Shop Until You're On Top

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Good value is everywhere, if you know where to look.

I can tell you if you get something for full price at Kohl's, you've probably done something wrong. If you haven't at least considered eBay before buying something at an antique depot, you're doing your purse a great disservice. If you don't hit at least 17 garage sales per summer season, then not only are you a bad shopper, but also an uneighborly bitch.

Shopping is an essential component of any good life, and I applaud the way the Florida Marlins are able to get good deals for virtually no money at all. They're spending 21 million on their team -- far less than the Yankees are paying Alex Rodriguez to sit on the disabled list -- and they've produced one of the best records in baseball thus far.

They are America's discount darlings, and a great template by which a good shopper can base her decision making. After all, expensive goods (Barry Zito, Andruw Jones, Eric Gagne) seldom bring happiness, especially when they are unceremoniously ripped to shreds by the family pet.

Sidebar. There is a new bassett hound -- available for free -- at the local humane society. Now that's a bargain. She responds to the name "Rosalita" and "get away."

However, when a person makes a bargain purchase, they can't help but feel proudly attached to their goods. I have made the mistake of going fancy, buying an expensive blouse only to discover a massive flaw in the stitching on the back. This is akin to what happens everytime someone buys Mike Hampton. But I didn't really like the sweather anyway. On the other hand, the gorgeous pants suit I found at Sally McNee's garage sale is one of my favorite items, and it was only 10 dollars. We'll call it the Rule 5 Garage Sale, and we'll call the pants suit Dan Uggla.

Obviously, sometimes it's about being ahead of the curve. Nobody thought those mosquito alarms (with the torturous sound that can only be heard by young people) were ever going to amount to anything, so I bought one online for 20 dollars. Now, I'm encouraging all the women on the block to get one, but they have to pay through the nose. I knew those things would eventually catch on, allowing women like me everywhere to get a midday nap while forcing the children to stay outside, rain or shine. This is like buying Hanley Ramirez. He's useful to no end -- maybe invaluable -- but if you get him before he becomes expensive, you're really doing yourself a favor.

Shoppers also never take a day off. Sure, the Florida Marlins may only have 5,000 or so people at each game, but that's because the smart fans are out pounding the pavement, looking for that next deal. No good shopper is satisfied with what they already have in their sanctuary at home. It's a hunter-gathering society.

While you're out scoffing at the malls of America and instead finding your deals at smaller, better places (or Wal-Mart), think of the Florida Marlins.

I'm so proud of my son

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Hi there, this is Lynn DeBerg calling, and I was wondering what your policy is on getting submitted pictures into the paper?

The reason I ask is because my son, Connor, recently took third place in a karate competition up in Cleveland, and we took a picture of him with his trophy and his outfit. It's such a cute outfit, and I just think it would be a great picture. I think a lot of people would buy newspapers if they saw that picture in the sports section.

What's that? Oh, I know there are lots of other sports going on during the course of the day, but I'm not asking for a front page spot or anything. Connor just worked so hard and he had the biggest smile on his face when he took third, and I thought it would be great for him, and for kids like him.

I kind of typed up a little press release to go with it, if you want that. I can e-mail you the picture, or I can send it in the mail. What's easier? Now when is it going to run, exactly? Well, I just want to be able to tell Connor when he can expect to see himself in the paper, and also all his friends and teachers. How about tomorrow? I don't understand why you can't get it in tomorrow. There really isn't that much going on -- I checked the local schedules.

Look, I think tomorrow has to be the day. It's kind of timely since it just happened this weekend. I know you have other pictures you want to get in, but did they feature accomplishments like this one? A lot of those team photos get in for basketball or soccer teams or something like that, and kids get in the paper who ride the bench or don't do a whole lot. But my Connor put in all the work himself and trained under a professional for six weeks at a camp in Akron. I really just think he needs to be recognized. I noticed you put in bowling scores and a feature story about some old guy who used to run the local baseball team -- I really think this photo should get preference over stuff like that.

I'm sorry, but do I need to talk to your boss? I swear to God, I'll cancel my subscription if my son's picture isn't in the goddamned paper tomorrow. All you people care about are the big-name teams in the area -- what about the readers and the things they're interested in? I suppose you don't give a damn about those people. I suppose we don't even matter.

I haven't asked for ONE SHRED of coverage all year, just that you please put Connor's picture in the paper, and you won't even do that for me. I want you to transfer me to your boss or the subscription ladies, so I can cancel. My son deserves recognition! You have no idea how hard he worked and how much driving is involved carrying him to these camps and competitions. I'm never reading your fucking paper again.

(click).

It's all Bud Selig's fault

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife


Bud Selig. Disgusting.

