Pants On Fire

I am an appallingly good liar.  If I want to, I can usually get people to believe something, even if that something is (to me) blatantly, obviously untrue.  I do not use my powers for evil, however.  I use them for comedy.  That has not always been the case.

When I was a kid, I used to lie for attention.  I recognize now that I was exercising a very vivid imagination.  Writing helped to end that behavior.  Once I could write something imaginary, I no longer had to live something imaginary, if that makes sense.

Would it surprise you to learn that this is not uncommon behavior?  Some of our greatest actors and writers have behaved like that.  In fact, the great Sarah Bernhardt often told her childhood chums that she was, in fact, the love child of the Prince of Wales (her real father was a pubkeeper in Bristol).  I just made that up, but you get my point.  A lot of creative people go through a "lying" phase.  Mine was over by the time I was a teenager.  Now I write, which is like lying on paper.  Acting is lying on film or onstage.  None of this bothers me.

Princess likes to lie.  Of course, the kind of lying she does is usually called "Pretending."  She tells me her grandfather is a mailman who lives in a big house two streets over from us.  She tells me that, at school, a tree came to life and took her to the meadow to talk to the cows, who thinks she is gorgeous.  I'm working very hard to make sure Princess understands that pretending is okay, as long as you let people know you're pretending.  When her friend Allie came over to play, Allie's mom asked me, "Where is Princess' sister?"  I said, "She doesn't have one."  Apparently, Princess told Allie and Allie's mom that she has an older sister named Sarah who goes to big school.  Pretending.  This doesn't bother me, but I confess I'm a little worried about the future.

What does bother me is the very, very low tolerance I have for lying now.  Not the kind of lying I do, just to be funny, or the pretending Princess does, but the kind of lying others do: deliberately misleading other people for attention, to escape the consequences of bad behavior, or whatever other justification they dream up to excuse it.  Frankly, I've had enough.

I really think lying is not the worst thing someone can do, but it's probably one of the dumbest.  Compounding a wrong with another is never a good idea, but that's not even the point: even the best liars get caught.  The key to being a good liar is to be believable.  Once someone has caught you in a lie, you've lost it.  You know that people will always check on what you say, so you have to be careful to either cover your tracks to a ridiculous extent, or make up something that no one could possibly check.

Sorry, I'm reading one of Patricia Highsmith's "Ripley" books right now, and I've got lying on the brain. It's not surprising; statistics show that women are 87% more likely to be affected by books written by female writers.

I made that up, too.

Deep Breath

Fifteen days.

Fifteen days.

Freedom comes in fifteen days.

Beaches.

Mountains.

Sparkling streams.

Mine for two months.

Plump baby cheeks.

Sticky baby hands.

Moist kisses and endless questions.

Fifteen more days and it's mine.

May is the longest month.

Who Disgusts Me More?

And now, it's time for America's newest sensation:

WHO...

DISGUSTS...

US...

MORE?

Today, we're looking at CELEBRITY MISTRESSES!  Yes, the latest trend in the world of celebrity is for a seemingly intelligent, successful man to have a series of relationships with increasingly sleazy women and cover them up with such ineptitude that we have trouble believing they are capable of tying their shoes, let alone playing a round of golf.

Our first contestant in WHO DISGUSTS ME MORE is the one who really started it all... RIELLE HUNTER!

Yes, Rielle kicked off this latest round of unscrupulous women by having an affair with politician John Edwards.   Hunter had an affair (and a love child) with Edwards, who, until then, seemed to have a fairly good shot at the vice-presidential nomination.

Did I mention John Edwards' wife, Elizabeth, was recovering from cancer at the time?  When he had the affair?  And the child?  But she was in remission, as Mr. Edwards pointed out in his own defense.  I mean, he's not a monster.

Rielle reached new lows last week on the Oprah show, where we learn everything.  I offer, for your consideration, the following information:

• Ms. Hunter insisted that having an affair with Mr. Edwards was not wrong because he was, "available."  I assume she meant this in a metaphysical sense, since he was very much married.
• She defended her actions as "living [our] truth."  When Oprah, delving deep into her soul to attempt to find a question that could possibly coerce this woman into saying something that didn't sound like it originated with The Love Guru, countered with, "What do you do when your truth hurts others?" there was no real answer.
• When asked if she knew whether or not her actions had hurt Elizabeth Edwards, Ms. Hunter answered, "You'd have to ask her."  Nice.

Certainly, Rielle will be tough to beat.  Fortunately, I'm about to drop a bombshell on all of you.

