Sassafrass

Bodies and babies, choice and control

[You will note by the wedding ring that this is clearly not a recent picture. No surprises, kittens, just an image to make this post look pretty. You may resume your reading.]

I meant to write about how my computer went crazy and then I did after being completely offline for two days. I meant to write about perfect little quiet spaces to escape the BlogHer mania while you are in Chicago. I meant to go on too much about something Star Wars-related or why in the world I didn't know Elton John and Billy Joel were playing just three miles west of me at Wrigley Field tonight. There was a list of a million little things I intended to put up on this screen.

And then my heart got all clenched up.

Perhaps it started weeks ago when I started watching "16 and Pregnant" on MTV. I couldn't help myself. I am compelled for some reason by teen pregnancy, by the girls and choices and stories attached to the young bodies we so easily judge, by where we are in this country with Bristol Palin and Jamie-Lynn Spears somehow (how again?) standing for so many young women standing in bathrooms and staring at their own pregnancy tests.

I watched week after week, drawn in by the profiled couples and their vulnerability, desperation, immaturity, hope and fear. Every episode, my heart broke a little.

Of course, all women have this choice to carry on or terminate a pregnancy, no matter our age or environment or family situation or socioeconomic status or prospects for continuing our education or getting a job that will support all of our own and our babies' needs. I believe wholeheartedly in that choice.

And still, I also know how much it takes to be pregnant, all counted in energy, attention, love, money, self-care. I can only imagine how high school and ended college dreams and a lack of parental support factors into that time and experience. How in the world do these girls make it through? I wondered that every time I watched them try to fit into a prom dress or study with a colicky baby screaming on their laps.

They just do it because they feel they have to, I thought in response to myself. They just do.

It could be that my heart started clenching up last night when I had dinner with an old friend over sangria and conversation much deeper than either of us intended. We talked about having babies at this age -- both of us are 37 -- and how that might happen.

Our heart-to-heart spilled over as we shared experiences of our own and of our other women friends, from fertility questions to infertility aching, abortion to adoption, choosing to parent with a partner to opting to go it alone. All of it came back to a teary, almost-whispered understanding of what it is to feel out of control, not just of whether to have a child or not, but of your body.

My friend's experiences and mine are not the same. Still, we had this tie between us -- we'd both been there, feeling the choice to mother or not had at some point slipped from our grasp.

It was powerful, hard and sweetly connecting to put all of that on the table, to share how two feminist, pro-choice, activist women had felt the pain of not feeling in control of our bodies.

Perhaps the clenching goes even further back, to the week before my marriage crash-landed, when I was obliviously and hopefully mapping out my ovulation, making sure our plans to try to conceive the next week were on track. Of course, that pregnancy never happened and there was great relief and grief followed.

There were also many months where I tried tried tried to get OK with the idea I may never have more children, holding fast to the deep understanding that Lil E is far more than enough to fill my life.The question still whispered, Would I ever have another chance? Would divorce make the choice for me or would I be able to choose if I had another child?

Maybe the heart clenching has simply crept in during small moments in passing on my maternity clothes, in the ovary flip of holding delicate handmade baby shoes, in watching a friend's baby clench his face in the most adorable scream, in fostering the fantasy that I can certainly slip a baby into a sling and work and live and thrive as a single mama to two children.

It's not that I am ready now -- no matter what you've read here that may lead you to believe that. I am definitely not ready to have another child right now. But what I do want is a stronger feeling that when I am, it will be possible, it will be a choice, it will be in my control.

It could also be that the tightest clenching came tonight during the season finale of "16 and Pregnant", when a high school junior and her boyfriend chose to give their daughter up for adoption. They did it with a sageness I've not yet seen on the show and despite their parents' awful and manipulative pressure to somehow raise the child in two highly dysfunctional, uproarious homes.

The high schoolers chose a married couple to raise their daughter, and there were the very real moments of hesitation, many reminders of why they made this choice and lots of tears. What gripped me was the boy, holding on to his girlfriend so she did not have to see the baby being pulled from her body, telling her over and over how he loved her, how they loved the baby, how they were all strong enough to let her have a happy life. More tears accompanied an awkward hand-off to the adoptive parents and then the parting words from this girl, who had only given birth and given away her baby days before as she spoke directly to the camera.

