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Well, if you haven't heard the big news by now, I'll break it to you very, very gently: Barbara Walters is apparently a big, old hussy.

Speaking of old, she's like 78, but look at her neck! That's a 40-year-old's neck! How the heck did she do that?!? It's a miracle to behold ... like angels getting their wings on Christmas Day or me making it through the light at Simmonsville and 278 without getting sideswiped by someone with a yellow sticker in their front window ( ... now, don't get all huffy ... that could mean anything ... except in this case it means "Sun City drivers").

OK, back on track ... today Barbara Walters will admit on Oprah that she's WAY more interesting than perhaps anyone thought. In fact, she's a downright vixon.

Back in the '70s she had an "exciting" years-long affair with a married Sen. Edward Brooke, a Massachusetts Republican who was the first popularly elected African-American in the Senate (and who is now almost 90 — meaning he has the "I Did What With Whom?!? Where Are My Carrots? Defense" locked up nice and tight ... either that or he's thanking his lucky stars for adult diapers right about now).

Now while I do think the affair is just shocking (it's Barbara flipping Walters, for goodness' sake ... I always assumed she went straight home after work and made herself a frozen meal in an empty house before putting rollers in her hair and falling asleep at 9 p.m. in a twin bed), I don't believe this is merely some soul-cleansing admission for her. I actually think the woman seems kind of proud of her extramarital dalliance. It's as if she wants the world to respond: "You kept it secret all these years! And he was the first popularly elected African-American Senator and a Republican from Massachusetts! Oh my, my, my, Ms. Walters! How delightfully modern of you!"

The bottom line is this, Barbara is trying to sell her new book, "Audition." And what better way to get people to buy it than to shock them with tales of a tawdry Washington affair? You know the American populace. They love a good sex scandal ... so shallow are they, so easily titillated by the ... OK, I can't lie. I'm halfway to Amazon.com right now, ready to one-click my way into those pages (Who else did she sleep with? Where was Ted Kennedy? Why in God's name is her neck so smooth???).

Well, it's a good thing Fathers' Day isn't until June because we're all going to need a month to get over this past week. And poor little Miley Cyrus is especially going to need that time to hunt down the perfect card for her daddy (assuming they make "Dear Dad, Thanks for Pimping Me Out" cards. If not, they really should ... lord knows, there's a market for it).

Now, far be it from me to compare Billy Ray Cyrus to that dude in Austria who kept his daughter in a secret basement for 24 years while he raped her repeatedly (creating seven of his own grandchildren) or to that creep who apparently enjoys giving his 18-year-old daughter bikini waxes and driving her to her job at the brothel or to those wacky Mormons out West who had a virtual teenage bride factory going on ... but, let's just face it, folks, much like those indecencies, this picture on the right is downright ew. And I refuse to allow anyone to say it's my dirty mind that's the problem because ew, ew and ew. Most of the ew goes to the "Daughter? No this is my girlfriend ... wait ... daughter, right, daughter" pose. The rest of the ew is reserved for Billy Ray's hair (though I wonder what kind of hair iron he uses ... mine tends to make my hair look like straw ... his is so smooth ... maybe it's ... whoa. Way off-subject).

So, if you haven't heard by now, there's a big hulabaloo over little Hannah Montana's Lolita session with famous photographer Annie Leibovitz for Vanity Fair magazine (the father-daughter portrait above is from that shoot). In what should be a surprise to no one, Disney's sweetheart has officially graduated from Annette Funicello to a post-2000-MTV-video-awards-stripper-outfit Britney (I wonder who Miley's Federline will be ...).

The "big deal" here is that Miley's pictured in the magazine holding a sheet to her chest ... the insinuation, I guess, being that the 15-year-old just woke up naked next to all of America after a particularly embarrassing one-night-stand (Oh Annie, the irony! The irony!).

Miley has, of course, issued the obligatory "it's not my fault" apology to her fans but in the meantime, VanityFair.com has crashed under the weight of all the curious clickers in the world ... Funny what oversexualized teenagers can do for business — you know what I'm talking about, don't you, Billy Ray? ; )

Now while I'm a little surprised to see that Mr. Achy-Breaky Heart was able to procreate after keeping his cowboys so tightly bound in those horrible acid-wash jeans for all those years (I'm not even going to mention the girl-repellant mullet), I would like to think that he's kind of a good father (despite his "hot for my daughter" pose above). But shouldn't he know this road? I mean, we all seem to get it: pre-teen stardom + narcissistic stage parent + Disney + money + power + underage photo shoot for a major magazine = Lindsay "Save Me a Room at Rehab" Lohan. And talk about someone with daddy issues ...

