When was the last time YOU had two babies at once and then went right out and matched your eye makeup to your husband's best pair of shiny pants? When was the last time you even BOUGHT your Benfleck a pair of shiny pants? That's RIGHT, enemiga estupida, GAME, SET, AND CHECKMATE to ME!

Besos,

J.

Is it already Day Six? Does this mean we get to sleep in our own beds again soon? Although we're quite giddy after today's champers-fueled event at Marchesa, at which we got to bask in the warm glow of a hugely pregnant -- and two weeks from popping -- Jennifer Lopez.

Watching her swell with child has been truly fascinating, considering this is a woman who's rear end has been the subject of national -- and probably international -- fascination. We're happy for her and she looks healthy and happy, but we still can't stop studying the effect pregnancy has had on her face. Don't get us wrong, she's still pretty, but instead of looking like J.Lo, she looks a bit like a J.Lo impersonator who went too crazy with the collagen (and occasionally, in some shots, like Valerie Bertinelli, but only from specific angles -- trust me on that one; I'm not nuts, or at least, I don't think so, but then again neither does Britney so whatever). At any rate, we were kind of embarrassingly excited to see her so up-close and personal. In Los Angeles you're not supposed to look like you're noticing the celebrities out in the wild, but at Fashion Week, it's your job to ogle. Bless.

• The highlight at Narciso Rodriguez: The Return of the Seinfelds.
• The second we saw Lance Armstrong walk into ex-girlfriend Tory Burch's presentation, we prayed for a tearful reunion. Didn't get one. Still, it made for some great speculation.
• We're crushed we didn't get a breath mint from The Donald, but thanks to Celebrity Apprentice, he's given us so much already that we can't REALLY be upset.
• Jennifer Lopez was unusually chatty about her due date at Marchesa.
• Dear Veronica Webb: It's not gingham time. Indeed, is it ever?

[Photo: Splash News]

"No, Marc, let them talk. Let them guess! It is my little dance, my sensual gossip tango with the world. Am I pregnant? Or is this just a beautiful toga party? Is Robert Cavalli in trouble for revealing my little secret, or does he not know what he is talking about because he is MUY TONTO and a steaming pile of pureed idiot? Do not worry, Marc. Do not speak. Just take your vitamins and let me lead this rumba of mystery. IT IS MY GIFT TO MYSELF."

[Photo: Splash News]

"That's right, everyone, soy yo -- Jennifer LAWpez! HA! Officer Drama of the Fashion Police! I'm a soldier of mystery, chumps! Just TRY and solve me! Dios mio, this is fun! What should I dress as tomorrow? A Magic 8-Ball? Signs point to si!"

"Pregnant? Me? Stripey, sweet me? Ay, HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA, oh, it's so good, I can't stop, HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. Does anyone care about Ben's Twiggy Wife and her womb this much? NO. I WIN I WIN I WIN. And I look  fabulous in all my boots and dresses and hats because I am the ONE TRUE DIVA and I like to keep you guessing and you are EATING out of the PALM of my HAND.

"Bienvenidos, amigos, to my GLORY.

[Photo: Splash News]

"You! You down there! You are not drinking it in, tonto! Gulp with your soul! Chug with your eyes! If you stare at this long enough that they start to cross, you see Marc in a feathered headdress eating a banana. Or as they say in South Beach, HEAVEN. Dios mio, I feel fertile. I must get jiggy."

ROBERTO CAVALLI: What a marvelous caftan. If I could smile, Jennifer, I would.

LA LOPEZ: Gracias, my tiny robot friend, you are too good to me.

CAVALLI: That outfit eats you in an explosion of frumpy glee. It looks like you're going to a polo party in the middle of the handbag section at Saks. I no longer need your mortal sleep, but if I did, your caftan would be a dream.

LA LOPEZ: I can't even let you SEE my hair, though, Robert. Dios mio, what a week! Between the parties and the preparation for my fashion show, I haven't even had time to wash my hair in Evian, like normal! I've been using tap water! Like a savage!

CAVALLI: ... Ooh, yes, savage! It's a SAVAGE dream! In which the Chrysler building pierces my navel while Salvador Dali watches. It's magic. Do you do parties? I must strongly consider stepping closer to you.