I hope one day to get to know her. I am at peace with my decision.

I watched, my palm subconsciously pressed to my chest, the tears falling on to my fingers. I wondered once again how this girl did this, how she made it through. Before the answer came to me, a voice over from the birth mother answered.

I just did what was in my heart.

In all its complexity and simplicity, there it was. In all of its heartbreak and heart healing, she just followed the answer she found there.

My own heart is still all tangled up. And this wisdom certainly doesn't answer the million questions about if and when and how I might ever have another baby.

But what I love, what I am going to cling to, what did help my own heart unclench just enough was the thought that followed, the feeling that filled me and made all the other things I was going to write about quickly slip away.

I may not have complete control over my body. But I can seek out peace with all that has come before  and what might happen with my fertility in the future.

Peace, peace. That might be the most critical and most difficult, most painful and most empowering thing to choose. Even as -- especially as -- a woman, a mother so adamantly pro-choice.

Jon & Kate: I hate to say it, but I relate

It was not my intention to watch THE BIG ANNOUNCEMENT on "Jon & Kate Plus 8" tonight. It was not my intention to watch it at all this season. Many, many episodes ago, Kate's germophobia and Jon's passivity wore me down.

Before the weariness set in, I did watch the show. When Lil E and I lived with my parents, we either watched or heard each episode detailed by my mother, who is delighted by all reality TV that involves a) small children, b) fashion, c) island challenges, and 4) food. Lil E and my mother were equally squealy to see kids Lil E's age times six, with two older, bossy girls corralling them through the house. When Lil E and I moved into our own place, we'd sometimes glory in the fact that we had our own cable and we watched old episodes while unpacking boxes and arranging pillows on the floor until we got furniture a few months later.

It all seemed innocent enough then, barring a yelly mommy with bad hair and a doh-dee-doh-dee-doh daddy and the tension of bringing so many children out of womb at one time. I no longer had the time or energy or emotional reserve to commit to any of the many television shows I formerly watched. And so there they were every once in a while, Jon and Kate and all their maniacal outings with too many children.

In the past few months, I've paid some attention to their lives off-screen. How could you not? I've oscillated in my sympathies, first rolling at my eyes at the all too familiar cheating husband and then watching in horror at the footage of Kate denying her daughter water while she sipped from a bottle herself. I felt for her, for them, but I was done. I didn't need to watch more.

So I am not sure how or why I ended up tuning in to the BIG ANNOUNCEMENT episode tonight. But I clicked on it and never looked away.

What I saw, what I heard saddened me more deeply than I anticipated. It saddened me because the words they each said -- about choosing to separate, about trying to find happiness, about hoping for friendship, about having absolutely no relatioship left with the person they are married to -- sounded so damn familiar. Except for the bit about striving for friendship (no thanks), it could have been a script out of my own divorce.

I don't feel sorry for Jon because I don't understand how a person can choose such a damaging, unfair, disrespectful way to leave a family, all in the name of finding himself. I do feel for Kate, not as the cringe-worthy mother but as wife on the end of all that other crap, and only because I understand how scary and sad it is to face the end of a love affair and the beginning of being the official primary parent.

Of course, I feel for the kids. Oh, those kids. But that's not what surprised me. It surprised me that I ached in relating to the parents.

Sure, they have cameras and access and money now. One day, the show will be cancelled and the parents will be left with split holidays and kids trying to play Jon against Kate. One day, the kids will be awkward teens and taller and louder than their mother's yelling and overhear the dad complaining about child support or never really completely escaping Kate's control. I mean, unless by luck or the grace of God, something goes differently for that family than too many others.

I am not Kate Gosselin and I am the mother of one child. But I have certainly had my yelly mommy moments, had horrible hair (and skin), acted out and been a bitch out of a need to be right or ahead or in control. That said, I also did my very best to get through my divorce. It wasn't always pretty.And I certainly am glad it wasn't all captured on camera or splashed across magazines. That was (and is) their choice, but divorce doesn't care if you are famous or not. It brings the bullshit no matter who you are or how much money or how many kids you have.