I'm sick of people defending him, throwing out "the game has never been better" as the world preps for yet another season of baseball. First of all, the man looks like a vampire. My son plays those awful video games on the X-Box, and one of his games has a bunch of evil characters that look just like Bud Selig. The man has obviously never heard of botox. Or antibacterial handwash. Anything to kill whatever is eating his face.

Second of all, how can you get behind a man that allows tie games to happen all the time? It was bad enough that the All-Star game in 2002 end deadlocked, but now baseball's first game in China has also ended in a tie. Where is the outrage?! I don't understand why one exhibition game infuriates a population, and the other is allowed to pass by without anyone noticing.

I'll tell you why; it's because people today don't like to make decisions. I was just talking with Susan Rowe next door about this. You see it in schools, you see it in the workplace -- everyone wants somebody else to make the tough calls. The world embraces wishy-washiness. Thank god for women. Also, nobody cares about anything that doesn't happen on their own soil. Turn on CNN once in a while, America! I flip to it for 90-second increments every day during Young and the Restless commercials, and you'd be amazed what you can learn.

I read the article about the tie game in China, and noticed this extraordinary bit:

Baseball is virtually unknown in China, and Major League Baseball is trying to cash in on a growing middle class with money to spend. Chinese fans, however, noticed what seasoned fans seldom do.

"The Dodgers uniforms look very good, flattering with a nice cut," said Sunny Fan, who identified himself as a professional "fashion consultant."

Sunny. Fan. Fashion consultant. Indecision, foreign outsourcing, and now even homosexuals are ruining baseball. I just think it's sad.

The ideal birthday

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Honey, I want my 35th birthday to be the most special one yet.

Remember when you turned 35 last year, and I bought you two tickets to see The Police in concert? I was pretty proud of my gift-giving, and you told me how great of a night that was for you. It felt really good to make you so happy, but now I sort of want you to return the favor.

I want you to take me out to someplace really nice. I know you like Applebee's and Friday's, but I want this to be nicer. Maybe with some candles and champaign, if they have some. There's a new French restaurant that just opened across town -- the Trocadero. Let's go there. Maybe you can learn a nice French phrase or two. I love the way that accent sounds.

Afterwards, if you're up to it, do you think I could have a foot massage? I just loved the one you gave me after I was on my feet all day for that PTA convention. God, my feet hurt so bad, and your magic hands made them feel so good again. I feel embarrassed to ask, actually, but I've wanted another massage like that ever since.

Let's rent a movie, too. There really isn't anything I want to see in theaters, but I kind of want to see the Nanny Diaries again. I know, I know, I dragged you to that when it opened at the Cineplex, and I know you hate watching movies twice. But it's my birthday, you know? We could stop at Blockbuster on our way home from dinner.

After that, we can sit in the hot tub for a little bit. Maybe if you treat me right, and get me a nice gift, we can make love. Maybe. I get headaches sometimes, you know. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that it will have been a long day at that point, and I just ... I just might take a rain check, if that's all right.

The kids can spend the night at my mother's, and we'll have a nice quiet evening to ourselves. No television, no distractions, just a nice birthday. I love you, sweetie.

Don't forget, my birthday is Sunday! Sunday, Feb. 3. Let's leave for dinner around 5 p.m.

Kenny is my kind of man

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Kenny Williams is such a sweetheart.

For years, I've had to listen to my husband talk about how he'll get to things “eventually.” Once he saves enough money, then we'll finally move out of this two-bedroom shit farm and get a house in the suburbs. Once we’re through the winter and icy weather, then he'll finally fix the shingles on the roof. Once he gets over the fact that his cat, Tewksbury, was run over by the lawn mower, then he'll finally try to lose weight and quit smoking.

Hopefully, in the meantime, he doesn't realize how capable I've become with the lawn mower, but that's another matter. The bottom line is that he's always got some sort of long term goal on his plate. I just want things done now. Then, there are men like Kenny Williams.

Baseball people have this strange obsession with their minor league system. I don't understand it myself – I mean, nobody watches the Chattanooga Lookouts or Lexington Legends games unless they’re really bored. If for some reason all other channels were broken and the only thing I could watch was baseball, it would either be a Major League game or I would leave to go shopping. I would probably leave to go shopping anyway, unless the Yankees were playing. Derek Jeter. My lord, those abs.

So who cares if you have a bunch of talented 17-year-olds in the minors if they're not going to play for three years? It's like the long term weather forecast on Channel 4. I don't give a care what they think the weather will be like next Tuesday when it's Friday, and all I care about is whether or not my kid's soccer tournament is getting rained out the next day. That forecast is for four days from now! And almost certainly wrong.