LA LOPEZ: Sigh. Could somebody please reboot him? Marc never needs to restart until dawn. I miss his wee undead cheekbones.

[Photo: infdaily.com]

"Hola! Hello! You all look so worried! Listen, thank you for all your concern, amigos, but my feet are FINE.  I mean, perdon, can't a girl randomly decide to dig out a pantsuit she bought at The Limited in 1996, before she was famous? Huh? Can't I just feel like wearing something badly tailored just to remind me where I come from, and that I am real? Does there have to be a dark secret?  I just forgot to get a pedicure! And maybe my shoes aren't polished! Or I have a blister! You don't know! But it has NOTHING to do with, say, Marc developing a foot fetish and gnawing them in the middle of the night and forcing me to hide them the next day because they are HIS and only HIS, and also, grande chunks of my heel are missing. HAHAHAHAHA, that's so SILLY, tontos! Now, if you'll excuse me, my bodyguard needs to carry me inside. Not because it hurts to walk on my stumps, no, not at all, but because these sunglasses cost me like $500, and it's worth it because looking like a giant insect is totally in right now, but if I trip on my hem and fall and break them, Marc is going to take my big toe... I mean, wallet. Leave me now. Besos!"

Tell the truth. If I told you that the below picture was snapped while Marc Anthony was giving a toast at a wedding reception, while bridesmaid (and tragic victim of self-tanner) Jennifer Lopez looked on, you would totally believe me:

She's just waiting for him to shut up so she can hit the open bar .

Well, that part may actually be true.

"Sequined chain mail? That's what you think of my shirt-shawl-drape-dress-poncho-thingy? Are you KIDDING me with that, estupido? Tonto, tonto, tonto, tonto, tonto, you are being GLIB with me. If you start talking about chain mail, you have to read the research papers about chain mail, which is what I have done. Chain mail is a pseudofashion. You do not know the history of chain mail. I do.

"Also, I don't know WHERE you got the idea, but there is NO TRUTH to the rumors that I am becoming a Scientologist. Nada. None at all."

[Source]

To mi amor, Marc:

Gracias, my little neck-sucking husband, for everything you do. I love the way you start to cry when you're in direct sunlight and have to run away, because it shows me how deeply you feel things. I cherish how you told me the reason you never show up in any of the mirrors in our house is because you decided my reflection is too pure to share space with anyone else's, so you made special mirrors that will only show me. It gets me trembly with affection when you make me garlic chicken even though you're allergic to it and have to go lie down for 14 hours afterward with nothing but a raw piece of prime rib for company.

But, sweet tiny Marc, it touches me the most when you make me things with your own two hands. At first it was confusing when I walked into the basement and saw you shredding a moldy old rug with your teeth and screaming, "Who stole my stash of blood," but when you explained that I'd misheard and that you were actually saying, "Yippee, my wife will be so happy that I have made her this shawl for her next concert! Hooray! And if she doesn't wear it, my heart will turn to mud," it all made sense to me. You are so thoughtful, amor. You always care. And so even though this smells a little bit like something died in it a year ago, I am wearing it because that perfume of decay will always remind me of you. Te adoro!"

Que? Why do you look at me this way? You've never seen a woman in a red origami minidress before? Bah! Next you're going to tell me it's not normal for a man to drink paint thinner like it's milk! Hahahahahaha! So stop with the sass, little bitch Garners, because the only thing that gives my Marc more seconds of pure half-strength than paint thinner is the sight of me in what he calls my sexy blood clot outfit! He is the teeeeny pequenito stick of celery in my giant Bloody Mary and he LOVES when I say that because it gets him all hot and bothered and he has to go suck on a tomato for two hours, which is what he usually does when he gets excited. Well, when he's not doing ME! For TWO WHOLE MINUTES! OH, YES, THAT IS RIGHT, JUDGY TYPES! So STICK THAT IN YOUR CAMERA and EAT IT!

Holaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa (yawn) aaaaaaaa.