But maybe, they really will find happiness outside of their marriage, the family that was, possibly even the show. I was as full of pain and anger and fear that I imagine Kate is right now, and I have found more happiness than I ever dreamed. Than I ever dreamed when I first filed for divorce, and even long before I realized my marriage was over.

Not all divorcing or divorced people are the same. This I know. But I can't deny the similarities that I saw and heard tonight. I can't watch Jon & Kate anymore, but I also can't pretend that there's not some reality behind that reality TV.

Let me be your little Friday the 13th good luck charm

Today, life is happy and good. Although it's pretty tough to ignore the date, I'm choosing to rebel against all that silly symbology. This will be a lucky day, dammit.

And since I have your attention, how about tuning in to a few more shrilly things on my radar?

• Whachoutalkinbout, Willis? No, seriously. Is anything sacred? Is any monument exempt from corporate narcissism? Because I've got on my rebel boots today, I'm telling you I refuse to refer to this skyscraper any other way than I always have. Kind of like Comiskey. And Alpine Valley.

• Who cares about buildings when you've got this? And yes, I did earn a master's degree in Women Studies so I could rightfully own phrases like that one.

• Hello (Kitty), future. Maybe one day, I will meet a handsome man wearing these (hey, who doesn't love a guy in crazy manties?), seduce him with my purring ways, fall truly madly deeply, have another baby (hey, who doesn't love a fresh babe wrapped it crazy kitty blankets?) and live happily ever after. Shut up. It could happen.

• ...and then some kind of smart and quippy segue about horrifying Hello Kitties to one of our favorite bloggers, Bad Kitty. Yes, Bad Kitty, who gives quite possibly the best reality TV analysis ever written right here. 
  

Once upon a time I was an intern

Many years ago, before I spent my days and wee hours in front of a laptop, I spent my days and wee hours in front of a line editing machine at my college television station, all around campus and town interviewing people for the college newspaper, huddled over a light table for the college yearbook and tucked into a tiny booth for the college radio station. I was a journalism major to the geekiest degree.

My senior year, I was simultaneously the producer of the news (have I mentioned once or four-thousand times that I hired the lovely Jenna Fischer, now Pam from The Office, to be one of the anchors of the program I wrote, directed, edited and produced? I even have the scripts to prove it), had a weekly radio show, was Sports Editor of the yearbook (I know, I know) and was a contributing reporter for the paper. I loved it all so much and was so immersed in every aspect of on-campus media that it never occurred to me to be less involved.

At the time, my ambition was to be a columnist for Details magazine.

Ohhhhh, you're supposed to update these things?

It has been a long and winding week. I am happy to have a lot of work that makes me happy. And I had a settlement meeting that means my divorce is actually moving forward. Then there is the exhausting daily blessing of bedtime and stories and Candyland and wiping a runny nose and doing half-ballet/half-stumble moves to navigate over plastic cars and tools and bracelets I thought had disappeared completely as I step out of the shower. Don't forget the phone calls that never get returned and the emails I keep reading and marking as unread so I remember to respond to them and then keep not responding to anyway. Add the thousands of Post-It to-do lists and the packed-full and scratched out and doodled on calendar. Oh, and the facial. Remember how I promised myself a facial months ago?

I know, I know. Get over myself. We're all here on this crowded, mildewy-smelling, over-scheduled boat. All I'm saying is, here are a few things that made me stop worrying about all the rocking back and forth and just enjoy the loveliness on the horizon and all around me, if only for a moment (or post) or two.

This made me teary. And it made me so grateful I know so many women who are so gifted and brilliant and amazing and inspiring.

This made me laugh out loud. And wonder what ever happened to my Miss Piggy lunchbox.

This made me grab my credit card.  At a bridal shower where we made our own custom 1154 Lill bags (shut up if you think you had to be a Trixie in 2001 to have one of these...they are still as killer as ever, baby), I was so entranced by the fabrics I almost couldn't (gasp) design my own bag. Alas, it was these three sumptuous don't-even-think-of-putting-your-preschooler-soy-butter-hands -on-this-masterpiece fabrics that won my heart on a sweet little reversible bag that I swear I will love always. Or at least until my next purse party. The pics don't do the swatches justice...just gorg.

