A True Story (Warning: Lowbrow Humor Ahead)

In which Deb uses comical words to substitute for anatomical terms.


Lately, I have become fascinated with the awkward. There is a new blog that I love called "Awkward Family Photos," in which the mundane and uncomfortable becomes hilarious. If you have some time, check them out. Hilarity will ensue.

My new obsession with awkward has inspired me to share the most awkward story I know. The following is a completely true story that totally did not happen to me, so it's hilarious.

Sven's longtime dear friend, whom I shall call "Bosephus" for the purpose of this blog entry, had just gotten engaged. He had met his fiancee's parents before, but relations were cool. He was at their home for dinner, entertaining them as only he can, attempting to thaw the relationship a little bit.

You see, Bosephus is a parent's darling. Everyone's parents love Bosephus. My parents love Bosephus. My dad loved Bosephus so much he took Bosephus' word about a situation over mine. Bosephus is awesome.

But Bosephus' future in-laws were not feeling the love.

So Bosephus was engrossed in telling a story, complete with illustrative hand gestures, when his index finger, hereinafter referred to as his "pointer," became stuck.

His lovely fiancee, Marigold, had approached him from behind to clear away dishes or something. Somehow, her body was at precisely the wrong angle when he made precisely the wrong gesture, and his pointer was stopped by the region of her pants I shall call her "kerplonk."

I'm sorry for being so graphic, but it is what it is.

So now, Bosephus was faced with a situation: there he was, in front of his beloved's parents, with his pointer right there, "kerplonked," as it were.

(At this point, I should stress that, although this has taken a great deal of time to write, and I'm sure read, it all happened very quickly in real life. Bosephus would also like me to stress that everyone was wearing several layers of very modest clothing, including no less than 17 pair of gloves and what may have been East Texas' only functional pair of snow pants.)

What do I do? he wondered. Do I pretend it didn't happen and just keep going? Do I laugh it off? Should I make some sort of comical popping sound when I move my hand? What should I do?

He looked to his fiancee, who helpfully made the following noise:

"Voip."

One way or another, the evening lurched on. Bosephus and Marigold were married and today have many wonderful children. This tiny awkwardness was forgotten by all.

Except by me. Because this story has made me laugh for more than ten years now. I hope it made you all laugh too, you lowbrow things, you.

Dexy's Double Life

I was picking up Dexy from day care the other day, when I discovered something alarming.

I am the mother of an almost-two-year-old double agent.

I picked up my baby boy, brushed the blond hair out of his clear blue eyes, and watched as he popped his left thumb in his mouth so his right hand could grab a hank of my hair.

"Dexy!" his teacher said in scandalized tones. "I didn't know you suck your thumb!"

Excuse me? This child, who, if the ultrasound pictures are any indication, has been sucking his thumb since before his actual birth, doesn't suck his thumb at school?

That's right. Not even at nap time. He just lays down on his cot and goes right to sleep.

Right.

To.

Sleep.

Apparently, at school, the Dexy who requires two parents, an iPod of oldies, and seventeen carefully selected stuffed animals to fall asleep doesn't exist.

Interesting.

At school, Dexy also:

• Lies quietly when his diaper is changed (as opposed to saying, "No, Mommy! No poop!" and kicking/peeing on the diaper-er)
• Eats very neatly, using his utensils. He's the neatest one in the class, she says. You lie, I said, thinking of the spaghetti stains on my ceiling.
• Reads several major world newspapers and provides translations for some of the day care staff.

Okay, I made that last one up. But, still, I am disturbed. Who is this little boy? My Dexy is still my little baby, not this grown-up toddler about to sprout facial hair and football pads.

Then, I realized it:

He's humoring me.

He's staying my baby for me. No, stay with me on this one: he likes being the baby, he knows I like him being my baby, so where's the harm?

I promise, if he's still sucking his thumb when the facial hair and football pads appear, I'll put a stop to it.

Probably.

Premature Nostalgia

I remember, when I was a child, the fond look my mother would get in her eye when she talked about the television shows of her youth.

Mickey Mouse Club. Roy Rogers (though, I understand she was an infant then). She would stare off into the distance as my sister and I heaped spoonful after spoonful of white sugar on our "healthy" cereal, and say something like, "You know, in those days television was special."

I have decided it is time for me to become nostalgic. Since neither of my children will sit still long enough for me to impart fond remembrances, it is to you, my bloggy friends, that I turn in my hour of need.

(Pause while Deb dons Granny-style glasses, shawl, and white wig styled in a bun.)

Gather around, my children, and let me tell you about a time when television was TELEVISION. When I was a little girl, in the 1970's, we knew what made good TV: guns and bosoms. Sometimes together. All of the best shows of my childhood: The Love Boat, CHiPS, Three's Company, Dallas...they all had bosoms and guns galore. Except Three's Company. No guns on that one. But, double bosoms. Triple, sometimes. The best one was Charlie's Angels. You couldn't beat the bosoms on those Angels, though many tried...