No, that's not my Christmas card from my senior year of college, that's Michelle "Bombshell" McGee, the woman who broke the news to all of us that Jesse James wasn't Sandra Bullock's Prince Charming.   Upon first glance, it is easy to dismiss Bombshell as just another heavily-tattooed, Nazi-sympathizing, fetish-modelling lady about town, but there's more to it.  Consider these statements from Bombshell's various interviews: (From ABC News)

• "I feel bad for Sandra," the heavily tattooed model and stripper said on Australia's "Today Tonight" Monday. "I know what she's going through. She must be hurt, devastated, upset, embarrassed."
• Asked what she'd say to Bullock, McGee replied, "I want to give her a heartfelt apology. Sandra, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for your embarrassment. I'm sorry all of this is public."

I am absolutely not prepared to say whether or not I believe this is sincere.  It may be, it may not be.  Her sincerity isn't important.  What's important is this: 

BOMBSHELL MCGEE UNDERSTANDS THAT YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE AFFAIRS WITH MARRIED MEN!  ARE YOU LISTENING, MS. HUNTER?

Please, do not misunderstand me.  I believe the person most at fault in all of these situations is the men.  The men are the ones who broke their wedding vows.  The men are the ones who chose to lie to their wives and sustain relationships outside of their marriage.  I don't blame the women for the situation.

That being said, to say that the women bear no responsibility, as Rielle Hunter seems to, is ludicrous.  If you are working closely with a man you know to be married, you keep your distance until he is divorced, no matter how much you love and adore him.  Really.  At least Bombshell had the decency to say she thought Jesse and Sandra were separated.  Bombshell, tattoos and all, knows that YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF IF YOU GET INVOLVED WITH A MARRIED MAN!  Of course, taking it to the media isn't exactly evidence of shame, and I never said I believe she is completely sincere, but at least she has the decency to pretend.  Rielle's very honesty is what disgusts me: she honestly seems to believe that her affair with a married man (and let's not forget the love child!) is not her problem.

So, congratulations, Rielle!  You are the winner!

You so don't want to know what the prize is.

Quantify vs. Qualify

One of my earliest memories is the following conversation with my mother:

Momz: ...and there were several things I just loved.

Deb: Mama, how many is 'several?'

Momz: I don't know, it's not a lot, but more than a few.

Deb: But how many is it?

Momz: One, two, three... several!

Deb: So 'several' is four?

Momz: Not exactly.

Deb: Then how many?

Momz: Four.

Based on this conversation, I began to define my idea of those words we use to indicate vague quantities:

One: one.

A couple: two.

A few: three

Several: four or five

A bunch: six to eight

Lots of: nine to twelve

Bunches: more than twelve.

A whole mess of/Scads/Oodles: At least twenty.

Now, I understand that not everyone has this crazy (but adorable) need to make sure that vague notions of quantity are less vague, but that's me.  It's my freak flag, and I fly it.

So the other night, Sven assures me that he brought up "a bunch of" Pull-Ups from our downstairs cache of Pull-Ups.  So I go in, confident that there are AT LEAST SIX TO EIGHT Pull-Ups on Dexy's changing table.  How many are there?

Three.

Apparently, to my husband, three is "a bunch."  I cannot believe that, in my quest to achieve perfect compatibility, I overlooked defining vague quantities in the same way.  Inexcusable.  But it's never too late to start.  The following is addressed, lovingly, to Sven:

THREE IS NOT A BUNCH!  WOULD YOU BUY A "BUNCH" OF BANANAS THAT ONLY HAD THREE?  MAYBE, BUT THAT'S IRRELEVANT!  IT WOULD BE AN AWFULLY PUNY "BUNCH," WOULDN'T IT?  THREE IS "A FEW" AND DON'T FORGET IT!

Now, it's time for me to get ready for work.  I have a bunch of stuff to do today.

Observations: Princess on Shrek v. Daddy

Scene: Princess and Deb are cuddled on the couch, watching Shrek 3 on television.

Princess: Mommy, did you see that?  Shrek wouldn't get out of bed!

Deb: I saw that.

Princess: He just pulled the covers up and went back to sleep!

Deb: Yes.

Princess: Daddy does that.

Deb: Yes, he does.

Princess: And Daddy has funny feet like Shrek, too.

Deb: I suppose you could say that.

Princess: And daddy thinks it's funny when something stinks, just like Shrek.

Deb: Well, I guess-

Princess: And you remember when Shrek sat in the mud, and all the bubbles came up, because-

Deb: Yes, sweetie, I know.  Shrek and your daddy are a lot alike.

Princess: Yes.  But daddy's not green, Mommy.