This keeps me up at night. I kid you not. Sure, this show is on MTV and is like watching the goofy guys in the back of your Human Sexuality class in college doodle on the pictures in the textbook. But just like back then, I cannot help myself. I dare you to watch and a) not laugh out loud, b) not wish for a large black man sidekick who calls you "son" and 3) wonder if it would be weird for you to wear one of the Big Black over-sized tees and caps to playgroup. Watch. You'll see.

Hallelujah. Idol finally gets good.

American Idol's on during the night time rush in our house, when I am working all the mama magic I can muster to get the boy bathed, pajamaed, brushed, booked and cuddled and in bed.

Now that Lil E's had a taste of this season's Idol contestants, though, it is good to take a pause, settle into the couch for a few minutes and watch some of the performances while we all wind down.

Last week, we turned on the TV just in time to see Amanda hit the stage in full streaked hair, tight pant glory, belting out some forgettable song or another and Lil E gasped.

"SHE'S BEAUTIFUL!" he yelled out. "I mean, I like her pants!"

Despite my initial shock, it reminded me of his wistful admiration for Gina last season. Apparently, a nice little fascination with wannabe grrrl rockers with bootays, piercings and multi-home-colored hair is developing while Lil E practices singing Row Row Row Your Boat over and over in the living room corner for his own much-anticipated AI audition. That's cool...I guess.

This week, we watched the guys perform and it was my turn to be a little entranced. I'll be honest, they had me at "80s Hits." I loved David Cook hard-rocking the Lionel Richie and even wee David Archuleta's light rock but belted-out Celiney version of Another Day in Paradise.

For me, though, Jason Castro took the night with his soulful version of Hallelujah. Other than tight ribbed t-shirts, I would have never guessed Simon and I have a commonality in loving this song and this performance. Jeff Buckley's rendition of Hallelujah is at the top of my playlist faves as well and without getting all Paula in my praise, I will say that I thought this was a really good one for Jason.

Crank it up for your own mid-day crooning in your cube or at the kitchen table.

Awwww yeah, Idol's back

I haven't been watching a lot of TV lately. Since I'm sharing it with my parents and their slight obsession with home improvement, home buying and home selling shows that come in two or three similar flavors with two or three slightly-varied names, that's mostly what I see. The writer's strike has helped ease the shakes of prime time withdrawal, as has not being able to record any shows to watch during ridiculously late hours.

But that's all about to change now that American Idol's back on. For the love of Daughtry, I just can't help myself. For the sweet sweet country crooning of Carrie Underwood, I can't tear myself away from even the awful auditions and embarrassing people all caked in glitter cream and unrealistic dreams of pop greatness.

While Lil E was wondering where Gina was in the line of people auditioning, I was worried about this disillusioned boy who got uncomfortable and uncontrollable laughter from Paula and Randy.

But the hopeful (and I clearly use that term loosely) that I can't stop thinking about is this guy. Was he kidding? I mean, is this guy too Borat to be real or what?

And did he really say that he wants to love a good woman from the hair down to their nipple? And that his current girlfriend says he is a "sexyface" and he's good with that? Maybe it was the intense rendition of that BeeGees song that made me wonder.

I'm just surprised producers didn't follow that up with a plea for this Yuka dude to wrestle nakey with some big hairy man they pulled out of line for some montage segment.

Ohhhhnonononono. And what I mean by that is, Oh yes. Oh hell yes. I'm not even missing awkward Izzie-George sex with this goodness going on. 

We interrupt this Thursday for two bits of Onion goodness

Before we all get all weepy over Grey's tonight (what will happen with Izzy and George after all???), I thought it would be good to get a nice, hearty laugh in courtesy The Onion.

If you, head-shakingly like me, have actually had a crush on a smarty fancy pants guy who turned out to be far from the Venti Coffee of the Day with 18 sugars you hoped he'd be:

Fancy Man Enjoys Tea

YOUNGSTOWN, OH—"I normally have some Earl Grey in the morning," said Baumer, referring to the tea named after a guy who ran around England in a wig and fruity tights.