Williams obviously shares my views, trading three of his best prospects for Nick Swisher. Sure, he’s sweaty, smelly, can't hit above .262 and had a terrible year last year, but I'd take the guy with Major League experience over some 22-year old guy named after a Geo, some guy with four names and a hotshot outfielder who has yet to do squat in the Majors. They're just prospects. Who cares what happens two or three years from now? The baseball players might just start whining and go on strike again, anyway, like those terrible screen writers. Enjoy today while you can.

I am so sick of hearing about a longterm plan. If things could just get done now, then the longterm plan would be unending happiness. The sooner we all realize this, the better.

Zero to Could-Have-Been Hero

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Aaron Rodgers, sweetheart, you were so adorable Thursday night. But not adorable enough. You obviously weren’t ready for your primetime close up.

I’m not saying you should expect Brett Favre to get hurt, since that grizzled dreamboat so seldom leaves games. But how long were you planning on tempting fate? When you were drafted, you were clean-cut, cute, maybe even attractive as you awkwardly tried to make a joke about how you were looking forward to battling for the starting job.

You were an All-American quarterback. All quarterbacks coming out of college are great-looking except Eli Manning, especially in those finely-tailored suits on draft day. But you must have gotten complacent waiting for that studly stud of a man to finally kick the bucket and give you your chance. You let yourself go.

Did you take up hunting or something in that Siberian wasteland of Wisconsin, trying to keep occupied while Favre took all the snaps? Did you join a naturalist commune? Obviously, something went horribly wrong. I still consider my neighbor Mary Mullen’s purchase of a green dress for the PTA fundraising gala to be the greatest fashion mistake of my reign as PTA president. But you are top five.

On the half-lit biggest stage in football, you came out with a half-beard/porn 'stache thing and a mullet. A mullet! Those are fine for white trash hockey moms or biker bitches, but no All-American white boy can afford such an egregious haircare mistake. You could have had women throwing themselves, and probably their bras, at your splendid feet after last night, but instead you left people begging to get Favre back on the screen.

You really could take a cue from Tony Romo. My god, that golden smile and the backwards cap! It reminds me of college when I was with Dusty VanLand, the quarterback of our national champion I-AA, non-scholarship football team. He would pick me up with those broad forearms, beam those gorgeous pearly whites, and take me up to his room where he would serenade me with Sinatra and then take off my clothes. Romo looks just like him. You can’t bag Carrie Underwood with a mullet, Aaron baby.

Get yourself ready for next week, Aaron, in case Brett and his southern charm are unavailable. Do you own a razor? Get some hair care product. For god sake, use something to bring out your cheekbones. And smile, all the time. Would it kill you to get a backwards cap?

Houston: The city of goodwill

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Though I'm not going to cry like that flaking makeup flake Paula Abdul, I sit here moved at the charity I've seen today in the National Football League. A lot has gone on in the past year in the ravaged city of New Orleans, due to the horrible aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. I have to say, my eyes did well with tears as I watched the people flee from their city nearly a year ago, many to Houston in nearby Texas.

It wasn't easy for the Astrodome Capital of the World to bear these domestic immigrants, to integrate thousands of new people into their workforce and residencies. And yet, you never heard the mayor of Houston complaining, or the people demanding that these New Orleanseans go somewhere else. And now, you see Houston reaching out to New Orleans once again.

I just think it's so nice.

Rather than taking that freak of nature Reggie Bush, possibly the most exciting college football player in more than a decade, Houston owner Bob McNair elected to pass, instead taking North Carolina State defensive end Mario Williams with the first pick of the NFL Draft. Pundits howled that McNair was throwing up smokescreens when he said he might not choose Bush out of Southern Cal, and everyone just assumed Bush would be first and New Orleans could settle for sloppy seconds.

But McNair is a true humanitarian. When news of the flood broke, we searched our house high and low for ways to help, and we donated several bags of Chee-tos, dog food and Slim Fast milk shakes. I even forced my son Timothy to donate some CDs. This guy, though, makes me look like I barely tried.

He offered to take something less while New Orleans was permitted to collect the boost it needed. Bush will give hope to the thousand of displaced citizens, re-energize a city and bring the sports spotlight to the Superdome. Houston, meanwhile, will continue to have arid weather and oil derricks while David Carr and his beautiful face continue to get sliced and diced.

It warms your heart, really.

McNair obviously knew that highly drafted running backs have the highest success rate among positions, and defensive ends have the worst success rate. He knew that while Williams will have a great career, he'll always be seen as the "dude they chose over Reggie Bush." Clearly, the scenes of flood, Kanye West infomercials, FEMA whoopsies and slew of aid from all corners of the globe has impacted McNair.