Dios mio, I'm groggy. I do not know WHY. But I am having such a hard time keeping my eyes open. Mark told me I look muy sexy when I can't lift my eyelids. This was right after he made me play Interview With A Vampire again but I am so BORED with that game, so this time, instead of running away like always, I just let him bite me in the neck so that he would stop BREATHING on me already and let me get back to watching Ugly Betty (which is some show about Salma Hayek's life -- it's sort of funny but Salma doesn't even WEAR glasses so I don't think it's very ACCURATE, which I would never allow because I respect people's stories and that is why I wore all of those spandexy things that Selena used to wear when I did that movie and there were NO GLASSES ANYWHERE and THAT, Salma, is the kind of ARTIST I am).

Anyway, after he bit me I felt so tiiiiired, amores, and I didn't even care anymore whether Salma got her eyebrows waxed any more. Then Mark started telling me how beautiful I am when the blood drains out of my face and that it makes me look like this sexy zombie lady, and then he got all excited and started measuring me and kissing his Home Depot card. He said he was making me a new bed as a surprise. Good. Maybe I can take a NAP on it when it gets here instead of having to fold my arms on my chest so he can see how tall I am when I'm on my back. BORING.

Ayyyy. I'm getting a little bit ... tired of him, you know? Don't get me wrong, he is my skinny toothpick prince of bones, and we spend our days making beautiful music and sunproofing the windows and I am VERY HAPPY. But... well, I was so INTERESTING before. Back when I was wearing sweatbands and pigtails, or making that Ben drink Ultra Slim Fast laced with laxatives so that he didn't look all blown up like a parade float any more. Those were nice times. He may not have showered very much at first but at least he didn't smell like formaldehyde. (That's a mouthwash my Mark uses to take his medicine. He told me it's custom-made, so I can't have any, although after he ate my neck the other night I caught him clapping his hands and squealing that now he could finally put some in the salad dressing. He is WEIRD, mamacitas). I wonder if it's too late for me and Ben. I could take that Farmer thingy he married -- maybe I could just put her in a little cage in the basement.

Nooooooooo (yawn) I don't feel like it. I have no energy, amores. I don't FEEL like grabbing her by the hair and dragging her to the dumpster. I don't WANT to sit there and look at Ben's hair plugs and their dumb Vile Aflac or whatever it is called. Maybe I will go home and break some Alias DVDs. Although Mark might not be awake yet -- he doesn't like to get up before 6 p.m. -- and if I'm there when he gets up I'll have to play a game and I am NOT IN THE MOOD to pretend to run away from "Baron von Nibblehaus" or whatever other stupid nickname he picks out. I will have to hide in my mirrored closet again. He never comes to find me in there. Phew. Good plan.

XXOOZZZzzzzzz,

J

Dear Rat-Faced Pipsqueak Jesse McCartney,

You want to know if I'm pregnant, you Howard Stern-blabbing poster boy for runny-nosed puberty accidents? You want to tell everyone I quit Dallas because my Mark ate a sandwich one night and had the strength for two minutes of egg-scrambling ecstasy before he passed out in his coffin again? FINE. Take a look up my uterine pipe YOURSELF, squirrel! Mira! Here it is! Do I LOOK like I caught a raging case of incurable Violet Affleck in my woman-sauna? Could a PREGNANT LADY pull off dressing like the star of Gloria Swanson On Ice? If I was slinging around a bag of womb-fruit, tonto, do you think a hundred Hollywood writers would be sitting around my photo RIGHT NOW falling all over themselves to create a movie for me about a future in which society is populated with a robot race of synchronized swimmers who are not only the most respected citizens of the world, but who double as the intergalactic military, and whose captain -- ME, acne brute! -- saves the world with a specialized blend of sass, leg splits, and choreographed aquatic gymnastics... while also learning to have her cold metal heart feel things deeply in a deep, deep way? NO! I THINK NOT. (Matt Damon, you want the lead? Llamame! Don't tell your oaf friend!)

So, Jesse McCartney, stick your THUMB back in your BLABBY MOUTH, pathetic peach-fuzzed wussy child, and RUN AWAY, before I flap my puffed sleeves down to the Dallas set and cut off all your girlfriend's Lucy Ewing hair. Then she will have to copy my turbanesque head scarf and WHO WILL HAVE THE LAST LAUGH THEN, EH, TOOTHPICK CHILD? HAHAHAHAH!

Also, catch me on LL Cool J's new single, in stores now!

Kisses, runt,

J.Ant

"No, no, everyone. I'm fine.