In my day, there was only one night that could rightfully be called "appointment television." It was Thursday nights on NBC. First with The Cosby Show and Cheers, then later with Friends, Seinfeld, and ER. My word, what we wouldn't do to be home on Thursday nights! Weren't no such thing as a TiVo in those days, my dears, if you missed it, you had to set the VCR, and nobody could figure out how to program the dad-burned thing, so like as not you'd come home to a tape of the OJ verdict and nothing else...

Sorry, Children. Mamaw's colloquialisms are feelin' frisky as a cat up a chestnut tree today. Where was I?

Hey, where'd you all go?

Con sarn it.

Princess and the "F-word"

It happened. Princess said the F-word.

I thought I was prepared for this moment. I knew it was just a matter of time before she picked it up from our fast-and-loose media culture.

But when it came, it came out of nowhere.

"Mommy, are you fat?" Said with a look in her eye that said, "I know the answer, but I need to hear you say it."

What could I say? I have been fat my whole life, so this really shouldn't be an unexpected moment.

And I don't tell you this to get protests or reassurances. I'm fat. If I were 12 inches taller, I would still be fat. I look like those people you see on the news, with their heads cut off, wearing elastic-waist sweat pants and polo shirts, just strolling along in packs to illustrate how fat Americans are becoming. In fact, some of them look good compared to me.

I'm fat. But, I'm also smart, funny, sexy, and, in my own way, quite gorgeous. I consider my weight to be one thing about me, a thing I'd like to change, but just one thing. I think about it sometimes, but I don't let it define me. In fact, there are entire days that I forget that I'm fat. I will attempt to have one of those again sometime very soon...

"Yes, I am," I answered after a brief out-of-body experience that I'm sure she didn't notice.

"Why are you fat?" she asked. Princess is nothing if not forthright.

"Because I eat too much and don't exercise enough," I replied.

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because I'm lazy," I said. "I don't want to be fat. I'm trying to change that."

"I don't like being fat either," she said. Great. I've now got my 3-year-old on the road to an eating disorder.

"Honey, you're not fat," I answered. "You're healthy."

"Healthy. Yeah," she said. "Daddy's not fat."

"He's a little fat," I said, somewhat stung.

"No, he's just really healthy," she answered.

Sven wins again.

Eyewitness Confirms: Chivalry Not Dead

Deb News Service, Branson, MO: It was reported at 9:25 this evening that chivalry, long thought to be extinct, is in fact alive and well, at least according to one Missouri tourist.

"It was amazing," the unnamed woman exclaimed. "I've seen polite behavior, and I always appreciate it, but chivalry? This was a first for me."

The story began at Garfield's restaurant, a local eatery popular with the tourist crowd. One Texas family had gathered there with friends to celebrate their visit. Suddenly, things went wrong.

"The meal was almost over, and the waiter brought out balloons," explained Blondie Spielberg, a friend of the family who was there for the meal. "Dexy [the baby boy] was fine, but Princess [the three-year-old girl] didn't want the balloon string around her wrist."

What happened next was the stuff of nightmares.

The balloon, untethered, escaped the child's grip and became lodged in the corner of the 12-foot ceiling.

"Of course we couldn't get it," the mother of the little girl snapped. "It was too high."

"I thought we would get another balloon from the waiter as we left," Spielberg continued. "I didn't think it would be a big deal."

She was wrong.

As they were leaving, with tears of anguish still streaking down the cheeks of young Princess, a bespectacled youth, somewhere between 7-9 years of age, approached the company and wordlessly handed his balloon to Princess.

"Thank you," she gulped.

"I got teary-eyed," the mother confessed. "He didn't have to do that, there were plenty of balloons, but he wanted to make her feel better."

"His dad gave him a high-five," Spielberg elaborated. "This was obviously a boy who's being raised right."

"He came back after a few seconds to remind me to tie it around her wrist," the mother added with a shamefaced smile. "Princess was thrilled."

"It just goes to show you," Ms. Spielberg, a stunningly beautiful blonde who, despite all appearances to the contrary, works behind the camera, stated: "chivalry isn't dead."

---Deb News Service Staff

Here's The Pitch

Cast:

Deb: A comfortably plush yet devastatingly attractive working mom, trying to make it as a writer.

Princess: Deb's writing partner

Billiam: A slick Hollywood producer

Scene: Billiam's office at Award Winning Studio

{Deb and Princess are here to make a pitch for a new family film. They enter Billiam's office.}

Deb: Thank you so much for taking the time to see us.

Billiam (stunned at her beauty): Please, sit down. (They all sit.) All right, I'm listening.

Deb: What we have for you today is the ultimate family movie. It's very special.

Billiam (intrigued): What's the pitch?

Deb: I'm going to pass this to my writing partner, Princess. She comes up with all of the ideas. Go ahead, Princess.

Princess: There's a dinosaur and my friends the Backyardigans have to leave our house and go up in a tornado because the Red Bull was chasing the unicorns and I said "You don't do that!" and I chased the Red Bull to the chocolate factory and I was a good girl and I peed on the potty and the Little Einsteins showed me a snapping turtle and you have to sing a high note or they'll get you when Charlotte makes a word in her web and she drinks blood.