I love older men with a conscience. Come to think of it, I also love men with smooth skin and diamond stud earrings like Reggie. And that organized crime family he has certainly adds an element of intrigue. Is he single? Just curious.

Chris Berman reminds me of my first boss when I was secretary at a law firm ... the one who tried to hit on me while his breath reeked of beer and muenster cheese.

Now I ain't sayin' you a gold digger, you got needs

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

As I stand in front of my mirror, naked, I think to myself: I am WAY better looking than Anna Benson. That slutty mcslut slut slut might be willing to take off her clothes to appease her ballplaying husband or his teammates or ... anyone willing to pay attention, but she's far from the hottest gold digger in the Major Leagues.

WAY better looking than Anna Benson. Better hair, better skin. Perkier breasts. And if my husband doesn't agree, I'm going to withhold sex for a month. And unplug his Internet connection.

Now I hear that ball-playing-and-handling bimbo is getting divorced from Kris Benson, newly traded to the Baltimore Orioles. After he was traded from the Mets partially because she was a distraction (probably complaining that there weren't enough men on the Mets who understood the phrase "hummer" in English), Kris must have decided it wasn't working out.

And to think this is in NEW YORK, where the best basketball player in town is named Starbury. I also think that's the name of the cartoon bunny on my son's cereal box.

So now Kris is pitching in Baltimore, which was the worst family vacation we ever took (My husband just HAD to see Camden Yards. I should have married that young, horny psych professor instead. HE would have said I'm a level of hotness beyond Anna Benson). I would feel terrible for him, except he's the one that married the stripper in the first place. Stupid ballplayers. Maybe if they played a more complicated game, like figure skating, they'd be smarter and inclined to make better decisions.

God I have gorgeous eyes. And I think the adjective "perky" was INVENTED for these breasts.

Anna Benson, your husband isn't even that famous, so what the hell are you doing being popular? I have a sneaking suspicion that she's going to play homewrecker and end up married to someone on a bigger team (Johnny Damon may have once looked like Jesus, but I hear he wouldn't have passed the "Last Temptation of Christ" test) and then she's going to be even MORE popular. WIth those awful teeth!

I should have married a ballplayer. Why didn't I marry a damn BALLPLAYER?

No, you may not have fruit snacks before noon

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

Everyone in college basketball is awfully huffy and puffy about the situation in Bloomington, Ind., which, I might add, has the nicest strip mall anywhere in the Midwest. Mike Davis, who cries more than my son did when he was two, is leaving, and everyone wants dreamy, borderline steamy Steve Alford to assume the head coaching role.

I don't understand why colleges want people who did their undergrad work (or didn't do their undergrad work and flunked out because they were too busy playing basketball and sleeping with co-eds) at the same place. Perhaps this will allow the coach to more easily find the gym from the halways of the athletics complex, and I suppose that's a big deal. Plus, he'll already know some of the math and science teachers so he can establish a solid relationship when it comes time to adjust transcripts every semester.

The problem in this case: Steve Alford hasn't even been as successful of a coach as Mike Davis has, in the same league. That's like someone settling for a beautiful dress in the wrong size because it happens to be in stock at the local, familiar JCPenney, when the JCPenney across town has the same dress in your size. You know it's your size because you've tried it on before, but it just isn't available at the local vendor. Of course, none of that takes into account the fact that Cyndi Lewis two houses down might buy the exact same dress and wear it to the same PTA meeting as you because she is an atrocious, city-renowned harlot.

If the school is so dead-set on someone from Indiana University, why don't they hire someone with more success?

For example: Mark Cuban is a successful NBA owner and IU grad, and he's sort of good looking in an impossibly rich, slightly older man sort of way. Mark Spitz won many gold medals as an Olympic swimmer. Dick Enberg is an adorable old man. Kevin Kline has won Academy Awards. Raju Narisetti is the managing editor for the Wall Street Journal's Europe edition. Jane Pauley is good at what she does.

All these people graduated from the illustrious Indiana University, and all of them have the success to lead the program in the right direction. I have to think Robert Vaden would stay on board if someone like Dick Enberg was cracking the whip in practice. Mark Cuban would not only make the program more successful, but he would probably throw chairs at the ref -- which is, let's face it, exactly what Indiana wants. He's rich! He doesn't need to worry about fines. He would probably arrange for a "bring a chair to throw at the ref" night at a home game.

Also, it just seems silly that Steve Alford would want to leave Iowa, since the people there all seem really happy. I know this after watching the Windbrook High School performance of "State Fair," when they sang that nice little ditty "All I Owe Ioway." It must be a nice place. I hear the city "Davenport," and I just think comfort.

