Obama poster Bloutout™

Feeling a wee bit too productive at work because of the inauguration coming atcha? Have an excess of Hope and Change to burn off as we bid Bush ado? Have you met: Obaniconme?

Not since the great personalized M&M debacle have I wasted this much time customizing something for friends and family.

Let's meet Kate's supporting players!


The Kosher Cupcake I used to babysit.


Here she is testing out my glasses.


KC and another baby friend enjoying a snack.


My brother modeling his second-favorite Christmas present after the blanket "so soft it makes me wish I had polio."


My mom, looking like a dame from a noir film.


My dad, showing off my parents' comically oversized remote.


Hey, and speaking of things that are comically oversized, it's the previously discussed pink bunny pants...


...which - I wasn't exaggerating - really were big enough for my sister and me.

Oh my God! "Seniors" got lodged in my ass!

Whether you somehow lit your baseball bat on fire just before the shoot or had the word "Seniors" get lodged in your ass, your senior portrait shoot can be fraught with peril.

Remember a few years ago when you passed your pictures out to everyone in the cafeteria and they were all, "OMG, your hair is so cute! And this posed representation totally captured you and your rebellious ways! I can tell just by looking at your hopeful, noble gaze into the future that you are destined for success in any field you choose."

Well, they were lying. You looked ridiculous. Thanks to the magic of Google, it can be quantified how ridiculous. Let's explore.


This handsome devil decided to tell the world he played snare drum in the school band by looking like a reject from the Electric Mayhem. (Fig. 2)




DRAMA CLUB! She's sassy and she doesn't care who knows it.


And he's... boy sassy? Auditioning for the new 90210? You know when a young model hopeful poses for a photographer and he talks her into taking her top off and she regrets it? This is the male equivalent.


Oh my God, you brought your horse.


Ever wonder what would happen if a baby fell into a well and the community didn't rally to get it out? This. He would emerge 16 years later as a fully formed adult, ready to take on the world.




This is all solid advice, and all of it's directed at him:


But Moo-oom, none of the other kids have to pose in front of the flag.


Here's some more great tips on making your portrait memorable!



That's right. Never fear. Your crossed eye can be digitally fixed. Unlike whatever is happening behind Corey.




Speaking of Corey, know what's hot, hot, hot right now? Posing on railroad tracks.







Because nothing sums up a high school senior's future quite like smiling obliviously while the 3:20 train to Real Life comes rumbling up behind you.

But I don't want to be a bunny!

Like all families, mine has certain Christmas traditions we must abide by. My dad writes silly notes from Santa on our gifts, there's an all-out holy war for control of the heat and - my favorite tradition of all - we haul down my mom's kitchen crucifix to replace it with a nutcracker cookie cutter. Tis the season.

My mom is easily the most religious person I know, so it's great fun that she allows this, with the technicality that "Jesus is in our hearts" or somesuch.

With the Lord safely removed from our kitchen, we took to looking up the schedule for Christmas mass. I heard a gasp from my mom, some conferring in the kitchen with my dad, then a guffaw from my brother.

That's right. On the holiest day of the Liturgical calendar, we overslept for Holy Spirit's 9 a.m. mass and thought we could catch St. Joe's 10:30. We could have too, except that their mass was at 10. I was putting on a final coat of mascara on as the (bad?) news came in. I sat down and ate another cinnamon roll.

To put this in perspective, my mom missing Christmas mass is like John Roberts oversleeping for the first day of Supreme Court.

"Nobody get out of fancy clothes! We're taking a family picture!" Dad worked through his disappointment through photography.

Then, still basking in our reprieve from the governor, we sat down to open our gifts.

Mom got a GPS system. Know where that could have lead us to? Church.
Kevin got a nice new coat. Know where that would've looked smashing? Church.
Dad got a bottle of Jameson's. Know where that would've been happily passed in a flask? Pew three at St. Joe's.

I'd mentioned in passing to my mom that I think I'd put on a few pounds when the weather got cold. What followed was either a show of support for my comfort, or a cruel, cruel joke...

I excitedly opened the box. Pants. Pink, fuzzy pj pants. I tugged on one leg and the material kept coming, like a handkerchief up a clown's sleeve.

I would have never have been able to fit into these even the week before I birthed octuplets. My sister and I each climbed into a leg and hopped down the hall.