Deb: No, he's not.

Princess: And we don't live in a swamp, we live in a house.

Deb: Yep.

Princess: But Daddy loves you like Shrek loves Fiona.

Deb: Yes, he does.

Princess: You and Daddy love each other and you love me and Dexy because we are a family.

Deb: Yes, sweetie.

Princess: (thoughtful pause)

Deb: What is it, honey?

Princess: Why do Daddy's feet look like that?

Fin.

Five Things I Love About Twitter

Like every decent red-blooded rip-snorting moose-shooting American, I love taking cues for my life from the media.  That has not always been the case.  Due to my arrogant ignorance of media culture in the past, I missed out on MySpace entirely, which I'm sure has consequences I have not yet realized but will ultimately be devastating to me and my family.  I was not going to miss out on the next media-hyped internet craze.

So, following the instructions of Robin Roberts and Ryan Seacrest, my two main sources of news, several months ago I logged on to Twitter.  Just as is the case with everything else I have ever done at the behest of the people in the magic box that sits on my dresser, it has been the best decision I ever made.

Here are my five favorite things about Twitter.

1. Celebrities.  Celebrities use Twitter just like regular people, so once you find them, you can follow them, send them messages, look at their pictures, etc. unless they specifically block you.  Thanks to Twitter, I know that Russell Brand looks good in a wedding dress, and that Neil Patrick Harris is directing a production of Rent in LA, in which he just cast Vanessa Hudgens as Mimi.  (Mom, I'll explain all of that later.)  Of course, E! News told me the same thing later that day, but I already knew it, because I'm on Twitter.

I personally follow a wide range of celebrities, some of whom are actually famous, like Pink and Ben Stiller.  Matthew Perry tweets every week after Lost, but not much else.  I follow Demi and Ashton, as required by law, but don't pay much attention to them, as they send a lot of tweets about socially relevant topics like slavery and famine, and I simply don't have time for that.  On the other hand, Demi was the one who filled me in about Soleil Moon-Frye's birthday party, so it hasn't been a total waste.

2. Trending Topics.  On Twitter, the mysterious giant birds that oversee us all keep track of what keywords are being used more than any other.  These are then listed on the sidebar as "trending topics."  You can choose to see what is trending worldwide, or what is just trending in your area.  As of right now, as I write this entry, here are some of the trending topics:

Now Playing, You Remember, U Know Times Are Hard, Justin Bieber.

This is why I don't watch the news anymore.  I don't have to.  I only check the news when Twitter reports a celebrity has died, because there have been several Twitter Hoaxes in which one person jokingly tweets that a celebrity is dead, and then it gets re-tweeted until people believe it.  Thankfully, the world's greatest living actor, Jeff Goldblum, is still alive, despite numerous Twitterian attempts to change his status from Living to Non-Living.

3. Twitter Personas.  My favorite Twitter Persona is Laura Ingalls Wilder, whose Twitter name is @HalfPintIngalls.  Her tweets include the following gems:

1. Remind me not to sleep in my corset.  Last night I dreamt I was a half-pint half-full of sausage.
2. Hey Almanzo, if you liked it then you should have built a shanty on it!
   
3. 
   
   (Some folks don't approve of "The Wandering Womb Monologues" but I think it's healthy to talk about our hysterical paroxysms!)

I'm thinking of starting a Twitter account for my alter-ego, who shall remain nameless at this time, but suffice to say, her Tweets would be all about Justin Bieber.  And cats.

4. Literary Challenge.  I love that you only get 140 characters.  As readers of my extensive oeuvre can attest, I love words.  The more complex the word choice, the better.  This makes my writing become a bit abstruse at times, even obscuring important plot and character points with needless vocabularic complication.  On Twitter, you get 140 characters, including spaces.  Thus, this:

      "I am adrift in my own malaise today; it is as though a cloud has obscured the sunshine of my hopes and dreams and left me stranded on the isle of ennui."

becomes this:

     "I am SO BORED! #bored"

This sort of limitation is good for the soul.

5. Stalking.  I have made it my mission to compel as many celebrities as possible to reply to me on Twitter.  I do this by shameless flattering, which I think works better than the provocative insult.  So far I have reaped wonderful rewards:

Me: @PaulFTompkins You are dapper.  Also natty.
PaulFTompkins: @Kaydeb Agreed.

Score!  I'm going after Dr. Drew next.

Advice

I have determined, after nearly 17 minutes of reflection, that I would be an awesome advice columnist.