Billiam: Go on.

Princess: Well, Spongebob and Patrick and the Backyardigans and Imagination Movers all came to my birthday party and the big boy got stuck in the pipe because he was too greedy when the dogs ate the spaghetti the boy dog gave the girl dog the meatball and the princess didn't want to live in the castle she wanted to stay in the forest but the lion had to be the king and then we all dance like this: (Princess flails and spins on the floor.) And that's all.

Billiam: (Silence.)

Princess: (whispers) Mommy, why isn't he talking?

Deb: He's blown away. Let him absorb, baby.

Billiam: If you can put a mermaid in, we have a deal.

Deb: Yay!

Princess: I want a peanut butter sandwich.

{Fin.}

The above post is based on a story Princess told me this morning.

-Deb

Princess Quote of the Day

Scene: Princess' room, 6:45 a.m.

Players: Princess (3) & Mommy (94)

Background: Princess wants to wear dresses to school every day. Princess also likes to climb on the playground and tackle the boys, flaunting her green-and-pink striped panties for all to see. Mommy has decided that we need to talk about MODESTY.

{scene}

Mommy: Princess, I think we need to put on some shorts with this dress.

Princess: NO NO NO NO NO I DON'T LIKE SHORTS I LIKE DRESSES WAAAAHHH!

Mommy: Princess, calm down.

{5 minutes later}

Mommy: Princess, when you run and play outside, people can see your panties.

Princess: They can see my panties?

Mommy: Yes, and that's bad. We need to be modest.

Princess: Modest? What is modest?

Mommy: Modest means that we don't let people see our panties, or our boobies, or our private places. Just Mommy and Daddy, when we're helping you get dressed or giving you a bath.

Princess: I'm a good girl. {thinks} What about tights? Can I wear tights so no one can see my panties?

Mommy: Okay.

{Daddy enters}

Princess: Daddy, Mommy told me I have to be modest.

Daddy: What does that mean?

Princess: It means you can't...I'm not supposed to...people shouldn't...don't look at my butt!

{scene}

Great Literature

I just finished what may possibly the best book ever written.

Yes, the classic British novel of the husband-hungry Bennet sisters has been infused with zombie mayhem.

You may not know it, but I love Pride and Prejudice. I didn't read it until I saw the BBC miniseries version, but I've been hooked ever since. I love the language, the characters, the way everyone seems to fit so neatly into his or her own little mold. One thing that I always felt was lacking, though, was martial arts action and grisly scenes of undead slaughter. I'm so happy to see what these additions have brought to this Austen classic.

The key to its success, of course, lies in the writing. Austen's original is there, "spiced" with the additional details that blend seamlessly in with the text we know and love. In fact, I can no longer remember whether Mr. Darcy was initially attracted to Elizabeth because of her "fine eyes" or her skill with the Chinese throwing star.

Of course, this has me thinking. To which of the books I've previously laughed, cried, or even snored my way through could zombies be added? The possibilities are limitless:

• To Kill a Zombie: Harper Lee's classic novel, with the rabid dog scene replaced with a zombie.
• Of Mice and Men and Zombies: I confess, in my version the zombies eat everyone on page 14. I hate this book.
• Ethan Frome: No changes needed.
• A Scarlett Letter (With Zombies!): Wouldn't Hester Prynne as a pre-feminist zombie hunter have played better?

If adding zombies to classic literature is popcorn, adulterating Pride and Prejudice with modern pop culture themes is the chemically generated "butter." I have a few ideas, based on my childhood loves...

• Pride and Prejudice and Mrs. King: Elizabeth teams up with a 40-ish divorcee to catch the bad guys...and maybe a husband! (Special guest star: Gary Coleman)
• Darcy & Hutch: When a drug dealer takes Starsky out of commission, Hutch finds his new partner, a stuffy Etonian with an overblown sense of social class. (Special guest star: Charo)
• Gimme a Mate: The Bennets welcome their sassy new housekeeper, who teaches them a few things about life...and love! (Special guest star: Ray Parker, Jr.)
• Longbourn: Things are quiet in this sleepy British village, until a Texas oilman with a large fortune and a love for the ladies makes an appearance. (Special guest star: Linda Evans)
• The Bennet Bunch: After Mrs. Bennet's untimely demise, Mr. Bennet forms an alliance with a new widow named Carol with six children of her own! Fortunately, Alice helps keep them all in line. (Special guest star: Davy Jones)

It's gold, I tell you. Gold.

Exotic Language

My darling adorable gifted talented perfect boy, Dexy, will be 18 months old this month.

He has been "talking" for months, but his random sounds are now resembling actual words more and more. He can say a few things clearly:

"What's that?"

"Mommy"

"Daddy"

"Belly"

"Ball"

"No"

"Please"

"Spongebob"

"Federal bailout" (We watch the news a lot in the morning. He calls Diane Sawyer "Granny.") (Just kidding, Mom.)

He has another list of words, ones I understand but no one else does. In his little baby voice, they sound like exotic locations accessible only by yak-herding Sherpas.