If you, pathetically like me, have actually heard the words "you should never get so thin that you lose your tits" come out of a man/hook-up/boyfriend/husband/frat dick's mouth, read on:

Women Have To Stop Starving Themselves Past The Point Of Hotness

Avoiding eating in order to improve your appearance is part of being a woman, and it's natural for a woman to devote all of her time to achieving...

Is it just me or...

Is Marie Osmond actually good? Like, bordering on sizzling good? I love a little bit country in the form of a curvy grrrl working it on the dance floor.

Is the new Bachelor just another partially bearded, buffed up dud? Zzzzzz...big bucks and pecs does not a hottie husband make, ladies. His only endearing quality to me is when he laughs at the women's dumb attention-getting antics confession style.

And am I the only one who thinks a producer totally pushed that sorority babe certainly non-drinking and  velour lounge-suit wearing woman down the big old marble stairs? You know the crew was laughing, pouring those Juicy Couture ladies giant bordeaux glasses full of pear vodka, hoping for a filmable mishap. Strikingly similar to the Beven sprained ankle incident. Coincidence? Ohhh ohh oh, I think not. That's the goods. 

Are all of you just biding time until Dirty Sexy Money is on again? Yowza.  So funny, so now, and as Self-Made Mom says, oh so Dallas for a new generation.

What are you watching and wondering?

Is it just me or...

Does anyone else miss Mary on Age of Love?

Maybe I just have a deep desire to pull the hair of perky 20somethings (or at least those with upright, fake boobies and absolutely no sense of altruism whatsoever, usually accompanied by an irritating, snorty laugh), but I miss Mary crying all the time to a national audience, God and the other 20somethings in the condo.

This show is so bad, I can't stop watching it. And really, it was so much better with Weepy Mary. It's not the same without you, sister.

Who's with me on this?

Pish Posh

Bruce's reviews of Victoria Beckham: Coming to America go something like this:

"This is just effing amazing. I mean, really amazing." Followed by an eyeroll, of course.

"Wow, this is heinous TV."

"I'm losing IQ points every time it comes back from commercial break."

And then, with one simple little word and a chuckle from the other side of the couch, it all turned around.

"It was totally worth watching that whole show just to hear Posh say 'knickers'! I'm going to start saying knickers. Look at me in my knickers!"

And so it goes, another convert to crap TV.  OK, so he's long been a crap TV connoisseur. But now, after years of wearing him down enough to actually wonder who gets eliminated from America's Next Top Model, he may just also start to care just a teense about itty bitty Posh Spice.

I was surprised a bit myself that Vicky was sort of funny and that she could throw out a good comeback in the midst of posing and trying hard to lift her kabob stick legs that are weighted down by ridiculously heavy shoes that obviously make up more than 25% of her total body weight.

I did have a few broader spectrum observations (or broader spectrum than "Dayyyyum, where'd she get that killer lip gloss?"" and "Who is working on the personal assistant? She went from frumpy to cute in one segment!"). And yes, this is the part where I get all psychoanalytic on Posh's micro-ass, where I invest my 20 academic years into dissecting crap-fabulous "reality" TV.

I'm picking up some serious jealousy/territorial issues from Vicky, no matter how many times the one "I love you" tape is looped or how all-up-on each other she and Becks were in the W photo shoot (which was smokin' hot, am I right?). Several times when people mentioned him -- Perez, the awkward and fragile personal assistant, in her opening monologue -- she reacted defensively. Of course, there's a producer somewhere checking off "dial up suspicions of Posh's jealous nature" from her big clipboard editing and marketing to-do list. However, it makes me curious if all that starvation and obsession with how she looks and posing and pouting is about this air of superiority to mask the insecurity she feels in having a hubs with abs carved out like Crazy Horse.

I'm just wondering.

And in the final reel of little laughs and drunken teetering, did you notice that her people always circle around her? It must take a celeb a little further from reality every time they have to be the center of it all. All day, every day. Don't you think?

You know those moments when you are your most hilarious, most engaging, most en fuego self?  Of course you do! You're at a party or a bar and you're telling some crazy story and suddenly there is a little circle of friends around you, laughing and wiping the tears of comedy from their eyes. It is a real rush. And it is also exhausting. Who could keep that up all the time?