On the other hand, I hear "Indiana" and think "vast, impenetrable wasteland." So, there is that.

Will someone please answer that damn phone!?!

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

I normally don’t feel the need to chastise a player for his off-the-field behavior, but I made my son throw away his Ben Roethlisberger jersey this week.

The reason? Mr. Roethlisberger made some terrible life choices in the weeks leading up to the Super Bowl, namely getting drunk with some local hussies and getting his photograph taken to prove it. Here we see him pouring a bottle of liquor down a young lady’s throat and smiling with a look of pure stupor on his face while wearing a T-shirt that proclaims "Drink Like A Champion Today."

I’m not angry that Ben was drinking, as I know all young, rich, famous athletes must like to do now and again, followed by occasional drug use and the occasional orgy. But I look at these pictures and I can’t help but think ... why is Ben Roethlisberger partying with such ho’s?

First of all, judging by the low ceiling, I’d say Ben is in a basement somewhere. Some sorority chicks were doubtlessly throwing their annual foam philanthropy event, and Ben just had to be there, hanging out with ... unattractive women! I know for a fact I’m better looking than most of them, and I could find three better-looking options at the local Fashion Bug.

Remember how you’re about to quarterback a team into the Super Bowl? You should be partying in massive clubs where only the rich and famous are allowed admittance, and all the women have passed a rigorous 12-point screening exam that judges them based on hotness and character (by "character," I mean "capabilities").

Secondly, your T-shirt is appalling. You’re not a college dropout, you’re a Super Bowl quarterback. Your shirt should say something hilarious, perhaps tailored to your specific exploits (I’d even settle for "Want To Find Out Why They Call Me Big Ben?") and nothing so generic as "Drink Like A Champion Today And By The Way I Bought This Shirt In The Clearance Section At Kohl’s." You’re such a disappointment. How can I expect you to be a role model for my children?

You could learn something from your fellow quarterbacks. Look at Eli Manning, drunk off his patoot, but dressed in a somewhat classy fashion and hanging on the arm of a gorgeous looking blonde who makes your women look like sea urchins. Sigh. I used to have skin like that.

Even Kyle Orton, who has no talent, found some semi-attractive option to be near while at a bar in September. Hmm ... maybe we should avoid using Kyle as an example after all.

Look, Ben, I’m going to make a couple calls. I still have some girlfriends who live near my old campus, and I’m sure they can find you some nice, hot beauties that you can take out to eat, have a couple drinks with, and then maybe step behind center if you’re a gentleman before heading home. I just can’t bear the thought of someone in your position bringing yourself down to such a level as you have ... how are you supposed to be World Champion if you can’t even be champion of choosing the right accessories?

Honey, would you please wash these fucking dishes?

By Lynn DeBerg
Housewife

I’m bored with the NFL playoffs.

At least going into this weekend, I knew what was going on. Tony Dungy was going to lead his team to the Super Bowl and instantly sell the story rights to CBS for a made-for-TV docudrama starring Don Cheadle (as Dungy), James Van Der Beek (as Peyton Manning), and now probably Kenneth Branagh (as Mike Vanderjagt). I was really cheering for Tony Dungy, because of the tragedy surrounding him and his team, and now I don’t even know who to cheer for!

What the FUCK?

I can’t cheer for Denver because their quarterback looks like that dirty Ron Jeremy from the VH1 series about loving the eighties (and don’t think I don’t know what his DAYJOB is!) and their coach looks all crabby and reminds me of Balky from Perfect Strangers. I don’t really know why. And I can’t cheer for Carolina because I’ve never really liked that shade of blue, not since my daughter spilled ketchup sauce all over this gorgeous blouse of that color that my husband got me for Mother’s Day. And I can’t cheer for whatever fourth team is left in the playoffs.

All my husband wanted to do today is see replays of the same crap while I had to tape Desperate Housewives and Grey’s Anatomy on TiVO ... what’s the fucking point? The field goal misses every time. Sorry, I don’t mean to get potty-mouthed, but there’s only so much you can take when Sean Salisbury is talking about who he thinks is going to win the Super Bowl in the Coors Light Six Pack or the Budweiser Hot Seat or the Miller Lite Plays of the Day (where that appalling fat man makes various noises without actually telling us what’s going on ... someone should really put him out of his misery).

Without the Colts, I can’t even pretend to care what’s going on anymore in the NFL. But I still know next Sunday will be dedicated to watching the remaining teams fight it out for some meaningless title that carries no interesting backstory. Well screw that shit, I’m going shopping.