"Tu to!" (Cartoon: it means he wants to watch Pixar shorts on the Macbook.)

"Ga-Ma!" (Grandma, who he adores because she is so firm and strict.) (Ha! Ha!)

"Ju-jo-jo!" (Princess; these syllables vaguely resemble her nickname.)

"Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma!" (Snack.)

"Ooooooh." (I think I have something in my diaper requiring immediate attention.)

"Sah na bo. Deeee!" (I love Beyonce.)

Dexy is growing up. While there are many parts of babyhood I look forward to leaving behind, I love the sound of his little voice, earnestly communicating what he thinks is important. Mommy, Daddy, Grandma, sister, snacks, cartoons, and Beyonce...it sounds like a happy life to me.

Reality Show

I've been thinking that my life would make a great reality show.

Not one of those competition-style shows, though in general I think those are superior to the other kind. No, mine would be a "Hills"-style reality show, just following my pals and me through our glamorous lives using totally unscripted moments.

Pilot Episode

Cast:

Deb: A glamorous single mom

Princess: Deb's precocious 3-year-old daughter

Dexy: Deb's adorable precocious 18-month-old son

Edie: Deb's sexy neighbor

Brandody: Deb's sexy mysterious co-worker

Scene 1: Deb at work. She and Brandody are eating lunch

Deb: I'm so glad it's Friday. (She takes a bite and chews for what seems like 10 minutes.)

Brandody: Ummm. (Also chews.)

Deb: (raises eyebrows)

Brandody: (clears throat)

Deb: So what are you doing this weekend?

Brandody: Uh. Stuff. Chillin'.

Deb: What do you teach, again?

Scene 2: Deb's house

Princess: Mommy, Dexy hit me!

Deb: Come here, children. (Something trendy and contemplative begins playing in the background.) We have to love each other. We're all we have. If you don't love each other, what will we have? Nothing. Because we're all we have.

Sven: (coming through the door) I'm home!

Deb: Filming!

Sven: Oops. (Door shuts)

Dexy: Ooh ga ba. Dog.

Deb: I love you too, my baby.

Edie: (Pokes head in through the door) Is anyone home?

Deb: Come in! That's not strange at all, that you would just open the door to my house and come in!

Edie: So what happened with you and Brandody today?

Deb: Nothing. He's actually very stupid.

Edie: I don't think you mean that.

Producer: (off camera) Deb, we talked about this.

Deb: (sighs) Fine. He's very... clean.

Producer: (off camera, warningly): Deb?

Deb: All right! He's 'super hot and I hope he asks me out.' I can't do this! I thought this was going to be a reality show about my life! Why can't I have my own husband here?

Producer: (off camera) Deb, we talked about this. Husbands are only sexy if they're cheating or being cheated on. Do you want him to have an affair with Edie?

Edie: Okay!

Deb: No! Why can't there be a show on television that just shows a normal, happy family? One with a normal number of kids, and parents that just try to hold things together but really love each other? People who can't keep their house clean because they'd rather play with their kids? People who have to save for years to go to Disneyworld because they pay their bills and don't use credit cards? Why can't that be on TV? That's me!

Producer: (off camera) You're fired. Edie, I'll meet you in your trailer.

Edie: Yes, sir.

*******

So, that didn't go too well. Maybe I should have gone the other way, with the competition show.

"Project Runway XXL": Young fashion designers compete to create flattering clothes for dumpling-shaped women

I'll be Heidi.

Hecklefest 2009

I just gave myself the best gift any heckler can give herself.


A DVD set of the 1991 revival of "Dark Shadows," the only show to ever jump the shark during the opening credits.




For those who are unfamiliar with the Dark Shadows franchise, it began as a daytime soap opera in the 1700's, and was then revived as a prime-time soap opera in 1991. The cast is a veritable Who's Whom? of acting: Ben Cross, Michael Weiss, Adrian Paul, and the formidable Jean Simmons, who takes bewilderment to a level so committed, it is almost ethereal.



As a young teenager when this show aired originally, I was of course too young and immature to fully appreciate it. I loved this show when it first aired. We taped every episode and, when the show was cancelled after only twelve episodes (thanks, Gulf War!) we watched it again, and again. By "we" I of course mean my sister and myself. My mother never would have indulged in such shlocky, tasteless fare.



I am, of course, kidding. My mom is the queen of shlocky tasteless fare. The only thing she knows better than the Scriptures is 1950's Science Fiction B-movies, preferably the ones where you can actually see the crew members hoisting the alien spaceships on hempen ropes.



But, I digest. Loving the show Dark Shadows as I did then, I failed to see the amazing level of humor so present for me in the show now. It has become a new experience.



The way the psychic indicates that she is using her powers by bugging out her eyes, for example:



Maggie: {Eyes half-closed} I don't know what's going on in this town...but I'll tell you this: {Eyes POP open, as though she's just noticed a large tarantula in the corner of the room} the evil has just begun!