Especially Vicky. The woman barely has enough body fat to get her out of bed and into the make-up and hair chair in the morning. How in the hell does she stay at the center of everyone's attention all day long?

Analysis aside, I did quite enjoy the producer-dreamed-up antics that Posh and her people carried out. She was quite cute with Perez and the whole blow-up doll adventure was a hoot. I laughed my ass off at the big old Frankenstein high-heeled "trainers" she wore to throw out the first pitch at a Dodgers game and that all the socialites she partied with clearly picked out the same eyes from the big sheet of options when they had their first face lifts.

So what can I say? I'm hooked. For episode two, I'm dying to see her in carpool and then getting her gossip on with someone else with an unpredictable streak, someone slightly kooky and strangely engaging.

Maybe Lisa Rinna? Nicole Richie? Rebecca Romijn?

Who's the American version of Victoria Beckham and who would be the perfect A- or B-lister to dish out the Hollywood gossip with her?


photo credit: Doug Peters/PA EMPICS/ABACA

Don't forget to take your extensions with you

Oh. Thank. God.

I thought my lovey Beat Box Boy was going to be the next sacrifice to the Sanjaygod. That might've meant a full-scale attention diversion to Pussycat Dolls and the very real possibility of being called to surrender my feminist card. Phew.

One more note for the Underbelly

Good Lord, make the commercials stop.

Underbelly has finally aired and I laughed. I related. I even paid attention to a few of the commercials. So please, please, PR team all cranked up on Red Bull and Pom, ease down the push. I can't take it anymore.

Sure, I laugh every single time I see that more-motherly-rocking-the-barrette Karen say "And maternity underwear's big but it's uh-so comfy!"

Sure, I asked Bruce fourteen times if he was taping it* tonight just in case. You know, just in case the boy wakes up satanically gurgling for his paci or to GET OUT, MOMMY!

Just in case my mom calls or Bruce's mom calls or anything else that could possibly occur that would cause me to miss the actual show after watching what feels like hours of those effing commercials for what has to months of this campaign to recruit mommies, daddies, nanas (I guess, with the inclusion of that freakily melodramatic menopause commercial only to be followed by a -- pause for the eeeeuuuw at the chronology of its invention -- laxative commercial) and all the To-Bes who skipped the second go-around with the Babies R Us "tazer" to saddle up on their couches with me.

And sure, I hope it slows down. Way down. Maybe even, I don't know, STOPS. As a reward for all that playing along, tuning in and even chuckling at the many Doooods the hubbie on the show spewed out, we could be trusted to consult TVGuide.com or maybe just remember the (changing, but still) time slot. By God, I think we've earned it.

Whaddaya say? Can we leave the adverts with the wiper warmer in the way-back?



* Do not poke fun of the obvious 90s-like lack of TiVo, DVR and other gadgetry that would clearly enhance the obvious 80s-like lack of cable and can probably be synced up in ways that befuddle me obvious 00s-lack of Blackberry, Palm, iPod.

Linkety Dinkety Doo: All Mama

Grab a gimlet, grrrls. It's Thursday, the Underbelly press headache is about to break and I have on my cha-cha boots. Hell, I might even put on some peep toes as a little flip to the snow and 30-degree craziness as we walk to playgroup tomorrow. What could be better?

Every grrrl's gotta have her own Gift Guide. Here's mine over at That's Fit. My one commenter thinks it is "lame," which actually gave me a hearty laugh over my coffee double-glugged with sugar-free vanilla creamer. You know what's more lame than a gift guide, dude? A woman who unwraps a delux shower caddy.*

The gift of a former-Friend-unsuccumbed-to-the-cancellation-curse. Oh thank God.

Damn! My birthday gift slipped out from under me.

Hot damn! My Mother's Day gift has surfaced.










* Cringe along with me...and my (very forgiving) grrrl, Paula Rae.

Let's talk Larry

Erm, excuse the absense. I was on a much-needed spring break sanity vacay. That is, the kidlet was on spring break and Elmo was not living up to his babysitting bargain. Plus, I was waiting around to find out who Danielynn's daddy is.