Once upon a time, in a glossy kingdom not so far away, there was a big, crooked nose and one very flabby belly. The kingdom wasn't so kind to that nose and that belly. As a matter of fact, the kingdom was downright cruel — some might even say the kingdom was impossible to please and judge-y and narcissistic and RUDE and full of double standards and ... stop staring at me! ... OK, look, the nose and belly never had a chance, kids. The kingdom banished them immediately. It's a woeful tale, but that's how the cookie crumbled back in the Age Before Plastic Surgery. That's how the cookie still crumbles, actually ... unless, of course, you have a good doctor who can immediately take care of both problems.

And in case you didn't already know, there's really no need to explain this cold reality to children. They learn it way before kindergarten. It's a tough but ingrained life lesson they carry with them forever and a day: Ugly Stuff equals Not As Awesome.

Sorry for the cynicism, but it's true. Even babies know this. Check out this study that basically says even the newly born would rather look at pretty faces than ugly ones. There's no hope. You can homeschool 'em, you can make 'em go to the kid with a birthmark on his face's birthday party; or make 'em be friends with the kid who has a unibrow; you can even ban 'em from using words like "ugly" and "gross" and "fatty two-by-four" and "Beaky McBeakerson" ... no matter. The lesson will linger.

So this is why the uproar over "My Beautiful Mommy," a kids' book explaining moms' tummy tucks and boob jobs, is confusing me. I mean, I get why people might be a little put off. This certainly isn't "A Starry, Starry Night" or "Elmo in Dreamland." And it does speak loudly to our very materialistic and superficial society. And why stop at "My Beautiful Mommy"? Why not write "My Daddy Has a Secret Girlfriend" or "Why Does Mommy Leave Me With a Baby-Sitter So Much?" or "Where Did My College Trust Fund Go? Is That Daddy's New Lexus in the Driveway?" But when we start talking about the book giving kids the wrong message? Give me a big, old break. Mommy's already getting plastic surgery so I'm going to guess she wasn't sitting around in a housecoat singing, "Free to Be Me," while growing out her woman mustache and ripping covers off magazines to begin with.

Messages about self-esteem and inner beauty are wonderful and necessary. Without them women might not ever come out of the bathroom ("Ugh. My hair won't hold a curl and my makeup looks like Marilyn Manson's. Oh, well! Thank God for that inner beauty!"). And there are certainly sad examples of people whose self-esteem is so low that they rely on plastic surgery to free them up to make fun of others (Well, hello, Joan Rivers ... Don't you just want to pop her head back and see if a Pez comes out?). But let's please stop pretending that the world is made of lollypops and equal chances, a place where looks just don't matter, because they sure as sugar do.

So, in the end, "My Beautiful Mommy" might be a little nauseating, but it certainly has a very wide and happy audience. Just ask Ashlee Simpson. (Best plastic surgery ever, by the way).

Get ready for new reality programming brought to you by Kleenex, Prozac and the Estranged Wives Camera Club.

Before socialite Tricia Walsh-Smith's most uncomfortable rant (above) there used to be three types of divorce: the "we'll still stay friends" divorce; the "I hate that guy so much" divorce; and the "Great! Now I hate myself" divorce.

Sad fact: Upon hearing of celebrity divorces I usually try to figure out what kind of relationship dissolution we're talking about before I waste time caring. (Some might wonder, why do you care at all? Not the point.) For instance, Demi Moore and Bruce Willis: Still friends. Not exciting. Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey: She did not come out it for the better. Things are not looking up for her. Stay tuned. Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt: Whoa. Still friends. She hates him. She hates herself. A divorce that is all things to all people. Imagine if Aniston had a YouTube account ...

After Tricia Walsh-Smith's own YouTube disaster, I can now add the "does this camera make me look fat" divorce to the list. Walsh-Smith has torn up the playbook (with great fury) and has introduced a new and fun Internet Era way to really tick off your spouse. How many estranged wives do you think watched this video and thought to themselves, "Wait ... we can do that?"

Now, you may be asking "Who the heck is Tricia Walsh-Smith?" I have no idea. She's apparently getting the boot from the Shubert theater guy (who p.s. has sex-preventing high blood pressure but a secret prescription to Viagra. Mon dieu!).

She's a rich nobody (or was a rich nobody) but I'm predicting after these YouTube shenanigans she'll soon have a deal with "Dancing with the Stars," at least one appearance on "The View," and her own reality show, which would be named something ridiculous like "Warrior Women," where we get to watch the kitchen confessions of ordinary wives done wrong — whilst Tricia Walsh-Smith rifles through the unsuspecting husbands' night tables. "Porn movies! Porn movies! You were an idiot!" Uh ... wait, those are mine.

