I made a meme ...

DO NOT CONGRATULATE IVANKA FOR MATCHING HER DISPOSABLE LAB GLOVES TO HER HOT TOPIC EYESHADOW

Without so much as a kiss my foot or have an apple

White Christmas is the dumbest, plot-hole-iest, staggeringly-implausible-storyline-iest movie ever made -- and I adore every second of it. I used to host a party every year in Chicago and invite only the friends I knew were able to shut up for 120 minutes so we could all enjoy its ridiculous awesomeness together in peace. And then I usually watched it again on my own. And maybe one more time. But now my DVD is buried in a box in my storage locker ... and I’m thrilled beyond belief that I’m -- as we speak -- finally about to see it on the big screen.

All that said, it still drives me NUTS that Rosemary Clooney runs (well, clomps in four-inch stilettos) away from Bing Crosby in a self-righteous fit over a laughably stupid misunderstanding that she could easily clear up with a simple question and then boards a train with a little satchel in which she's packed all her clothes, wigs, makeup, gowns, those white sequined oven mitts she wears in "Love, You Didn't Do Right By Me" plus four of the Vermont dancer boys. And then she happily -- yes: happily, despite the loathing she had for Bing's appearance on TV that was so toxic it prompted her to sneak away from Vermont in secret -- watches Bing's appearance on TV, suddenly has a mis-misunderstanding revelation, sneaks back to Vermont in the dead of night with her sensible orthopedic Army-issue oxfords in tow and somehow absorbs all the "Gee, I Wish I Was Back in the Army" choreography out of thin air from some secret backstage rehearsal room in that drafty barn that apparently a cast of 1,000 people had mysteriously never even known about.

But those gowns!

And don't get me started on that stupid "Sisters" number -- it sure gets a LOT of mileage for having only one verse and an enormous dance break where Rosemary and Vera basically just stand on stage and smile dewily at Bing and Doofusface while presumably the rest of the audiences watches and thinks they're being somehow entertained by all that standing around.

But those gowns!

And Bing Crosby sings “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep” after chugging a quart of buttermilk and Rosemary Clooney’s and Vera-Ellen’s “ugly” brother is actually totally cute when they show Bing and Doofusface his picture and WHAT THE HELL IS THAT “MR. BONES” SONG?

But those gowns!

And then Vera-Ellen — who does the entire movie in funnel-collared outfits tailored to hide whatever the hell is wrong with her neck — descends from the sky in her tearaway Ostrich Barbie outfit and executes some wicked nerve taps WITHOUT EVEN WEARING TAPS.

But those gowns!

And the general is clearly on laudanum binge in the attic of his hotel-theater as every U.S. war soldier past, present and future swarms all over the entire property and fills every hotel room not already taken by the swarm of singers, dancers, directors, and costume and tech crew members, and when they all finally surprise him they seat him at the table of honor behind a three-foot-tall cake that completely blocks his view of the show that they put together ESPECIALLY FOR HIM TO SEE.

But those gowns!

Photoshopping in a cat as the Cowardly Lion is too self-congratulatorily meta and makes this whole thing ridiculous

It’s a yellow brick dud. I give it one bluebird.

Today's moment of pure, ridiculous joy: Kristin Chenoweth sings "Veronique"

You want to know what brings me pure ridiculous joy on the stage, in my car and dans le rue? THIS does. This gorgeous, inspired, culturally literate, perfect little theatrical montage of brilliantly silly ridiculousness from Betty Comden, Adolph Green and Cy Coleman's brilliantly silly -- and just plain brilliant -- musical On the Twentieth Century.

From the virtuosic coloratura runs to the not-having-sexual innuendo of "she close the door/and start the Franco-Prussian War," this piece is The. Perfect. (Non. Sondheim.) Showtune.

And I may or may not have listened to it on repeat for two hours last night as I folded a towering mountain of laundry.

Watch and listen. Because it WILL be on the test.

One pussy away from the presidency

Whether it's inspired by courtliness or his interpretation of religious prescription for fidelity or lack of trust in his resistance to temptation or perhaps penance for past indiscretions, Mike Pence's revelations this week about his personal policy of keeping himself physically separated from women outside the company of his wife are of course his choice and his parameters for making his marriage work. But now that he's chosen to make this information public in his capacity as a public figure, it's fair game for both thoughtful scrutiny and for the withering ridicule and satire such as this that it's generated all over social and Fourth Estate media. And it raises grave concerns about his attitudes and behaviors and implied condescension toward an entire half of the world population, which could make him fundamentally incapable of presiding over a First World country whether he's conducting day-to-day meetings with legislators and White House staff or brokering trade deals and diplomatic alliances with world leaders.

And even if in professional circumstances such as these he violates his own rules on the issue, he's already contaminated himself with the stink of patronizing, possibly chauvinistic ridiculousness. Which continues to undermine his credibility as a political leader, a social player and even a rational thinker.

Get all the sticky details here