This time, she's going to a dance with a boy.

It's happening again. This Saturday.

Another heapin' helpin' of hormone stew, another melding of primitive frontal lobes encased within adult bodies.

And these bodies won't be wearing much.

It's time for my teenage daughter to attend another dance, but this time, it's with a...um...boy.

Usually, I report back after the fact, since the whole pre-function comprises a story unto itself. This time, however, I'd prefer to talk about the buildup alone, since it's been an odyssey.

High school dances are different than they were in my day. Back in the Seventies, unless the event was a 'tolo' or 'Sadie Hawkins' dance, the guy bore the responsibility of asking the girl, period. I can recall being so nervous that I could feel pimples on my face completing an entire lifespan, from red giant to white dwarf, during the course of asking the object of my affections for the privilege of her company.

These days, either gender can ask the other to any dance, which is terrific for both parties. The old system seems so Victorian when you consider that an adolescent male could simply prioritize his choices and work his way down the list, like some sort of seasonal babe draft. In addition, couples are now not mandatory for attending; one girl can accompany two guys, two girls can attend with one guy or any other imaginable combination. I guess you'd call this system either "hippie commune" or "Utah friendly."

Now, if you snooze, you lose, which is why my baby girl asked her date to the Winter Ball back in November. Soon after he accepted, she proudly showed me a picture, taken with her phone of course, of the two of them together. Maybe this is the way kids show that the deal is sealed, or possibly it was just one of the thousands of phone photos taken during the course of one day, but they gave the appearance of a happy couple.

After I acknowledged the look of contentment on their faces,  she replied, "Of course, Dad. It's obvious that we're in love."

The girl has a dry sense of humor, but I'm still not convinced she wasn't being serious.

With the dirty work out of the way, the next checklist item for my woman child was the dress. I'm not sure when this happened, or why I wasn't consulted, but last Sunday, my teenager appeared in our living room, holding an article of clothing which apparently is considered a dress in her culture.

I quickly performed some rudimentary math, and deduced that the fabric would barely cover her torso.

"It looks really short," I understated.

"Dad, don't worry. I'm wearing spandex underneath, so even if it gets hiked up, no one can see anything." So not comforting to me, yet she looked so very confident with that statement.

"You only need to touch your nose to hike that thing up," I countered.

"Dad, just wait until you see me with it on. You'll feel much better." Fair enough.

Five minutes later, she emerged from her room, not only wearing the dress, but also a pair of black pumps which would put Gene Simmons to shame. Again, I used my right brain to assess some basic spatial relationships and concluded that she now stood six feet, two inches tall.

I quickly veered toward a less confrontational manner. "Are you going to want to be taller than (I'll call him) Matt when you guys get your picture taken?"

"Good point, Dad. Hmm...I'll look for some shorter heels tomorrow."

She turned and retreated back to her room to change. I felt good, actually really good, after having talked her out of shoes which only look appropriate in Whitesnake videos. Chalk one up for Dad.

"Oh, and about that dress..." Too late. The door to her bedroom slowly closed, slightly muffling the sounds of Lady Gaga emanating from within.

She had pulled it off. The old bait and switch.

The Oscars: a year-end T-ball pizza party for adults

I watched all of it. The entire show. In fact, I watched the pre-red carpet show, the red carpet show, and then the Academy Awards, so really, any snarky judgments I make throughout this post should be prefaced by the fact that I watched all of it.

My family and I established an annual tradition, beginning three years ago, of eating meatloaf while watching the Oscars. Why meatloaf? Why not? With my daughters, the power of association can be so strong, that I'm just glad we weren't snacking on Spaghetti-O's the first time we watched as a group, or we'd be slurping those down every year.

That red carpet spectacle is such a bizarre study in human idol worship. The crowd is literally caged-in as the stars stroll by in all of their grandeur. The show's hosts marveled at the way George Clooney broke from tradition by interacting with the unwashed masses outside the red carpet zone, and he was hailed as a hero for actually stooping to mingle with the commoners. As his date walked along a few feet behind him, my nine-year-old pointed out, "That's his girlfriend. They've been together a really long time. Like over a year."

We watched as each starlet posed for the camera. Many looked hopelessly claustrophobic in their mega-tight dresses, like when you're camping and you wake up in a cold panic because your sleeping bag has twisted itself three-and-a-half times around your torso. They posed and strutted, posed and strutted, and finally approached the interviewer. Here's an example of a typical exchange:

"Kate, you look striking."

"Thank you very much."

"So, everyone wants to know...who are you wearing?"

At that point, I really wish Kate would have said, "Don't you mean what am I wearing? Well, in case you are unable to tell, this is a dress. From Target."

Don't get me wrong; Kate Winslet, Helen Mirren, Sandra Bullock and Penelope Cruz weren't exactly hard on the eyes, but a few celebrated thespians looked less than stunning. My daughters were usually the first to point this out:

Zoe: "Look how yellow her teeth are."

Lauryn: "Look how yellow your teeth are."

Nothing like some good-natured barbs between my princesses.

Once the show began, it followed the usual format fairly closely. Each nominee for best male and female actor were lauded on stage individually by someone who had worked with or known them. For instance, Stanley Tucci spoke glowingly of Merrill Steep, since they'd worked on two films together. The person who showed up to hail the nominated star of "Precious," Gabouret Sidibe, was none other than Oprah Winfrey. Upon seeing her, I thought, "That's it. Gabby's got the Oscar sewn up if Oprah's in her corner." Oprah's so influential that if she included Lucky Strike Cigarettes on her list of favorite things, they would become America's number-one stocking stuffer. Gabouret didn't win, and I was surprised.

One other departure I noticed was the return of the phrase, "And the winner is..." as opposed to "And the Oscar goes to..." I suppose the members of the Academy had tired of treating the show like an end-of-season T-ball pizza party, where everyone's a winner and everyone gets an awesome trophy.

But as much as we criticize and make fun of this yearly fest of self-congratulation, who hasn't fantasized about the speech they'd deliver if they were up on that stage, clutching that golden eunuch that is Oscar:

"I'd like to thank the Academy, even though I have no idea who or what the Academy is. I'd also like to thank the folks at Photoshop for making my pores thirty percent smaller on those close-ups. And most of all, I'd like to thank Sally Field, because no matter what I say right now, it will always be considered more coherent than the speech she gave. Now where's my gift basket?"