I'm fine. Nothing to see here! Just bringing my wife a Big Gulp.  No, no, I told you, I'm fine.  Seriously, I'm totally fine. I don't need that IV drip. I mean it. Back off with that shit. I don't need the sugar water. I'm FINE.

Yeah, so maybe I got chased here by a pack of rabid dogs that ate off the bottom of my shirt. So what? Nothing I can't handle. Me and my Jesus sandals and my raggedy-ass facial hair have never been better. Just here visiting the wife! Never been happier. She and I are right as rain! There's no crying about that bitch Garner in my house, no siree! We're both a-okay, and that's not blood on the back of my shirt. Not at all.  So step off."

"Dear Ben and Girl:

I am writing a note from my very important tour of venues that don't make me sing more than three songs, which Marc says is my limit, because I am filled with glee. Because, aha, lookit here! You will be shocked to learn that, even if you have the Bennifer II, it is I who has the Electric Boogaloo! The flatness of my abs makes fireworks ejaculate! Good luck getting your stretch marks to have that effect on Ben, girlie!

Oh, and have fun wearing caftans, while I am in daring gold lame harness-looking-thingies that I had George Lucas make me so that I would look like a lounge singer in that alien bar from Episode IV: Jedi From The Block, or whatever that thing was that the kids love. Hip! I am hip. I tried to sew cinnamon rolls onto my head for the costume, but they made Marc cry and go binge on peas. Sometimes I don't understand him, but then I realize that's because he is choking on something and I have to Heimlich some embalming fluid out of his chest. I don't know how that keeps getting in there! But that has nothing to do with you and your stupid bloated uterus, nor my super hot capri pants with a big X that marks exactly where you can BITE me, Special Agent Sydney Crisco! Ha ha ha!

Now shut up and let me stop writing. It's time for me to stop doing my Nutcracker ballet -- wait, why does that always make Marc giggle? Ben Assfleck, why does Marc always say how appropriate that is? Ben?

Bah. Anyway, twirly time is over. It's time for the robot:

[Photo: INFDaily.com]

Or as my Marc calls it, "Foreplay."

Piss and Vinegar,
The One Whose Ring Was Bigger And Don't You Forget It, Ass Ape!"

Okay, look, you. Yes, you, all you party people here at Wango Tango -- I see you thinking. I see those wheels turning, wondering if I am dressed like this because I have just escaped from some kind of insane asylum, and am medicated into thinking that I have wandered out onto the lawn to tell you hoodlums to stop peeing on the begonias. I know you are wondering if my Mark is trying to make me hide my light under a piece of gaffer tape. But you don't get it, hahaha! I win! I have lived in Miami so long, I have had a fashion epiphany! Eureka! I have created geriatric punk!

But you're still looking, and thinking. Don't think I don't know. I see you watching your magazines and your Alias and talking about Jen II and Ben Affleck and wondering if I am raging furious about her fruity ovaries! But you are all crazy. DO I LOOK FUCKING FURIOUS? DO I? I did NOT get so angry that I got tangled up in my necklaces and can't get them off. Does this look like angry hair? No! This is my "Edith and Mergatroyd down at the salon say I look prettier like this" hair! This is my "Get out of my hot tub, you paparazzi shitclown" hair! THIS IS NOT ANGRY HAIR ABOUT THAT WOMAN AND HER STUPID FAT WOMB.

Ah, sorry. It is just so hot up here, on this stage where I sing professionally. I would like to see that Gardner hussy sing her silly love tunes to Ben on a stage this big! Ben doesn't even like singing! He told me once that if I didn't stop singing he was going to eat his own ears! Aha, so how will she feel once she is raising a baby with Vincent Van Affleck over there? Hahahahaha!

But I don't care. I do NOT care if he knocked her up like a goddamn door. LOOK AT MY ABS. I can't do crunches with a fetus living in there! She can HAVE Ben's wang! It is all bloated and puffy anyway! I prefer it when my men look like beef jerky. So adios, bitches! You can think all you want -- I AM SO HAPPY I COULD JUST BEAT THE CANDY OUT OF YOU UGLY WHISPERING HUMAN PIÑATAS! ... Now, where the HELL am I?!?

To my beloved amigos on The Block,

[Photo courtesy of Daily Celeb.]