Of course, my pitiful blog cannot convey to you the sheer magic of the magnificent Ben Cross wailing in pain after he attacks his cousin/descendent Caroline because he aged 200 years in an hour because the doctor who was treating him for the malignant vampire cell got jealous that he was really in love with the reincarnation of his former fiancee and gave him a bogus injection. Whatever else this show has, the writing is awe-inspiring.



So, to truly share in the magic of heckling this masterpiece, I'm declaring my intention to establish Hecklefest, a yearly event in which priveleged few will spend a day with me and heckle. This year's theme: Gothic Romance. We will begin the day with a viewing of Twilight. (Selected scenes will be played with the commentary track, so Rob can heckle with us.) From there, we will watch the first six episodes of Dark Shadows. Alfred Hitchcock's Rebecca will follow to cleanse the palate, a visual sorbet, if you will. (Rebecca very much fits in with this theme, both in overall tone and eye-bugging.) The final six episodes of Dark Shadows will round out the evening.



I expect those attending to treat Hecklefest as audiences at Bayreuth treated performances of The Ring Cycle: total committment to the event. Bathroom breaks will be tolerated. Snacks will be provided.



It sounds like heaven to me.

Folksy Musin's Flashback Episode

As a legend in my own mind, I am accustomed to hearing praise wherever I go. The fact that said praise occurs mostly in my head is, to me, irrelevant.

However, since beginning this blog, I have been hearing actual words of praise from people who take time roughly every other day to read my blog. They say things like, "You're so funny!" or "How do you think of these things!" I always smile and demur, not wanting to admit that I really have no idea what I'm doing and, furthermore, the first draft of almost every entry contains the word "booger" at least six times. And poop. Don't get me started on poop.

There is one question I've been asked many times, though, that I can answer: "How did you get started writing a blog?" Come with me through the blurry lines of the flashback episode....

Folksy Musin's: The Sitcom

[Kicky sitcom opening sequence, with a cheesy montage of me juggling groceries and trying to walk a dog. The song would be something like a cross between "Ride of the Valkyries" and the theme from "Maude."]

Tonight's Episode: The Beginning

Cast:

Deb, a thoughtful, quietly attractive mom with a sharp wit and impeccable sense of style (played by Anne Hathaway)

Kristina, the adorable, wacky social worker with a heart of gold, with a wildly popular blog (played by Reese Witherspoon)

Sven, Deb's handsome loving cool talented amazing husband (played by Rob Pattinson or Seth Rogen, depending on who is available)

Act I: Pre-Blog Deb

Deb: Hey, Kristina! It's good to see you.

Kristina: You too! It's not at all strange that this script shows us having a face-to-face conversation even though we've never met!

Deb: I know, right? But we've been "talking" on the discussion board for such a long time, I feel like I know you!

Kristina: Me, too!

Act II: Kristina Makes a Suggestion

Deb: Hey, Kristina! I noticed you're not posting on the discussion board as much as you used to.

Kristina: You're right, I'm really into my blog right now.

Deb: You have a blog? Really?

Kristina: You should check it out. Have you ever thought about doing it yourself? You'd be really good at it.

Deb: Wow, you think so? Thanks!

[As laid-back acoustic indie rock plays, we see Deb sitting on her bed with her Macbook. She is reading Kristina's blog and chuckling to herself. She looks up, thoughtful, and hits "Create Blog" on the menu bar at the top of the page.]

Act III: After the Blog

Deb: Kristina, I can't thank you enough for helping me start my blog. It is so much fun and I'm having a great time.

Kristina: No problem. You know, we still haven't met. This isn't fact-based at all!

Deb: Look!  Angelina Jolie!

Kristina: Where?  [Deb runs away.]

Ending 1: if Sven is played by Rob Pattinson

[Deb sits on the bed, typing on her Macbook.]

Sven (entering, shirtless): {in a British accent} Deborah, love of my life, reason for my existence, have you seen my shirt?

Deb: No.  [She unobtrusively uses one foot to ease the pile of shirts out of sight.]

Ending 2: if Sven is played by Seth Rogen

[Deb sits on the bed, typing on her Macbook.  Sven enters.]

Sven: Are you writing that "blog" again? (Grimaces, waves hand in air behind him)

Deb: [gasping for air] What did you eat?

Sven: (laughing) Put that in your "blog." [Screen fades to black.]

Fin.

So today, if nothing else, we have learned: thank you, Kristina. This is all your fault.

My Resume: Life Coach

Name: Deb

Age: 34

Weight: Undeterminable by human technology

Sign: Dip

Is seeking a position as a life coach to anyone whose picture has appeared on the cover of a major publication in the past 12 months.

Qualifications:

1. Discretion. I am the very definition of the word. On my blog, everyone except myself is referred to a pseudonym that is virtually undetectable, except by the person I'm referencing and anyone who actually knows that person. Right, Calliope?

2. Past Experience: While I personally have never been a cocaine-addicted former actress whose latest movie was released on ABC Family to avoid the ingominity of the direct-to-DVD movie release, I did once kill a scorpion that was in my shoe and have manually unclogged several toilets. I think the parallels are obvious.