Question of the day: Why don't guidance counselors ever tell you about the career option that involves a simple boob job, double highlights and your own slutty clothing line? At no point during my pre-college counseling did anyone ever say, "Well, you could go pre-law buuuuuut there's also this other thing. You'll be famous for doing absolutely nothing. No school loans necessary. You can take the SATs if you want, but ... you know, like, blah, blah, blah, maybe just get your nose fixed ... especially the tip."

Not to say I would've done that, but it would have been nice to know all the options back then. (Also I'm lying. I totally would've gotten the tip done ... and some other work, too ... I blame the public school system ... and Mattel).

The perfect example of success on this career path comes in the form of Heidi Montag from "The Hills" — a reality show so incredibly fake and unbelievable that most times you can't even fully believe it's fake or unbelievable. Heidi, who went from Lauren Conrad's cute and seemingly normal BFF sidekick to a plasticized she-monster arch-nemesis in just one season (with the help of, I'm guessing, all of California's surgeons, spray tanners and colorists), has just launched her own clothing line, Heidiwood for Anchor Blue. (Not to be confused with Heidiwear, the line of classy thongs and baby blankets by the Hollywood madam, Heidi Fleiss).

Heidi's fashion line was launched with a catwalk show set to her own music (natch ... because she's like a singer, too, you know ... and by "singer" I mean "humming gyrator") and it ended with evil mastermind Spencer Pratt giving her three dozen hot pink roses in yet another calculated interaction. [For an excellent slideshow of Heidi and Spencer's cheesiest "oh there's a camera?" moments, click HERE ... well worth it, especially if you have no idea whom I'm talking about ... THIS is what my generation and the generations after me have to contend with.]

It's not to say Heidi's clothing line is horrible. It's kind of OK. It's affordable ... some might even say it's cheap (ha! OK, never mind. Insert eye roll here). I totally would've bought these outfits for my Barbie. The best thing about her clothing line? It somewhat legitimizes her presence in the public eye ... because before that there wasn't anything. She's all over the place — magazine covers (US Magazine apparently loves her because I swear it's every other week with another "confession"), PerezHilton.com, YouTube — yet there's no reason for the saturation. She has turned "being famous for nothing" into a God's honest profession. You can't escape Heidi Montag, and it's 100 percent because of what she looks like. 100 percent.

So, career lesson for all you impressionable girls out there: Buy Heidi's zebra print shirt, embrace your side cleavage, claw your way to the top and never, ever, ever eat.

So, uh, there's this thing called the Purple Bracelet project ... [You'll have to forgive me, the only interesting thing that happened this weekend was Jamie Lynn Spears going to Wal-Mart with her baby daddy — they bought a dog bed.]

Anyway, in case you haven't heard of it, the Purple Bracelet project is a "complaint-free" initiative started by a pastor from a Kansas City church. The idea is this, you wear a rubber purple bracelet on your wrist and if you complain, gossip or whine, you take off the freaking bracelet and put it on the opposite freaking wrist as a reminder of your bad freaking behavior.

You're supposed to reach a Zen-like point where the bracelet stays on one wrist for 21 days. 21 days without complaining! Do you know how much annoying crap happens in 21 minutes, never mind 21 days?

Now, before you think I'm about to dog on sunshine and rainbows, you must know that I am a reformed Purple-Bracelet Wearer. I went into it the same way I did with Kabbalah and the South Beach Diet (and Atkins and "30 Days to a Better Life" and "30 Days to a Better Vocabulary" and "30 Days to Stop Being Such a Pathetic Bandwagon Jumper-On-er"): I convinced myself that I had found the secret to a more fulfilling existence. THIS is going to be the thing that will change me. If I stop complaining, the flowers will bloom brighter. If I stop gossiping, baby squirrels, rabbits and birds will hop out from the forest and flock around me. If I stop whining, they'll all start singing a sweet chorus to my happy morning medley.

Without going into details, the purple bracelet now has a new home ... it's better this way ... there were scissors involved.

Despite my good intentions (and despite those of the Complaint Free World people), the purple bracelet did nothing more than unlock a previously unknown hell dimension in my mind wherein I experienced grumpiness in its most undiluted form. For me, not being able to complain, gossip or whine was akin to getting my tongue cut off and sauteed in front of me, Hannibal Lechter-style. The bracelet switching got so bad that at one point I had to stop and just hold the bracelet between my two wrists until the tantrum passed.