Hola, my sweet bestest friends! Yes, you! From The Block! You know who you are! [And that is good, because my manager doesn't remember, and if he doesn't know, I don't fucking know and it means you haven't written me fan mail, which is only because you don't have the address, no?] [But, you can't have my address.]

Anyway, I just wanted to say hello, in case you miss me checking in with you. It has been so long! I have been through so many songs I wrote myself, and borrowed diamonds, and handbags, and phases -- currently, I am in the modest phase, can you not see? Of course you can't see... my ass! Ha ha ha! I have also been such a joker. Marc always says that he is sure that I am funny. He also says that I have never been more fascinating, now that all I do is walk around behind him and smile, and talk about babies and throw darts at photos of that Britney. Marc says I look so much nicer when I am letting him lead me and I am staring at the floor.

But this photo, this one is for you, to show you that J.Mo -- my modest side! -- is in full effect and is incredible. I am in my prime. I am satin! I am pleated! I am wearing sleeves that could eat The Block! There is more fabric in this dress than in the sum of what I used to wear in a year. I'm so into fabric! Fabric is the new naked! Marc told me, the last time we lay next to each other in the bed, that when I am lying there hidden by white satin sheets, I look like an angel. And so I took my sheets and I sewed and I strung and I made myself a dress that I can also use as a slipcover when I am on tour! I look like a goddess! I am a muse, and I have inspired millions! Look, I just inspired Marc to eat some cashew nuts -- you don't know how hard that is; he doesn't like to eat between skipping meals -- and a P.A. on the set of my new movie told me that I inspired her to become an acting coach! I am changing lives! These sleeves, the ones your lovers could fit in -- and they want to! --  have tricks up them.

And yet, I just... I have been pensive lately, see. Don't you see? Look at my face. I am pouty. And my Marc, he always says I look drunk when I pout, so I try only to pout when I am acting in a movie and the script says that my character is drunk, or sad, or brokenhearted, or relieved, or confused, or secretly happy, or outwardly joyful, or laughing. Yet here, I pout. Why? Because you never call. You never write. I write. Oh yes. I wrote a whole song for you to let you know that even though I'm on Oprah and I'm rich enough to buy The Block -- ten times! Twenty! -- I still really know where I came from, and you can tell by the number of times I say "block" and "Bronx" and by the way I now live in Miami (that is code for "block," friends!). And by the fact that I married a skeleton with a mullet. Aside from the fact that we are madly, desperately in love, and we sing songs and stroke each other, my Marc is a symbol of our passion, preciosos! He IS The Block: Hard, sharp corners, small enough to walk over about a million times a day. When I make sweet, passionate like with Marc, it is like I am liking each one of you! Five minutes a day!

I do all this for you, and it's been years now, and nada. None of you ever come to visit or come to my premieres. No, you leave me to hang out with my rich friends and my cowhide husband, shitting on gardenias and carrying handbags and wearing enormous satin sleeves -- all without anyone around to envy me! Who am I if no one wants to be me? Why, then I'm no better than America's Other Sweetheart, Meg Ryan, and... dios mio, I don't want to talk about that!

Anyway, I have to go, all this pouting is making me want to go stand a few feet behind my husband. But one last time -- behold me in all my Casper-inspired glory, so that I can haunt your dreams like the fashionable ghost of love that I am!

Besos,
Mrs. Jennifer Lopez Noa Judd Anthony

I present to you Jennifer Lopez, taking the old phrase, "She could wear a potato sack," very, very literally:

The light wood heels on her boots make her look like the latest from Jennifer Convertibles.

In a desperate attempt to outrun the paparazzi, Jennifer Lopez cut through neighbor Rue McClanahan's back yard, becoming inextricably entangled in the older woman's guest room curtains, which had been hung on her clothesline to dry:

Late for a premiere, Ms Lopez allegedly said, "Eh, screw it," and just cinched it.

Dear America,

I am Jennifer Lopez and I am so very happy! Look at me kicking up my heels in pure glee! Glee! I'm gleeful! And why? Have you seen my husband? [I haven't seen him tonight myself because we're sort of pretending we're not married, but come on, girl, you saw those paparazzi photos I released to the Star.] My whole life I've been dreaming about this man, you know? Our relationship is so, so real.

Oh, there he is! Lookit him! Look!