A Muppet Celebration of Independence

Happy 4th of July!!

-Deb

Happy Birthday!

This weekend is one of the most important for our family. It is only fitting that the entire country celebrate as well.

Of course, I'm talking about the 5th of July.

Yes, you read that right. The 5th of July is Sven's birthday. This year he turns 36, the sexiest age a man can be.

Sven is a wonderful husband, but he is very difficult to shop for. This year, in honor of Billy Mays, I plan to give him many useful products As Seen on TV. I have chosen these products for their usefulness, but also for the message they send:

1. A Big City Slider station. Nothing says "I love you" like a tiny hamburger. Now, we can have our own restaurant-style sliders every day of the year! Or, once, and then never wash it!

2. The Awesome Auger. Nothing says "I love you" like a hole in the ground. Now, Sven can indulge his great love of digging. Then he can build a big fire in one of the new holes and grill sliders. It's a win-win.

3. Mighty Putty. Nothing says "I love you" like a wad of clay-like substance. Now Sven can stop all of those leaks! And I can indulge my love for hammering nails through PVC pipe!

4. The Water Jet pressure washer. Nothing says "I love you" like a tool designed to dislodge dirt, mold, and bird feces from your house. This has the added bonus of being a chore waiting to be done! Happy birthday, honey! Now get to work.

5. What Odor? odor-removal product. Nothing says "I love you" like a product designed to remove odors so offensive you previously considered throwing away/selling/euthanizing the source of the odor. I love you dear. What odor?

I love you, honey. Happy birthday.

You know this blog entry is your present, right?

Jon & Kate: Not My Type

It has recently come to my attention that there is a show on TV called "Jon & Kate Plus 8." This show centers around the family of Jon and Kate Gosselin. Jon and Kate had fertility problems, but they a successful pregnancy which resulted in twins, then decided they wanted more children, so they had another try and had sextuplets. Someone thought it would be interesting to watch these "regular people" try to make such an unconventional family work.

Who? Why, the good people at TLC. No, not Tender Loving Care: The Learning Channel. Yes, my friends, there is a channel on TV that claims to be teaching us something! Dreadful. As though I watch television to be edified. In the past, though, TLC stuck to obviously educational fare with programming such as "Salt Water Taffy: The Mystery Revealed" and the landmark 10-part series "All About Glue."

TLC, in their crafty way, realized that no one really cared about salt water taffy's mysteries, so they decided to add "reality" programming to their lineup. This "reality" programming invariably focused on people who are just like "you and me" except for some crucial difference. Perhaps, like Jon and Kate, they have a huge number of children. Perhaps they are struggling with a genetic condition, such as dwarfism (The Little Couple). The point of these shows seems to be, "Look at these ordinary people, dealing with their extraordinary situations in completely ordinary ways."

Except they can't. They can't deal with their problems in ordinary ways, because there are cameras in their homes and faces 24 hours a day. They have producers. They have handlers. They have bodyguards and press agents and hairdressers and makeup artists. But, most of all, they have sponsors. These folks, no matter how "real" they are in the beginning, eventually devolve into the same tired "celebrity" that most successful reality shows produce. Omorosa. Adrienne Curry. Sanjaya. Tiffany "New York" Pollard. If you don't know who any of these people are, you clearly need a refresher course on what makes REAL "reality" TV.

If you are watching a show that contains the following, you are watching REAL "reality" TV:

1. People eating bugs for money.

2. Women fighting each other for the chance to "date" a has-been/never-was celebrity.

3. Attractive yet stupid people sipping champagne in a hot tub and/or chewing at a trendy restaurant, making conversation so boring you want to leap into the TV and take someone's pulse.

4. Accomplished chefs forced to make gourmet cuisine out of cigarette butts and Spam.

5. Donald Trump.

6. A homosexual fashion designer so flaming one can't look at him directly openly weeping because the skirt he designed was to be cut on the bias and he didn't buy enough fabric. If Tim Gunn is holding him gently and murmuring words like "consternation" or "egregious," count it twice.

7. Dancing, with or without celebrities.

8. Singing, with or without talent.

9. People who have no obvious source of income but spend thousands, if not tens of thousands of dollars on hats.

10. Tyra Banks demonstrating how to look happy/sad/playful/sexy/constipated using only your eyes.

What do all of the above shows have in common? They may be unscripted, they may star "real" people as opposed to professional actors, but there is nothing "real" about them. They are as contrived and fake as any scripted television. You can cheerfully root for your hero or root against your villain with a happy heart and clear conscience: this is all in good fun.

