If you want to kiss Betty White's butt, you're going to have to get in line

Over HERE, kissing up to Betty White. I'll be back to myself soon, keeping this blog alive. In the meantime, you could watch more TV.

The drunk Oscars could've used more booze

I'm HERE today, writing about the Golden Globes. Do you think Ricky Gervais hates me now?

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails (and princess shoes)

Last month, on the way to meet Santa, I decided that Maggie's scuffed, red, hand-me-down, patent-leather shoes simply would not do. In a pre-Christmas fit of unchecked spending, I ducked into StrideRite to remedy this imbalance with a shiny new pair of Mary Janes.

The offending red shoes, seen here

What I didn't expect to discover is that I had been shoving the poor girl's foot into shoes that were a size-and-a-half too small. Suddenly, my maniacal shoe-shopping became just another case of responsible parenting. I love that.

Because I am smart like this, I deduced that if Maggie's feet had grown gargantuan, then Ollie's probably had too. A quick trip to Payless a few days later confirmed my suspicions (I can not afford to replace all my kids shoes at StrideRite, let's get real). We were on! Sneakers, school shoes, maybe some boots; all of it was suddenly so necessary and blameless.

I let them lose in the aisles of cheap Hannah Montana blinker boots and sinfully ugly "water shoes" to pick what they wanted. Here's your size, go crazy. By which I meant, "Here's your size, now pick out something that lives up to my own self-image as a hip mom. Preferably something retro and orange."

Now this I would let him go out in

It was in this way that I came face to face with the ways in which I am conditioning (read: screwing up) my children.

The first shoes Oliver brought to me, breathless with excitement, were a snazzy pair of white patent Mary Janes. "Aren't they beautiful?" he asked.

After I confirmed that while they were indeed beautiful, I believed they were for girls, he brought me a pair of pink, blinky princess sneakers. Again, breathlessly in love.

This time, my declaration that those too were for girls was met with a bit more suspicion and some palpable disappointment. Maybe even a lip quiver.

The third pair? Silver flats with a cross weave and a kicky little tassel.

By now I was feeling like a monster of gender propriety. I realized I should have just let him get what he wanted. There could even be a certain panache to a pirate t-shirt paired with pink, blinky princess sneakers. But I also suspected that very soon after exiting the store, some bigger child was going to put him in his place and embarrass him right out of his new shoes. The shoes would be not only a waste of money, but Oliver's very first lesson in shame. I couldn't do it.

This time, his disappointment got the better of him. "All the shoes I like are for girls," he cried, real tears running down his face.

Earlier experimentation with accessories

And what do I say to that? It is a universal truth that girls get nicer clothes and nicer shoes. It's a way of the world thing. But why, at 3, must he be denied the simple and pure pleasure of a pair of pink blinky sneakers?

Had all the hours of listening to Free to Be You and Me as a child meant nothing? Had William Wants a Doll fallen on deaf ears? Apparently.

Our compromise? A pair of black and white blinky sneakers and some camouflage converse low tops that were on sale for $7. And I don't even approve of camouflage; it's done the world way more harm than princesses.

In my defense I also nixed Maggie's Hannah Montana Uggs.

A snowsuit made of fat

I'm over HERE again, writing about grunting. Please comment--it makes me look good. Which is more than I can say for the three chocolate chip cookies I consumed while watching.

Reader, I married him

I've had a couple requests for pictures of the Mister's annual Christmas beard. So here you go, a pictorial history.

You remember where we started.

Well, we shaved.

And shaved a little more.

And in the end we decided to go with 1920s pugilist...

...which is way better than Bath House Pete, which is what we went with a few years ago.

This shirt says: "I have a healthy penis"

And there you go.

Just take my word

Do you have a notepad? Go get a notepad. Seriously. I'll wait.

Now write down these two things because they are going to make you very happy.

1.) Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. It won the National Book Award this year and it is so brilliant and moving and heartfelt and just plain awesome that I want to run away with it and live in exquisite, illicit bliss with it forever. Seriously great novel. Oh, and rent Man on Wire first. Once you read the book, this will make sense.



2.) Crazy Heart. Everyone knows you can't run away with a book and live in exquisite, illicit bliss. But, Jeff Bridges? He could work out nicely. If any part of you has ever liked country music, not the big-haired, spangly crap, but the Townes Van Zandt-Johnny Cash-Waylon Jennings kind of country music, go see this movie. Or, hell, go anyway. It's good.


Now you have a lot to do this weekend, so go. Go.

I am not the Biggest Loser. I am only a medium loser.

I'm HERE today. The new gig requires that I sit on the couch for two hours every Tuesday night watching reality TV and taking notes. The eating chocolate pudding* while I do it part is entirely my own idea.

*If you comment on the TV.com site, chocolate pudding will appear in your life within 24 hours. Do NOT pass up this opportunity. Comment now!