Jessica and I got a great e-mail sent to us at our Fugging It Up address that basically accused us and our site of erasing the entire women's liberation movement.

It's a pretty fabulous e-mail. She encourages us to go after the metrosexuals because that's okay, but insists that criticizing what women wear completely compromises the feminist movement. Never mind that if all those pioneering feminists saw Li'l Kim in any of her getups, they'd beg her to understand that showing less breast does not demand that she flash some compensatory vagina. I mean, really � there's sexuality and sexiness, both of which women ought to embrace, and there's sluttyness. If women choose to dress like tramps, people will probably treat them like tramps, and how liberated is that really? But, the e-mailer believes that the only reason we would pick on women at all is because we were obviously fat in high school, and probably still are, in addition to being poor and ugly and jealous and delusional. Which is true � I do wish I had Kaley Cuoco's stomach. But that doesn't mean I would clothe it in those pants with that hairdo and those shoes, because that's just wrong.

Hate mail cracks me up, especially because the author almost always dares the recipient to write back and pick apart the letter � and the recipient should either ignore this or write back something so impossibly chirpy that the hater feels even worse. There's no way to win, writing hate mail, because you won't get the last word � lack of response would appear to be that, but it's actually just going to rile up the writer, because the hater thinks his or her finely crafted message might have been ignored. But a cheerful answer is even more infuriating, and if the author dares to write back to this reply in an effort to have the final say, then the whole cycle repeats itself. The hater gets more angry and the hated gets a chuckle. Because if you're pleasing the world and not pissing somebody off every once in a while, you're probably getting too comfortable in what you're doing.

Hate mail also has the odd effect, often, of solidifying the recipient's conviction that there's nothing wrong with what he or she is doing. When I got a six-page, all-caps hate letter after a Making the Band recap that told me I was a worthless piece of crap for bagging on those five boys of whom I was clearly envious, it made me go, "But� they are the shittiest singers in the world. I am not wrong about that, so her entire thesis is shot to hell." Jessica and I had a similar reaction yesterday � we were like, "Good, okay, somebody had better tell Us Weekly and People and In Touch that they're messing with feminism whenever they dub anyone badly dressed, or devote half an issue to exactly that." We get the benefit of saltier language and cruder references, but it's not like we're out there on a limb, alone � and it's certainly not as if we're encouraging J.Lo to take off her designer hat and get back into the kitchen where she belongs, barefoot and wearing an apron.

I mean, let's face it � our little blog amuses us, and we're fortunate that it amuses some of our readers as well, but it's not a blog that is campaigning for recognition as a pioneer of social change. It doesn't claim to be swimming in the deep end; it's perfectly aware that it spends most of its time sitting on the steps, clutching its kickboard and blowing up its Floaties in case an emergency demands that it head out somewhere with more depth. It's something we do to entertain ourselves when our day jobs get slow; there's never a shortage of confounding fashion, so why not have a place where the similarly confused can throw up their hands in unison and have a good pow-wow about high-waisted pants?

We're just sad to see Beyonce wearing hot pants that make her legs look like tree trunks, because we like that she's curvy and we think she has major sexy potential, if only she'd lengthen her hemlines just a tad. We're sad to see people wearing stuff that looks horrible, simply because it has a particular label affixed to the inside. We're sad that little girls are going to look at Britney and think it's okay to wear a skirt that's dropping off your ass, exposing your underwear and your pubic tattoo. In essence, we're sad that naturally pretty people find ways to fug up what nature's given them.

And, we think Mischa Barton's boyfriend is really ugly. And would Lizzie Grubman stop smiling, please?

Oops, sorry. That's my "heart made of tar" speaking.

I'm beginning to wish I'd seen other seasons of The Amazing Race, because there's one thing about this series that's starting to bother me, and I can't tell if it's just the way the game goes or just the way it was planned this time.

It seems like a lot of their point-to-point traveling is just too� well, pointless. They cab it to a hotel, rip open a clue, and have to go up to a helipad, where they rip open another clue, then go back down and cab it off somewhere else. The roadblocks and the detours are interesting segments, because there's something to do at each location besides run up, open up an envelope, and then hail another taxi. The effect is that it feels like forty percent of the episode takes place inside a vehicle, or in the case of the recent Calcutta show, stuck in traffic inside a vehicle.

I still love the show � I was totally riveted to see whether Brandon and Nikki would shave their heads, and I get nervous when Chip and Kim are last, because the Bowling Moms are a bit one-note and Colin is an insane shitstick and the twins are deluded and irritating. But I do start to wish there was something more to some of those flag stops, even if it were something small.

Christie had better have dumped Colin by now, too. I was infuriated when her quote at the end of the previous episode was that she needed to learn to be more patient, when he was being a total asshole to her and deserved her ire.

Someone got here by searching for: meredith vieira hose Watching: The Today Show this morning, and I can report that Katie Couric looks oranger than ever, especially when dressed in pale pink. Excited for: A Thai dinner tonight at a place that, apparently, occasionally employs a Thai Elvis impersonator to croon during meals. I deeply hope that Thai Elvis will be in attendance tonight.