Jon and Kate, and other shows of that ilk, are outside what I consider "fun." It came out very recently that Jon allegedly had an affair. Then, Kate allegedly had an affair. Now, they are getting a divorce. They seem to have forgotten that we don't like them because they're celebrities; in fact, most of us don't even like them. People who were following their story were doing it for the kids, rooting for their family. Now, instead of turning off the cameras and attempting to return to some sort of normal life, their family is broken, and every moment is documented so those kids can see it someday.

I wonder what they'll think? I bet they change the channel.

Confessions: My First Celebrity Crush

It was with great and genuine sadness this week that I learned of the passing of my first celebrity crush:

Michael Jackson.

I fell in love with Michael in 1983, when I was 8 years old. My love for him continued throughout the third grade and into the fourth. I was known throughout my school as the "crazy Michael Jackson girl." I wore one white glove to school for months. My mother had to forcibly restrain me from wearing it to church.

The elementary school I attended was made up of mostly African-American students. I remember my first encounter with racism: an older girl cornered me on the playground and told me that I wasn't allowed to love Michael Jackson because I was white. I thought of Michael and his love for all children, and told her that I was too, allowed, and she should just leave me alone.

My father gamely endured most of my feminine squeals over how "cute" Michael was, and helped me appreciate his music. Dad bought me Off the Wall as well as Thriller, and listened to it all with me. "Human Nature" was the first popular song to move me to tears. His videos thrilled me, though I couldn't watch the full video for Thriller until I was 27.

By the time "Bad" was released in 1987, I was over my crush on Michael. As the years went on, I progressed from teen pop to metal to grunge to alternative, but those Michael Jackson cassettes lived on in my collection. As things got stranger and Michael became almost unrecognizable, I remembered the music and the joy it gave me, and tried not to believe most of what I was hearing (though I couldn't deny what I was seeing).

About two months ago, I downloaded a collection of Michael Jackson music from iTunes. I put several of my old favorites into my "Music I Love" playlist and have been rediscovering my love for this music.

As we were leaving Branson on Friday, I plugged in my iPod, set to random, and "Human Nature" was the first song to play. Sven looked at me and asked, "So are we listening to Michael Jackson all day today because he died?"

"No," I answered, a little lump in my throat. "I just like this song."

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

Deb's Travel Journal: Arkansas

I love Arkansas. It is the only state where I can go into Walmart wearing bedroom slippers, no make-up, and a greasy hairdo and still hold my own, attractiveness-wise.

It is also the state that allowed me to visit an actual, functioning outhouse. Today.

(Disclaimer: for those of you of the male persuasion who read my blog, the following contains sensitive terms regarding certain aspects of life exclusive to women. Explicit terms such as "cramps" and "breeze" will be used. Read on at your own peril.)

Whilst traveling the "scenic" route from Hot Springs to Harrison, I became aware that I had the need to visit a comfort station. My "friend" came to "visit" Sunday, the day we left Texas, but, curiously, her "welcome" is already worn. I only mention this to illustrate that my "calls of nature" have become "emergency bulletins," and I received one in the proverbial "middle of nowhere." I, following the primitive instincts that have allowed our species to thrive, alerted Sven, who was driving. My man would take care of it, I knew.

Sven, ever alert, saw this sign: "Comfort Station 1000 feet." It had a picture of the international restroom symbols. I thought all would be well.

How wrong I was.

We found ourselves in a parking lot. There was a sidewalk. At the end of the sidewalk was a small brick building. Each half of the building had an inexplicable smokestack-like protuberance emerging from its roof.

I approached the building with supplies in my hand and trepidation in my heart.

At the door, dead wasps. What could have killed them? I wondered, but hastened in to perform what was necessary.

The door slammed shut behind me, making a sound reminiscent of a jail cell slamming shut.

There was no electricity. There was no sink. There were three rolls of toilet paper padlocked to the wall.

Then, I saw it. The apparatus.

I cannot call it a toilet. To call it a toilet would give you, my dear reader, the wrong impression.

It was a plastic pickle drum with a seat.

Beneath it: the hole.

I couldn't study the hole too closely. The lack of tank and handle unnerved me, but I soldiered on, necessity making me brave.

It must be some sort of "port-a-potty," I thought. Surely, I won't be sitting over some hole in the middle of the woods. That would simply be...barbaric.

Yet, I felt the breeze. I know the truth.

I shall speak of this no more. Heed me, my friends. Route 7 is not the way of those accustomed to comfort. It is for the bold. The adventurous.

It is not for me.