Here's the lesson I learned from that bracelet: Life is way too short for this kind of purple punishment. What's the point of smiling unless you're making fun of something absolutely irritating? What's the point of being nice when the only reason you're doing it is because your wrists are so chafed from all the switching and you absolutely can't bear one more trade-off? I say, complain, gossip and whine until it sounds like a symphony ...

If you want to check this out for yourself, go to A Complaint Free World. If you really want to test your kvetching, they're offering a Complaint-Free Cruise ... all I can say is, God help you if someone gets the Norwalk virus.

Ah, the miracle of science. Without it there'd be no penicillin. No electricity. No Big Mac.

And no pregnant transgendered man blurring the lines between "How lovely" and "What the -."

Today on Oprah, the world will be introduced to Thomas Beatie, a natural-born woman who underwent gender reassignment surgery 10 years ago and is now pregnant with his first child (I think my head just exploded).

Talk about getting your cake and eating it too. Talk about having some explaining to do before preschool.

"Mommy, where do babies come from?"

"Ask your father. Seriously ... ask him."

After my initial "What? Ew! Wait! Oh my God!," I've come to the conclusion that I don't care. Not really. This person has nothing to do with my life. It sounds like the dude and his wife want the baby more than anything. They're human beings, and I've got bigger things to worry about (such as an SUV that takes $60 of gas each trip to Starbucks). So I'm sorry for passing judgment and laughing at them and for feeling bad for their kid and for calling them gross (and for saying Oprah looks fat).

The only thing I'll say is this, if I ever find myself in a time machine situation wherein I have to explain things like pantyhose, the Internet and refrigeration to our forefathers, I will most certainly leave this out of my "cool facts about the future" speech. I'm not sure our ancestors could handle this sort of news and I'm not sure that I'm equipped to answer the inevitable "Where does the baby come out of?" question.

Click here for a fun Cosby Show clip wherein Cliff dreams that all the men are with child.

I think the war and high oil prices are finally getting to me — I can't wait for the New Kids on the Block to perform on the Today show Friday. It. Is. Going. To. Be. Wicked. And guess what! Then they're going to tour!!! This is almost more exciting than the promise of Britney's horrorfest performance at the MTV music awards last fall. This is way more exciting than the presidential election (sorry, it is) and it's loads more important than anything I'll be doing that day (except breathing, but that's debatable).

Now the secret truth, I freaking hate the New Kids on the Block. I hate them so much I want to punch the air and rip up New Kids sleeping bags with their fans still in them. I want to take their little posable dolls and make them do dirty things with WWF dolls and stuffed gorillas that talk. And then I want to buy all their T-shirts and wear one every day but change the word "Kids" to "Big Turds." OK, sorry. This is juvenile. That was the old me. The new me (the new kid on this block, if you will) has succumbed to the passionate movie kiss that seems to happen at the end of every chick flick wherein the bitter, stubborn girl realizes that the incorrigible, wrong-for-her-in-every-way-but-one man next door is actually quite dashing. And have you seen Joey McIntyre lately?

Here's what happened to me. I spent most of my youth rolling my eyes at NKOTB and their fans. Who faints over bad singers? Uh, losers do. (Disclaimer: Obviously, the fact that I too am from Boston gives me a measure of superiority and the license to judge the fans freely and rudely. No one else is allowed to say these things. That is, unless you've also dealt with mobs of Canadians holding signs that say "Marry me, Joey." and "Quebec loves New Kids" whilst on your way to field hockey practice ... then judge away. P.S. I can't name a single person from Boston who liked them back in the day [except for the developmentally disabled girl who worked in my high school cafeteria ... she loved them]).

Now flash forward to Philadelphia 1998. A few friends and I were bored. We felt like experimenting. Everyone does it, we told ourselves. So ... so we popped in an NKOTB video that someone had gotten for me as a joke and then we spent the entire day learning their dances. All of them. And this was in the day of inaccurate fast forwards and rewinds so it wasn't easy. There was no alcohol involved. Just NKOTB spirit! We were high on NKOTB spirit.

For a long time I didn't talk about that day. The happiness. The pure fun I had. I wrote it off to being "in the moment." But then after a few gossip sites reported rumors of the group's inevitable reunion and tour about two months ago, I surprised myself by fantasizing that I was at the concert, wearing neon scrunchies in my hair and unabashedly dancing to "Hanging Tough" (move for move, mind you) as though I'd finally freed myself from the bonds of pretension and music snobbery. I saw how happy I was at this fantasy concert and decided that it was OK to be a New Kids fan now. It's OK. It'll all be OK. (Note to self: Ask therapist if this is, in fact, OK).