OK, waiting around may not be accurate. I wasn't waiting around in the stalking the grocery aisles for the newest edition of Us Weekly waiting or even the flipping past ET to Access waiting. But I admit I had a moment or four when I thought, "Where the hell are those DNA results anyway?"

And now they are back. Not exactly CSI-time warp speed but in time for the 5 o'clock news nonetheless.

Larry's the proud papa and Other-Howard Stern will fade into the background, wiping his brow in relief.

Other than some super-tight forehead lifting, it seems to me that Larry Birkhead's pretty genuine. At least in the snapshots we've seen painstakingly played over and over and over on (was this necessary?) ET's coverage of Anna Nicole's funeral and elsewhere I'm slightly ashamed I visited (but only slightly).  He seems to have clear concern about his daughter's well-being and he seems to still be very much in love with the woman I cringe to hear constantly referred to as "the former topless dancer."

After all, how many men have cartoony Anna Nicole's splayed across their sacrums? OK, maybe a lot. But you can betchyerass Other-Howard doesn't have one.

Now that this piece of the puzzle's been fitted, the inevitable custody games will begin.

Clearly, the fate of a baby girl is no laughing matter. She's lost a lot already, much more than the possibility of all that money and contrived legacy left behind by her mother will ever remedy.

But seriously, the characters here are just as caricatured as Baby Daddy's tat. You can bet that the players will be a weepy Big Lar and Anna Nicole's mama Virgie Arthur, likely wearing yet another mother-of-the-bride dress in court.

Just as Virgie's sheer sleeves won't necessarily make her a bad caregiver for Danielynn, Big Lar's poppy pink tie against a stately suit won't make him a family court dream either. Still, the lovelorn Larry will probably go home with Danielynn in arms, with some kind of cash settlement or at least agreement for the star child to grace rural Kentucky (or wherever) on spring vacations of her own.

Sure, there's a sadness to this story. And there's some head-shaking stupidity. Part of that I accept for myself, for being so sucked in and so involved in a web of nothing.

Yet, here I am glad that Other-Howard is going home to all his fake prescriptions and unmet deals with shady docs while Big Lar's getting ready to cuddle his girl. Tears falling from his sparkly blue eyes and slightly-shifted hairline trembling.





 

AI, according to Bruce

On Melinda: "Oh no. Did she just make that little white girl cry?"

On Sanjaya: "What the hell?"

On my new boyfriend Beat Box Boy (and sarcastically, I might add): "Oh really. You like him. What a shock."

On other matters: "You taped over Dancing With The Stars. But I haven't watched it yet."

God, I love this man.

Dancing With The Stars: Five nods and at least one big no

1. Apolo Anton Ohhhh-yes. Skinny? Yes. Slightly cheesey? Yes. Over-soul patched? Yes. Axel Rosed out on the headband? Of course. Making it to the finals? Indeed.

2. Joey Fatone. Yeah, you picked up a coupla steps from cross-steppin' wit JT way back. You worked it out. Now dial down the frat dick* routine a bit and you'll be aiight.

3. Ian Ziering. You've got the smile of fifth grade boy threatened by his mother to finally take a school photo she can send to grandma (only with whiter teeth). And didn't you cheat on your hottie-boombalottie supermodel wife (oh wait, that was Mario Lopez last  season...or maybe Mario gave Ian the hook up at the club meeting)? But you swiveled those hips like you're gunning for the gold in that "onesie", baby. Or at least like you're gunning for my former hairdresser's station at Red Door.**

4. Laila, you may have swayed the odds pre-show in Vegas but I think you've fallen back a bit to the boys. Not to worry, though, 'cause grrrrrrrl, you made that glammy gown look bad-ass!

5. P-Double, you've been on my husband's Top Five since that Cars video with the fly. I secretly love that you referred to yourself as Bullwinkle, a likeable mix with your stunning skin, swan neck and endearing overbite. I can't help but (totally embarassing daytime admission in 3...2...1) love Leeza, but I don't think she's much competition for you with all those drooling former frat dicks (see "Joey Fatone") dialing in right now. I've purposely chosen not to mention the H-word just because of absolute boredom. Already.