3. Knowledge: I personally viewed "Beverly Hills, 90210" in its first incarnation as well as "Melrose Place." Furthermore, I have the movie "Girls Just Want To Have Fun" memorized. What problem is there that can't be solved by one of those masterpieces?



4. Education: I dressed up like a giant duck in high school**. What wouldn't I do for a job?

5. What you should know about me: I am a people person, a dynamic, proactive go-getter who can synergize the matrix and make everything happen for you. I even know what that sentence means, in theory. Even if I don't know, I said it, which means I can sound like I know anything.

6. My specialty: Saying "no." I would say no better than anyone else, because I would insist on an ironclad 10-year contract at a fixed salary. Even if you fire me, you'd have to pay me, so it would be in your interest to listen to my advice. Here are some examples that is totally made up and are not at all true*: Let's say Playboy calls with an offer for you to pose. You are concerned that, if you do so, you may become known simply for exploiting your body. A fair concern, given that up to this point you are mainly known for the size of your behind and your "unauthorized" sex tape.



In this case, after your mother/manager advised you to do Playboy, promising you that you wouldn't have to be *completely* naked (and pointing out how much money she, I mean you, would make), you would come to me.

"No," I would say. "You're instincts are correct. You should not do Playboy."

"But my mom said I wouldn't have to be naked," you would say.

"Really?" I would say. "Seriously? It's Playboy. You will be naked. In Playboy language, a glass of champagne is considered modest attire."

"I don't want to pass up a good opportunity..." you would say.

"No," I would say.

"But-"

"No."

"If maybe I-"

"Just no. Really. Now leave me alone, your behind is interfering with my ability to hear low frequencies."

So you can see what an impact I would make on the lives of these celebrities. I haven't even gotten into the example where a client asks whether she should marry her engaged back-up dancer, or get pregnant by her married co-star.

I am available to begin immediately, as long as you are willing to hold our meetings in my house. I have to get caught up on the laundry.

*My example is totally made up, unless you believe that Reality Shows are actually reality. If, like me, you believe them to be carefully crafted and scripted scenarios imitating real life, then that scenario is completely made up. Just not by me.
**Our mascot was the gander. I was the mascot for three or four pivotal football games and pep rallies, so I donned the giant gander suit many times. I did have to provide my own tights.

An Inconvenient Food

I confess: I love tacos.

I mean, who doesn't, right? Who doesn't love the crispy shell, the warm, succulent meat, the crisp lettuce, tangy tomato, and melty cheese? What's not to love about that?

I'll tell you what's not to love about that: dignity. One cannot consume a hard-shell taco with dignity.

Today, our school cafeteria featured hard-shelled tacos for lunch. I recieved a glop of meat (two dollops = one glop), two shells, and a thimble of cheez. I have not misspelled "cheese." What I received was, in fact, cheez, a yellow, tasteless, soft substance that is impervious to the elements and chuckles audibly when sprinkled on food.

I carefully spooned a dollop of meat into the first shell, said a prayer, and took a bite.

KABOOM!

As I'm picking bits of taco shell out of my Andy Rooney-like eyebrows, the question occurs: who thought this was a good idea? Let's take greasy meat and assorted condiments, put them inside something so hard and brittle it barely holds together, and then make it large enough to require at least 8-11 bites to consume in its entirety. It sounds like a joke. A hidden camera prank, perhaps.

Wouldn't bite-size taco shells be neat? Just a mini shell, enough to hold about a teaspoon of meat, that you could load up and stuff in your mouth all at once? That would be great. And the time it would take you to build each taco would stop you from wolfing the whole thing down so quickly.

Of course, you can do soft tacos. Wimp. But here in Texas, we know the way tacos ought to be done. If you're in no danger from shrapnel when eating with a friend, it just ain't tacos.

I can't wait to see if my afternoon students are picking shells out of their eyebrows, too.

Family Scandal

Since I bear so many similarities to some of the world's best-known royalty...

...it was only a matter of time before I experienced my own family scandal.  I plan on handling it with clearly offended dignity, allowing myself only half-smiles and gracious nods until I get through it all.

Our scandal is this: Princess has a boyfriend.

I suppose I should have seen this coming.  We were due for a scandal; things have been so quiet on the Brangelina front that Jen and John went ahead and broke up again, the Stewart-Cramer showdown was decisive...I guess it was just my turn.  As a celebrity in my own mind, I take my responsibilities very seriously.

The scandal has caused shockwaves throughout the day care, my workplace, and most of the house, which explains the mess.  Everywhere I go, people are asking me about it, sometimes without being prompted.

Here's the real story, not the exaggerated "tabloid" version you'll get from some disreputable rag like The Kid Place Weekly Newsletter.  The other day, I picked Princess, age 3, up from day care.  One of the older classes had been combined with hers, and several 4-year-old girls began hugging her goodbye.

"How sweet," I said to myself, not knowing that the real show hadn't started yet.

I didn't notice the 4-year-old Lothario, twirling his inexplicable mustache, slinking ever closer to my frail, tiny child.  Before I knew it, he was facing her, alone, except for me and the teachers and the other children.