Confessions: Salespeople

I am the worst negotiator in the world.

When Sven took me to buy our first car together, it went like this:

{Scene: Used car lot, the year 2000}

Deb: I want this car. Can I have this car? I love this car.

Sven: The salesman's coming. Just let me do the talking. Act like you don't care about the car.

Deb: Okay. {Attempts to look suave and unconcerned}

Sven: You look constipated.

Salesman: How are we doing today?

Deb: I LOVE THIS CAR I WANT THIS CAR WE'LL PAY ANYTHING YOU WANT JUST PLEASE LET ME HAVE THIS CAR

Sven: (facepalm)

Salesman: Mwa ha ha ha ha.

{scene}

Sven, being the wonderful adorable caring conscientious strapping meat-loving lawn-mowing music-writing hazel-eyed guy that he is, bought me the car. We didn't get a very good deal, but he wanted to make me happy. So, he bought me the car, then told the story to everyone about how I probably cost him thousands of dollars because I couldn't keep my mouth shut around the salesman. Sven would point to the pretty little white sports coupe and say, "She loved the car that much."

I laughed and played along, of course, because I didn't want him to know the truth.

I did love the car. I loved it a lot. But the reason I blurted out those horrible words was not my love for the car, it was my fear of salespeople. The truth is, I would have told the salesman the same thing about whatever vehicle I was standing in front of. It's a problem. I confess it now: I am terrified of salespeople.

I bring this up because of a horrible new trend I have noticed at several malls I have visited: the Pushy Demonstration People. (I shall henceforth refer to them as PDP's.) PDP's populate those small booths that sit in the "roadways" that pave our malls. The PDP's have chairs at their booths, but they never use them.

"Excuse me, can I ask you something?" their pitch begins. PDP's are almost unfailingly polite, at least in the beginning. The first time this was tried on me, I automatically responded by stopping and allowing her to ask her question. It turned out this young lady was deeply concerned about my nailbeds. It cost me $120 to get out of there, and I still have that Dead Sea salt scrub somewhere.

It has taken me years to train myself to not be polite to the PDP's. It was a long process. First, I avoided walking by them. I would walk outside the mall and around it before willingly passing a PDP. I soon recognized that I was ridiculous and sweaty, so I decided to head it off at the pass: a fake cell phone conversation. When I sighted the PDP, I would dig out my phone, flip it open, and begin babbling. Unfortunately, I got very involved in these fake conversations, and had to stop when my imaginary friend Ramona left her husband Thorny for Thorny's friend Paladin who had 35 hit points and +5 charisma. I had my own problems. It was just too draining.

It was go time. I was not going to allow these PDP's to run my life. I decided to ignore them. Most of them got the hint. I was free, though not satisfied. I longed to ask them some questions of my own. Like, "Do you really think bothering me like this will make me want to buy what you're selling?" Or, "Has it occurred to you that the fact that you are accosting me every time I walk by guarantees that I won't buy anything you're selling?" But I never did. I ignored them, they gave up easily, and the world went on.

But yesterday and today, I encountered two of the pushiest PDP's I had ever seen.

Number One was a man. He was tall, with wavy black hair and an intriguing accent that could have been Latvian, if I knew what Latvian sounded like. He was dressed in a black t-shirt and slacks. He was holding a stick of something that could have been wood or wood-colored chalk.

"Excuse me, I have a gift for you," he said, holding out the stick. I attempted to ignore him.

"Come on, take it, it's free," he said, moving so that he wasn't quite blocking me, but it was close.

"What's wrong? You can take it, it's free," he persisted. I took a deep breath, remembered a Very Special Punky Brewster, looked him in the eye, and said:

"No, thank you." What power! I felt as though years of restraint had fallen off of me in one fell swoop. I felt willowy and lithe and tall. I could conquer the world!

"Why not?" he asked. Again I was plush and short. It didn't work! I spoke to him directly, told him no, and he's still asking! Suddenly, it was like the end of the movie Labyrinth (except with different pants): he had no power over me.

"Seriously?" I said, stopping and looking up at him. "Really? I said no. Just, no. Excuse me." And I laughed.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. I laughed.

That was yesterday.

Today, when he saw me pass by, he sat down. Victory.

The second PDP ignored me yesterday, as I did her, but with other women she was very assertive, even aggressive. Today, emboldened by my defeat of PDP #1, I watched her, curious as to why she ignored me. I noticed that she was targeting women, but I couldn't see anything else. Then I looked more closely.

"Better than Botox" her booth was called.

I could only draw one conclusion: I looked too young for her to bother with.

Victory.

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