Now for the DWTS buh-bye:

Shandi and  Brian, puhhhhlease. Did you really squeal when that one kooky judge said you were like a living Barbie and Ken, as if that was prize enough? And enough about your collective underage hotness. Just bow and smile politely when you are kicked off this week, knowing full well you have a date already planned to see the (eeeee!) Pussycat Dolls and then break every freaking Donald Trump and a chaperone rule in the Miss USA book with a disappointingly short "first dance" in Brian's Mustang.

John Ratzenberger, don't think you've got the luck of the Springer on your side. And when you do go, my strange friend, I will be happy to relive the night you chatted my friends and I up in a bar near Rush Street. What makes me laugh is that I am pretty sure Edyta rolls her eyes at your lines, too.

*Some of my best friends are frat dicks...so shut up. Bruce is totally a former reformed frat dick and has given me full and free consent to use this term to the fullest of its lovely connotations. 

**I'm not judgin', I'm just sayin'.

Photo credit: abclocal.go.com

Please God, no more Dragon Tales

Dear PBS,
I understand that resources are tight for non-profits and that you need to have fund drives every other month to keep Caillou coming.

I understand that snippets of Celtic Woman and the allure of tickets to see Donald Trump at the Learning Annex must be a big draw for the Gold Coast gentlemen and North Shore twin set set.

But please, I beg of you, for all of us mommies who need a shower or to schedule a conference call or just a second cup of sanity in our days with our beloved and exhausting children, stop fucking with the Sesame Street schedule.

You're killing me ovah here.

Meow-see TV

Ahhhh, the Pussycat Dolls and their monumental quest to pluck the perfect "girl" from the masses to become the next garter-wearing, booty-shimmying, vibratto-indulging, extension-flipping member of the group.  This, my friends, is the kind of crap TV I live for.

I was exhausted last night after trying to have a normal day and trying to cut back on the miracle-ibuprofen, so I sprawled out on my bed with a frozen pizza and indulged in sixty minutes of stuff-strutting with the PCD-wannabes.

Here's a briefcap:

The 18 "girls" women who made it to the semi-finals were divvied into groups to learn a PCD number. They rehearsed and rehearsed and were awed at the women who sang flat or couldn't grasp the dance moves immediately. 

Of course, a bitchy little choreographer in a scarf I swear I wore constantly during the Lucky Star years and a big old intimidating black dude vocal coach who gave disappointing looks and boot camp inspirational speeches.

Of course, some women were sizing up their competition and of course, there was the obligatory motivational field trip to see the real PCDs in concert and squeals to meet the group backstage. Of course, there were several "I can't believe this is happening to me..." wistful moments.

The awful/awesome parts of this show were:

* Many of the women contracted a stomach virus and spent the days leading up to the final audition passing out and puking. Granted, I really didn't need to see the actual retching (thank you, Fox...I mean, CW), but the drama was nice and high.

* The big speech about how sickness is no excuse for a poor audition while a team of medics, doctors and IVs were at the ready off-stage.

* Nine women were picked in the end  and given cheesey hot pink boas that they will have to surrender as they are eliminated (not as funny as tagged All-Stars, but they'll do).

The women look (not so) surprisingly similar, but I'm gunning for Mariela and underdog/cutie patootie/overarched eyebrowed Chelsea (who sucked it up in the audition but managed to pull her IV out and her ass off of the bed blanket on the backstage floor in time to dance-dance-dance, and I have to give props for that performance). Anastacia, with her incredibly long legs and goooooorgeous bod and goddess hair (even PCD lead singer Nicole commented on her goddessness with an embarassed snicker) seems to be a clear favorite.

And if she isn't, I am sure Tyra will take a liking to her one studio over.

Speaking of America's Next Top Model...flip to it tonight during the 84 Idol commercials. Yeehar. Thank God Kathleen was booted last week. Here's hoping the Greyhound ride home bumped a little sense through her big old mo-helmet of hair. I'm loving bartender Brittany and for some odd reason, wingnutalicious Jael.

OK, people, must. stop. now. My Ms. magazine is screaming politely calling to me after all this flat ab obsessing and Barbie complexing.