"Princess," he growled in his breathy 4-year-old manly voice, "I need a kiss."

And she kissed him.  Right on the cheek.  He kissed her, and they hugged.  When she came and took my hand, her smile was rather pleased.

Mommy was stunned.

We drove home in silence.  When I questioned her at home, she was nonchalant.  "Yes, that's Tyler," she said when I asked if that had been her boyfriend who accosted her at the door.

But when Daddy got home and asked her...

...she BLUSHED.  My three-year old blushed when asked about the day care Rhett Butler.

We still haven't recovered; the scandal is still the subject of gossip and open speculation.  I can only hope Angelina adopts another baby, or anything to allow me to return to my quiet, private life.

But Tyler will still be around...

Nightmare Scenario

I've been having some vivid, disturbing dreams lately. Some are disturbing in that pleasant, I-want-to-see-where-this-is-going way, but others are just plain wacky.

Last night's dream was vivid and disturbing enough for me to only hit the snooze button three times, so I could immediately reflect upon it. I won't go into detail (is there anything worse than someone who tries to "tell" a dream?) but I can sum up nicely:

In my dream, I was watching the final episode of "ER," in which real medical professionals pontificated at length about the changes in medical technology over the course of the show's 15-year run. That's not the disturbing part.

In my dream, I changed the channel, and found that Rupert Everett and Madonna had made a sequel to "The Next Best Thing." Does anybody remember that movie? I warn you right now, I'm going to totally spoil it, because it's old enough that anyone who wanted to see it would have done so by now, and it's awful.

In "The Next Best Thing," Madonna is a hip yoga instructor who lives with her gay BFF. She's in a relationship with someone whose name I can't recall, who may be in so few scenes because he's embarrassed. They break up, Madge goes to Rupert for consolation, they get drunk and spend the night together. This plot device was so plausible, it made me wonder if they were reading my diary!

Of course, as always happens when you've spent one drunken night with a gay man, she gets pregnant. They decide to raise the child (a boy) together, continuing to have their own romantic relationships on the side. This sounded like such a solid plan, I almost left the theater. However, to my stunned amazement, it didn't work.

Madge meets Benjamin Bratt and wants to marry him and move to the suburbs. She also drops the faux-British accent she's been affecting throughout the film, for valid reasons of character, I'm sure. Rupert vows to fight her for custody, and Madge reveals he's not the real father, it was the ex who dumped her at at the beginning.

YAWN! I mean, GASP! Who saw that one coming? They don't pay those writers enough.

The rest of the film shows the former BFF's progressively hating each other more, and there are courtroom scenes. Remember, it was billed as a comedy?

So my dream last night was that someone made a very lengthy sequel, and I caught the end.

The plot of the sequel: two words: suicide pact. But, it got me thinking...

Say it with me: Titanic II. Oh, yeah...

World Domination

I don't wish to toot my own horn, but it has recently come to my attention that I am on my way to total world domination.


I began writing this little ol' blog as a creative outlet; it also gives me a reason to use semi-colons to my heart's delight as I create compound-complex sentences without anyone criticizing me for it (not to mention indulging my addiction to parentheses).


However, what began as something of a "lark" has turned into a "frightening carnivorous lark" as a particular facet of my behavior, as illustrated by my blog, has been turning anyone who reads it into a very specific kind of monster.


The Heckle MonsterTM. Pictured here, clutching its obviously intimidated offspring:


The Heckle Monster is identified by its rapier-sharp wit and understated physical attractiveness. It preys upon those innocents who go through life completely unaware that a lowbrow, wicked sense of humor lurks underneath a genteel veneer. This particular specimen is unusually ruthless, even attacking its own mother, forcing her to heckle formerly beloved movies, sometimes weeping with the ruthlessness of her attack, but helpless to do otherwise.

It's all true. My mother, a paragon of decency and itellectual virtue, recently called me on the phone.

"It's all your fault," she began, which may not sound like a promising start, but it's a fairly typical opening for our conversations.

"What did I do now?" I asked.

"I'm watching Lord of the Rings," she answered. It was all I needed to know. My dear mother now cannot hear Orlando Bloom's voice without grave concern over the state of his bowels, and it's all my fault.

Then, my sister called me to inform me that my beloved nephew, Dervish, was heckling Titanic. I heard him in the background yelling at the television, "Jump off the boat! At least you'll be out of this movie!"

He's 9. I apologize. To my knowledge, Dervish doesn't read my blog, so the only way I could have infected him with my disease would be general contact.

You understand what this means? I am a bio-weapon, a force of mass destruction the likes of which this world has never seen. Imagine what I could do in the evil places of the world:

(Cue imaginary dream sequence music.)

Obama: It's serious this time. We can't get North Korea to back down.

Deb: What do you want me to do?

Obama: We can't mess around here. You're going to have to bring out the big guns.

Deb: You can't mean...

Obama. Yes. The Matrix. The entire trilogy. Then Star Wars: The Phantom Menace. If that doesn't work, The Ten Commandments, Rebecca, and-

Deb: Not-

Obama: Yes.