People are always coming to me and saying,   "Hey, can you help me?"  Sometimes they only say it with their eyes, but the intent is clear.  Because I am that kind of person, I never let someone's shyness keep me from giving them what they clearly want from me: expertise and wisdom.

Perhaps because of the psychic connection my readers feel with me, several of them have already begun sending in letters asking for advice.  Here, then, is the first installment of the Folksy Folks Helping Folks Advice Column Blog.  (I'm thinking of shortening the name.)

Dear Folksy Deb,

I am an attractive, eligible man in my late 30's who hasn't found love.  By "attractive," I mean that I have long hair around the edges but nothing on top, but I wear colorful bandanas that I think have everyone completely fooled.  By "eligible," I mean that I have, personally, rented a bus.  By "late 30's," I mean "pushing 50."  I have tried to find Ms. Right by starring in several seasons of a reality show in which I choose several tattooed and scantily clad current and former "dancers" and pretend I like some of them.  What am I doing wrong?

Sincerely,

Dear Penicillin Consumer,

I have watched your show, and as far as I can tell you are a completely sincere, emotionally vulnerable, culturally relevant superstar.  It's not your fault the girls go wild when you walk through a door!  I have three words that express your problem: location, location, location.  You've tried finding love in a house, and then in a bus, so I suggest next time you try a luxury yacht, or perhaps a double-wide trailer you can set up behind your parents' house.  Perhaps a different time slot.

Deb.

Dear Deb,

I used to be a reasonably attractive but shrewish television personality who offended humanity with my very presence.  Knowing that my television show is coming to an end and facing nothing more than a life of being married to the stupidest man alive, I decided to up my notoriety by getting extensive plastic surgery for no real reason.  While I still look vaguely human, I can no longer perform basic human functions like crying or giving meaningful looks while club music plays in in the background.  What kind of future is there for me?

Thanks,

Dear Unrecognizable Until You Start Talking:

Fear not.  That crazy cat lady can't live forever!  You should make a lucrative living starring on such shows as "World's Craziest Plastic Surgeries" or "Ten Biggest Celebrity Mistakes."  Please pass on my love to your dear husband, unless you think that would make him start hooting uncontrollably, in which case please simply blink in his direction and think of me.

Deb

Dear Deb,

I am one of the world's most wealthy and successful entertainers.  I am an Oscar-nominated actor, a producer, and I host a television show that is viewed as a major religion in several countries.  I have single-handedly made and broken authors, actors, and musicians.  I have a successful magazine and appear on the cover of every issue.  I am not married but enjoy a long-term relationship, I have a wonderful best friend, and no children.  I am ending my television show soon, and want to know what I should do next.

Sincerely,

Dear Overachiever,

Here's what you do: in your last week of shows, you do a show about Blog Life and feature several amateur bloggers.  If it will help you, I will gladly volunteer to be featured on that show.  After that, you will sign a publishing deal with at least one of the bloggers featured (again, happy to serve) giving that blogger a three-book deal.

You're welcome,

Deb

Dearest Deb,

I'm considering retirement, but have not yet found someone who can take over my job.  It is rather an important one, and no one who has applied is quite up to my standards.  Might you know of someone who is interested in relocation and an exciting new career?

Hopefully,

Dear Your Majesty,

I'm pretty sure I know of someone who would be perfect for the job.

Deb

Random Confessions

Confession: I don't care for Michael Buble.  I know I'm supposed to like him, but the truth is, I don't trust anyone who was born after 1970 but claims to be "nostalgic" for the 1940's.

*******

Confession: I love real butter.  Salted real butter.  Salted, ORGANIC real butter.  I have been known to bake a tube of pre-made biscuits and consume at least a half a stick of butter with those biscuits over the course of a day.  (Okay, it was yesterday.)

*******

Confession: I cried when I read about Jesse James cheating on Sandra Bullock.  I really thought they were the real deal.

*******

Confession: I think tattoos make a person look unprofessional, unless the tattoos are on the face.  Then the person just looks insane.

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Confession: I talk to myself, and occasionally say things that really surprise me.

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Confession: I have never dusted anything voluntarily.  When I was younger, I was firmly convinced that dusting accomplished nothing, and I have not changed that view.

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Confession: Chocolate icing is wasted on cake.  Straight from the tub is the way to go.

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Confession: When I learn that a celebrity has undergone cosmetic surgery, I think less of that person.

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Confession: My inner monologue swears a lot.

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Confession: I judge any celebrity or politician based on their performance on Saturday Night Live.  I still don't like Michael Buble, but the sketch he did with Jon Hamm entitled "Hamm and Buble" was hilarious.  I am now lukewarm on the Bubs.

That is all.