I know this picture has been out for a day or so, but I couldn’t resist posting it.

Have I told you how parallel my life is with that of Sarah Jessica Parker’s? I mean, we have sons born a couple of weeks apart, and then lo and behold, my daughter is due only a few months from when Sarah’s were!

Coincindence? I think not.

Let’s just forget about the parts which have her being a megastar and marrying Ferris Bueller. Those don’t match up, and I’m conveniently leaving them out.

But, I’m looking at James Wilkie in this photo. I’m not exactly seeing utter joy and happiness on his face as he gazes down at one of his twin sisters. Not to say that he looks unhappy, but it is more of a look that you would give to an interesting and/or dubious item on your dinner plate, no?

You know, there are times when I really dislike the FDA. Imagine how much easier our lives could be, ladies!

And here’s our quote of the day, from Paul Drielsma in the NYT, via Kottke:

Scour the parenting forums on the Internet and you’ll find the common lament that “DH” (darling husband) expects a medal whenever he “babysits” junior for a few hours. I have little sympathy for DH in these cases, but maybe a step in the right direction would be to stop using language that suggests hired help — to stop referring to DH’s job in the same terms as somebody who could legitimately stick his hand out at the end of his shift and demand a tip. DH isn’t babysitting, he’s parenting, and just changing that one word changes, for me at least, all sorts of connotations.

Perhaps a few learning aids would help?

Last week I asked how you felt about male circumcision in babies.  The results came out with fifty four percent of the vote calling it “unnecessary and barbaric,” although special mention must be made that an anti-circumcision group got ahold of the poll and in my mind, skewed the results.

Thirty seven percent felt that it was entirely up to the parents to decide, and I’m with the thirty seven percent.  Although I’m fairly sure that without outside intervention, this number would have been much, much higher.  

Today, I want to focus on divorce, with Jon and Kate Gosselin being in the news about their impending one.

What’s happenin’, dudes and dudettes? We’ve got a dy-no-mite winner of our groovy Friday Caption Contest, and that’s no jive.

Frontier Former Editor Says:
June 28th, 2009 at 8:50 am

The founding meeting of Celebrity Families With Children Having Gender Identity Issues . . .

Congratulations and imaginary swag to Frontier Former Editor. And now, for the presentation of some suitably swinging swag. Give a feverish welcome to the groovaliciousPUMA Cell Meio in oh-so-fashionable orange.

 I don’t know why, but I have a weakness for hooded towels.

I hadn’t really been all that familar with them before the Munchkin was born, and thus sort of ignored them as “non-necessary” items, even though I got quite a few of them as shower gifts.

Apparently, everybody but me knew how totally adorable babies and kids look while wearing them.  My heart melted when I first beheld the infant Munchkin with one on, and I have the feeling more of them will be finding their way into our house.

Mullins Square Hooded Towel Monkey

Mullins Square Hooded Towel Flower

I dunno if you’ve been following the heartwarming(ish) saga of Harvey Kindlon, a boy with a fascination for celebrity and a soon-to-be-deleted Facebook account. But you are about to become acquainted with the closest thing the celebrity gossip blogosphere has to classic tragedy, with bonus Hollywood happy ending tacked tackily on.

Here is Harvey, doing his thing a few days ago:

That image would speak for itself, if in fact Harvey were a normal, enthralled 11-year Megan Fox fan. In fact, he’s a semi-regular celebrity hound of generic ilk, who sadly doesn’t really give a rat’s patootie about the Brunette du Jour except that she is indeed du Jour. But someone at Kodak saw this heart-wrenching picture and decided to mend the heart that had been so clearly broken; they offered a $5000 reward for information leading to the identification of the Boy with the Yellow Rose. Like a newfangled detective force of the internets, they got their fan.

Surprisingly, he’s not Texan at all:

Tell us about what happened that night.
We’d heard she was in London for the premiere, so we decided to head down there. I picked up the rose on the way.

And when she came by and didn’t take your flower, did you feel rejected?
I felt rejected. But I couldn’t really tell if she’d done it on purpose. There were so many cameras around. She was moving really fast. Afterwards we ran through the hotel, but she didn’t stop. I dropped the rose on the ground and went home.

Have you accepted her apology?
I actually haven’t heard anything that she’s said.

So do you want to go into the entertainment industry when you’re done with school?
I really love to sing and dance and act. I’m trying to get into a stage school in London, but it’s really hard to get an audition.

I bet you’ll get an audition now, now that everyone knows who you are.
I hope so.

Harvey, buddy, please. I’m not sure I know of a single comedy, drama or musical that requires a tragic pubescent rose-thrower. Although if there was, even Simon Cowell would have to give it to you.

Behold the “Vibram Five Fingers,” a shoe that is to ninja feet what the abominable Croc is to honest, old-fashioned Dutch boy footwear, what the Hummer is to men who have impressive or even just adequate reproductive tackle: in other words, what we have here is yet another example of a voracious consumer class taking a good thing (like bare feet) and spoiling it for the rest of us. Which is, face it, what the middle class seems to spend most of its time doing.

Digression: have you noticed that, no matter who they are, people in the Europe and North America invariably both claim to be middle class (“Oh, we’re just plain Windsors now”) and hate the middle class? It’s true. Self-hatred or branding exercise? But I digress…

We were discussing the world’s ugliest footwear; at this point, the fug is Adult-Only, and we can only pray these things go the way of the (also fugly, but the poor things couldn’t help it) dodo before they come out with a children’s line.

They have a “Classic Edition” as if giving this thing a respectable name could somehow make up for the eye-searing loathesomeness. And they have an even more hideous version which I shall not show you, for those who think their feet just don’t look enough like those of an alien who is wading in a Norwegian Fjord while getting a pedicure from a drunk Cher impersonator.

Not that I’m opinionated about these things.