Really, nothing is better than a little bit of dish. Particularly if that dish makes you feel, oh, just that much better than the person about whom your source is dishing. Maybe, just maybe, you feel like a better mother, or a better wife, or just a better person all around, period. Gives you just that warm glow.

For about an hour. Then you’re left with knowledge. Knowledge that, if shared, could make others feel like better mothers, better wives, better people. A worthy cause, no? And could be discussed, tossed around, chewed over and picked at for some time, really, because as it happens this is some particularly entertaining dish here, whether you know the person involved or not. That kind of stuff. Oh-my-God-she-pierced-what? kind of stuff.

But, of course, sharing was not the idea. This dish was strictly-in-confidence dish, and Potato would not want it commonly known. I mean, Potato is a pretty open person, but there are limits. Plus, this dish is kind of sad dish. More like damn-it-she-throws-up-after-eating-what? kind of dish, now that I come to think of it. So I cannot share the dish. In fact, I am wishing I did not even know the dish, because I feel somewhat differently about Potato than I once did.

But I totally encouraged the sharing of the dish. And now I feel kind of besmirched, even though I am absolutely not going to ever talk about it again. This is exactly why your mother tells you not to gossip, isn’t it?

But ooh, it was good while it lasted.

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