With that merriment behind us, we all retired for some TV watching and computer time. My mom checked CNN headlines and announced Eartha Kitt had died. Then she announced Eartha was a whore.

We all let out a collective WHAAAAAAAA? as mom nonchalantly walked into the kitchen. I never did figure out what she was talking about. Was it this passage in the story?

Offstage, however, Kitt described herself as shy and almost reclusive.

"I'm an orphan. But the public has adopted me and that has been my only family," she told the Post online.

So what did we learn about my mom this year?: She hates the Baby Jesus, thinks I'm fat and has a personal vendetta with Eartha Kitt.

Merry Christmas to all.

"Thanks for your committment to Christmas"

Now this is Christmas. (Take a note, Amazon!) My friend, this gal,recently got a letter to Santa written by a young friend of her family. Yes, this is real. Yes, he's in elementary school. Yes, this is why I'd be a terrible Santa, cause if I'm getting a letter like this, I'm going to be like, "Screw it" and empty my sack of toys at this kid's house.

Dear Santa,

I think I've been a pretty good boy this year. When I've been crazy I just wanted to play with {sister}. My report card came out super! So I've been a good kid in and out of school. I only want these five gifts because when I watched Fred Claus I realized you were struggling. This is my list.

1. Guitar and guitar lessons
2. DS games like Backyard Baseball 09 and Diddy Kong racing
3. Baseball glove
4. 2nd Golden Compass book
5. iPod shuffle

Thanks for your committment to Christmas.

"Ryan Smith"



I think this lad needs to run seminars for other kids on how to construct the perfect letter to Santa. I've made him a few talking points. It's up to him to get it into PowerPoint.

1. Set expectations low. You haven't been the best kid ever, you've been "pretty good." That way when Santa goes digging into your record there are no surprises.

2. Be specific! Give examples. Were you good at school? Nice to your sister? Show him.

3. Sum up your main thesis: "I've been a good kid in and out of school."

4. It's never too late to butter up the big man. He's a busy guy. There's a recession on. Tell him you understand his plight. (4a: Watch Fred Claus for further details.)

5. Keep it short. One trick here is to ask for a number of big-ticket items to keep the numbers low while maintaining a standard of gift quality.

6. Sign off with a sincere thanks for his commitment to Christmas. It's a big undertaking every year. Show him your gratitude.

7. Sign your full name. The man knows when you're sleeping and knows when you're awake, but there's bound to be multiple kids with your first name who've made the "good" list this year.

You're making things worse, Amazon

I've never been one to online shop much for the holidays, preferring to crowd surf and throw elbows. The way Jesus would want.

But this year I've tiptoed into the world of Amazon, where I've purchased a host of redacted gifts for friends and loved ones for Christmas, and one copy of Shalom Sesame (Sesame Street in Hebrew!) for a Chanukah gift for a special Kosher Cupcake I used to babysit.

Amazon is maybe less clear than one might hope on the meaning of words like Hebrew and Israel and Shalom, as evidenced by the fact that they ask me if I need it shipped in time for Christmas. Fail, Amazon. Or should I say: פייל אמזון, פייל עמזון



Unrelated, but exciting: I learned that Oscar the Grouch has a Hebrew cousin, Moishe Oofnik, translated as "Moyshe the complainer."

Top: Neel Kashkari, the Interim Assistant Secretary of the Treasury for Financial Stability in the United States Department of the Treasury

Middle: A bald eagle

Bottom: Sam the Eagle

All of them enjoy: Posing in front of flags, clawing eyes out, eating fish, not being endangered, being noble and majestic.

Fun facts:

• Only Neel is actually bald

• Ben Franklin lobbied to make Neel our national bird

• Two out of three have seen Gonzo naked

• Kate is shopping around a pilot for a buddy sitcom with Neel and Sam as long-lost brothers. It's called Kash & Kari. NBC midseason replacement for Kath & Kim perhaps?

Fairly unbalanced

Fox News (I'm still obsessed!) ran a piece today about the Obama family getting ready to decorate the White House and relaying what sort of food first families have enjoyed. (Chelsea liked Kraft Mac and Cheese! And Obama's little girls like ice cream.) Awwww. (Unrelated: I want to be those kids' white nanny in some sort of '80s sitcom scenario.)

But this is Fox News, so things took a turn to the predictably racist early on in the comments, with each bunker huddler frantically clacking their fingers over the keys to get their fried-chicken jabs in first.