The New England Historic Genealogical Society has done its part to get out the vote by announcing that presidential hopefuls Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama are related to pretty much everyone currently famous or somehow important to history.

It doesn't mean much, mind you. When it comes down to it, we're all related to each other in some way (except you, sir, you are not related to ANY of us). Nor does it mention any of the less desirable cousins they were sure to have had (though Obama is said to be related to Dick Cheney, which should really worry him since heart disease is genetic and also because Cheney hates all things that rhyme with Osama).

The most worrisome part of the findings, however, is that Clinton and Obama are allegedly ninth cousins of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, respectively.

Some might see this as a gleeful sign of a joint ticket in the future ("Think of the fundraisers!" "Think of all the beautiful policy they'll make!"). Others might take it to mean that Clinton is an odd duck who makes out with her brother and drinks blood, and that Obama is friends with George Clooney and spends more time primping than most Miss America contestants (all yet to be denied). I see it as confirmation that the future of American politics is going to be even less about what a candidate can do for us (if that's possible) and more about the careful orchestration of impressive family trees that include at least one notable from all the demographics ("My 6th cousin was a gay, Hispanic businessman from California and I felt him speak to me when I read his name on the hospital register and saw that his mother ... his single mother ... did not have adequate health insurance. P.S. Did I mention I'm also related to Hannah Montana? Let's dance!").

Sarah Jessica Parker recently admitted that her feelings were hurt when Maxim magazine proclaimed her to be the unsexiest woman alive back in October. It's no wonder she feels bad — she beat out Amy Winehouse (barf), Sandra Oh (whoa, not cool), Madonna (OK. She is getting creepier looking) and Britney Spears (now, now) for the dishonor.

Oddly, this list wasn't even a blip on my radar back in October — does anyone remember it? I mean Maxim magazine features items like "Mariah Carey: The truth about her brave struggle against bikini tops" and "Have more sex with better looking people!" and "De-douche your decor" (I did not make up any of those titles, btw), so it's utterly unsurprising to me that it would put out an unsexy list ... why not? It's degrading, mean and juvenile, which is about right for them. That Maxim put SJP at the top of the list, however, is downright shocking to me and to all the other hetero women of the world who hail her as the commander in chief of all things sexy and fashionable. How dare Maxim?

I have worshipped Sarah Jessica Parker's fashion sense ever since "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" ... Suspenders on leggings? 1985 perfection! Half the fun of watching "Sex and the City" is seeing what Carrie Bradshaw is wearing (my favorite outfit of all time is the Christian Dior newsprint dress from Season 3 when she interrupts her lover's soon-to-be-ex-wife's lunch date ... Sad side story: I spent $175 on an allegedly authentic Christian Dior newsprint saddle bag so I could bring it to a big media event in Baltimore and wow everyone with my journalism chic-ness. Nobody noticed — mainly because I'm shy and don't mingle and also because I spent the entire night at the chicken finger table). Sarah Jessica has always seemed the epitome of sexiness, and this whole time I've just assumed she was an obvious object of affection for men the world over. It amazes me that the fraternity boys over at Maxim think otherwise. But now that I think about it ...

It should probably go without saying, but if we ladies got together and came up with a top five unsexiest men list, it would be a complete exercise in futility. Not only are we more forgiving about looks (especially when ugly comes with a bank account), we're a little less obvious than men are about what we find sexy. Even nontraditional-looking guys have a chance with us. Seth Rogen? What a sexy laugh! His paunchy gut? Oh, that's OK. Conan O'Brien has weird hair, but he's funny. What girl doesn't like to laugh? Howard Stern? So naughty. And rich. But with strong beliefs and values. And he's a good dad.

In this universe, the bald, the chubby, the mean, the rude, the silly and the dumb ... sadly, they're all still in the game.

Alas, Maxim's unsexiest list is just another example of the incredible emphasis that the world puts on a woman's looks. It falls firmly in the category of "ever thus." Part of me believes that even the pre-apple Adam scrutinized Eve for having bed head or rough elbows (and God knows, the brother had no problem pointing fingers when the juice hit the fan). I'd also venture to guess that there are very few boys at Maxim who'd turn down Sarah Jessica Parker if given the chance. (Amy Winehouse is another story altogether.)

I know SJP is feeling the pain, but it hardly matters. She's fabulous. And she'll always be fabulous. In her own words: "Do I have big fake boobs, Botox and big lips? No. Do I fit some ideals and standards of some men writing in a men's magazine? Maybe not. Am I really the unsexiest woman in the world? Wow! It's kind of shocking ... It's condemnation, it's insane. What can I do? I guess you can't please all people."