Deb: I can't heckle that. Think of the children.

Obama: You must. For the good of the nation.

Deb: All right. (flies off into the night, with Sunset Boulevard tucked under her arm...)

(Cue end of dream imaginary music)

Yes, I vow to always use my powers for good, and never, ever heckle Sunset Boulevard again, unless it is for the good of the nation.

And I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille...

A Princess Sample: Sunday Morning

This morning, Princess climbed into bed with me, as she usually does on non-school days.

"Mommy," she said, "I'm cold, let me under the covers with you."

I let her in, and as soon as she was snuggled against me, she gave me a secretive little smile, and tooted.

"Princess," I asked, "did you just toot on Mommy?"

She batted her eyelashes at me and responded, "I was just thinking about you."

Then, she pulled her arms out from under the blanket and played with her dolly.

She said, "Mommy, I'm cold."

I said, "You're under the blanket with me."

She said, "No, my arms are cold.  I need a blanket with sleeves."

Snuggie strikes again... drat you, Kristina.

Have a great week, everybody.

Third Person

I have a three-year-old daughter, who I have always called "Deb Jr." in my blog. However, for the purpose of today's entry, she will now be known as "Princess."

Princess is the opposite of her mommy. While I have not voluntarily worn pantyhose since 1997, reluctantly wear skirts to church, and never, ever wear dresses, Princess insists on wearing cute little cotton dresses to school every day. She usually also demands tights, since socks aren't "pretty enough." She has more shoes than I had at 18: her sparkle shoes, her red shoes, her black shoes, her pink shoes, her pink sparkle shoes, her blue shoes, her two pair of tennis shoes, and her brown shoes. She is very concerned that everything match; we had to purchase the blue shoes because she had a blue dress and nothing "matched" it.

"But Deb," you may be saying, shaking your head in pity, "she didn't go out and buy these things for herself. You created this monster."

You're right. I did. I have no defense, only an explanation: Princess came to us after a short but difficult battle with infertility, and we had some scares during the pregnancy. When we were presented with a beautiful, healthy daughter, Sven and I were so enchanted with her that we could deny her nothing. To be fair, we're trying, and she's only 3. We ought to be okay, right?

Still, she's awfully cute. And very clever. She imitates her father and me, to our delight. Tonight, for example, she handed me a paper and pencil and asked me to color. I began to color, and she put a hand on mine and said, "No, Mommy, we don't scribble. You need to trace." I obediently "traced" what she told me to, and she took my paper away. Moments later she handed it back to me. She had put a small sticker on it.

"You get a sticker, Mommy," she said. "You did a very good job. But next time, no scribbles, okay?"

I mean, say no to that. Really.

But by far, the most endearing thing she does, even cuter than the way she'll only eat the buttered side of her toast, is the way she talks about herself in the third person.

"Princess is hungry," she'll say. "Princess wants a snack."

"What does Princess want?" I'll ask.

"Princess wants a yes cheese," she answers. (We have yes cheese, no cheese, square cheese, and round cheese. Princess likes cheese. I don't know how she named it. Don't get me started on the cracker classification system.)

Or, at the end of the day:

"Princess is tired. Princess is ready to go to bed and watch her DVD player." When she goes into third person, she doesn't slip, like Suede did on Project Runway. She keeps it up.

I know she'll have to stop doing this someday, but I can enjoy it while it lasts.

It Can't Be Over!

It seems as though every year, this special season is shorter and shorter. And they spend so long building up the anticipation, starting before any rational person would think feasible: it seems for months in advance you'll be sick to death of it before it comes, and then boom! It's all over...

Of course, I'm speaking of Awards Season. The time in which the most unappreciated, underpaid, hardworking among us finally get the recognition they deserve: the entertainment industry.

No, no, I'm serious. I can only speculate how difficult it is to be an artist, wanting only to work at your craft, forced to own palatial estates in several cities and employ nannies for each individual finger of each child. I don't understand that sort of pain. They deserve something for all of their hard work, despite sinfully large salaries, love and adoration, and the ability to converse with Rob Pattinson whenever they wish.

Relax, that's my only Rob reference today.  I think the only problem with Awards Season is that it isn't long enough, and doesn't recognize a variety of celebrities.  I mean, we get show after show about actors and musicians, but what about celebrity restauranteurs?  Our current crop of award shows honor talent, mostly; where is the award for people who are simply attractive?

I'm so pleased to announce that Bravo will be airing the second annual A-List Awards: Honoring the "best" of television, food, fashion, design, and celebrity.  And the best thing about it is, none of these awards is based at all on merit!  The public gets to vote!

If I had to pick a category, it would be "Celebrity: A-List Kate."  The winner of this category will win for being a person named Kate.  Lest you believe this category to be too exclusive, they did include Cate (with a C) Blanchett.  This is truly the land of opportunity.

If you are like me, you will be waiting with bated breath for this last gasp of awards season.  Then I'll have to pack away my Oscar-shaped hat and Grammy gloves until next year brings me a new round of joy.   I hope I can make it...