Nicole Richie seems to have found her groove.  Her jewelry line, House of Harlow 1960, sold out before it hit the stores. Now, in addition to manufacturing a human being, she has another project in the works.

Richie told People, “There will be a maternity line, a clothing line, shoes, belts, everything.”

Hold on just one fucking minute.  It’s being reported like she’s doing just a maternity line but the commas in her statement give me hope that she’s also doing a regular clothing line with accessories.  Because if I find out that there’s such a thing as maternity shoes, someone has to be killed for not telling me.

Zac Efron was on board, but has now jumped ship, on the Footloose remake movie.  However, Paramount will not allow anyone to, uh, cut Footloose.  Their statement:

Footloose is a project we’ve longed to see re-booted for a new generation. While Zac is no longer attached, we remain excited and committed to the collective brain trust of Kenny Ortega, Neil Meron and Craig Zaden, who will reinvigorate the franchise. Their fresh take on the film will undoubtedly be filled with the same kind of breakout performances that we’ve come to expect from them.

No official word on why Efron refuses to kick off his Sunday shoes, but some sources are citing typecasting.  I could see that.  You can’t be dancing and prancing and doing big stage numbers and still expect to get the big bank roles playing superheroes.  Unless you’re Hugh Jackman, of course.

A replacement hasn’t been named yet.  And really, could anyone replace Zac Efron?

Can we talk about Facebook, Twitter and fate for a moment?

I’m working on about eight hours of sleep.  Eight hours of sleep over  a three-day period.  So, while I’m awake and annoyed by the cacophony of snoring around me, I stalk old boyfriends on Facebook.  I am relieved to say that I definitely dodged a couple of bullets in relation to conquests from my twenties.

Facebook was recently re-designed to look like a live-time cluster fuck stream of status updates.  Or, you know, Twitter.  Twitter-I’m not really sure why I participate.  I use it as a tool to drive a little traffic to my own paltry blog, but other than that, Twitter leaves me at a loss for words.  Now that I think of it, I reckon that is technology my family would be interested in patenting.  Anyway, where am I going with this?  I have no idea.  Oh, DJ AM.  So, I was on Twitter this morning, letting John Mayer know that his tweets are far too existential for a mindless social networking platform when I saw DJ AM update that he is flying to Miami tomorrow.

Let me be clear; I am not a huge believer of signs.  I believe that they exist and happen, but they have to be pretty significant before I can accept their presence and validity.  For example, I find pennies on the ground all the time.  I do not believe that they are confirmation that someone from heaven is thinking of me.  I believe they are confirmation that pennies do not get the same respect as, say, quarters.  I’m sick to tell you this, but I recently caught my brother throwing a few pennies away.  And yes, I did jump in my trash can and get them out.

However, let’s examine an example of a big sign that must be recognized:  You’ve been involved in two plane crashes.  One in which you were fifty percent of the survivor count, and another which produced no survivors that you were fortunate to cancel out of at the last minute.  DJ AM tweeted this morning that he’s flying to Miami tomorrow and he wants God to go first.  Dude, God is talking to you.  Loudly.  There is no subtlety here.  Listen to His message:  “Amtrak.”

“Other women dream of papaya facials and mango pedicures. Give me a hot dog, a pitchers’ duel and a late-inning suicide squeeze (risky tactic to score), and I melt like hot pine tar.”

Alyssa Milano, either trying to describe a date and she’s stuck in euphemism hell or actually talking about sports, in her new book, “Safe at Home:  Confessions of a Baseball Fanatic.”

In regards to her break up with Barry Zito, she writes, “To be completely honest, after Barry and I broke up, I swore off baseball players. (But) Brad had me at, ‘Let’s go down to the clubhouse.’”

How was this book not titled, “How To Get To Home Base With Alyssa Milano”?  I had no idea who Barry Zito was.  I still don’t and don’t care either but based on what his Wikipedia page says, I’m surprised Alyssa just swore off baseball players.  If I dated this Barry Zito, I’d be racing to my local Sisters of Sappho chapter.

At his introductory press conference with the Giants, Zito said he liked the way his uniform number 75 looked, because the 7 and the 5 are like a “shelf” to hold the name “Zito” up. He carries pink satin pillows on the road, collects stuffed animals (such as a good luck teddy bear, with which he used to travel), and burns incense to relax.  Early in his career, Zito dyed his hair blue. He plays guitar, surfs, practices yoga, and follows Zen. He has done yoga poses in the outfield, and meditates before games.  In 2001, Zito espoused a universal life force that he credited with his midseason turnaround.

And my favorite quote-the one that has me racing to Borders to snatch this ground-breaking piece of literary genius right off the shelf?

“The big difference between injecting Botox and with taking human growth hormone is that there are no rules against Botox.”

Oh, Alyssa, aren’t there?  Hello, mirror.

Chelsea Handler has inked a deal with Comcast Entertainment Group that will keep her show, Chelsea Lately, on the air until 2012.  I must confess, for 2007 and a portion of 2008, I thought Chelsea’s last name was Lately.

Her show debuted in 2007 and ratings have steadily grown ever since-especially in the female 18-34 demographic.  Sigh.  I guess this means I will begrudgingly concede that she has talent that extends beyond fucking the CEO of Comcast.  Which, incidentally, she does.

I currently have Handler’s book, Are You There Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea, sitting on my dining room table waiting to be read.  This could be the day I actually open it and start reading in hopes of discovering the appeal.

Sadly, I just realized as I was writing this that I am now in the totally irrelevant demographic of 35-death.  Beet, on the other hand, is a young and nubile twenty-seven years old today.  Network executives still care about her and her viewing habits.  She still matters.  I’m so depressed.

Happy Birthday, sugar beet.

Poor Lance Armstrong has broken his collarbone in Spain on Monday, after crashing during the first stage of a five-day race. This was supposed to be Lance’s big return to cycling after coming out of retirement.

Armstrong, who was caught in a pile-up about 12.5 miles form the stage’s finish in La Vuelta de Castilla y Leon, appeared to be in considerable pain as he was helped into an ambulance headed to the Rio Carrion hospital in Palencia, the Associated Press reports.

Doctors are determining whether Armstrong will need surgery, according to race spokesman Jacinto Vidarte. The injury could prevent the champ from racing competitively for four weeks.

Personally, I blame Kate Hudson. Everything her vagina touches turns to injured. We could use her in the war, actually. We could just take dust from her vagina and sprinkle it over Al Qaeda training camps and the whole place will break their leg or slit their wrist within weeks. We’ll call it Agent Bloated-Face. No one will ever guess.

Anyway, yeah, wishing a speedy recovery for Lance, of course, but maybe it’s time to rethink the comeback plan, dude.