Gaga is known for her outlandish outfits. She once wore a dress made of meat. How do you accessorize an outfit like that?  With shoes that are salt-and-pepper shakers? I don’t think that Claire’s carries tiny little meat cleaver earrings, but I could be wrong. I’m guessing that instead of Chanel No. 5, she puts a dab of A-1 behind each ear.

Right before Thanksgiving Lady Gaga was spotted at the meat counter in the local grocery store.  Apparently she was shopping for a new dress.

Gaga doesn’t have hand-me-downs, she has leftovers. 

Her closet must look like a smorgasbord.

Lady Gaga is also known for her excessively high heels. Her heels are so high she’s required to carry an escape ladder.

Her heels are so high that she needs clearance from the tower at airport just to go for a walk.

Recently, when the daughter of a friend complimented a woman on her chic shoes at the nearby mall, she was surprised to see that it was Gaga looking down from her stylish perch.

I caught a couple of minutes of Gaga’s Thanksgiving holiday special that aired on network TV. I almost didn’t recognize the singer because she was wearing such conservative attire.

And speaking of conservative, Gaga is dating Taylor Kinney, a graduate of Lancaster Mennonite High School.  The two met while filming one of her music videos. I can only wonder what the dinner table conversation was like on Thanksgiving in his family’s home with Gaga as a guest. I’m guessing that “We’ve seen all of your music videos and just love your work” isn’t a sentence that was uttered that night. 

Many in my town are having close encounters of the Gaga kind.  I ran into her on the street in front of a cafe when she was first spotted here back in September.  In November, she was in the grocery store when I was.  I think she’s stalking me.

As a columnist, I get asked a lot for advice. In particular, folks want to know how they should act if they run into the singer in town.  Since I am experienced, here’s what I tell them:

Should you encounter Gaga on the street, remain calm.  

Raise your arms above your head and try to appear bigger.

Make loud, grunting noises.  This may frighten her off, or you may get hired to appear in her next music video.

Lynn Rebuck is a national award-winning humor columnist, speaker, and part-time paparazzi. Her column appears weekly in print, online, and on Amazon Kindle Blogs, where it’s one of the top blogs on life and parenting.  Email her at Lynn@LynnRebuck.com, follow her on Twitter and fan her on Facebook. © 2012 Lynn Rebuck

“Can I do face-to-face chat on this phone?” I asked the salesman.

“You can’t Skype. But you can Oovoo, Fring, or Tango.”

Of all the salesmen swarming like vultures in the store, I had to get Mork from Ork.

It was apparent we didn’t even speak the same language. Then it dawned on me: he must be speaking in tongues. I glanced around the store to see if someone had received an interpretation.

“I don’t think I’ve ever done any of those things, at least not in public,” I said.

He then explained that those were the names of different apps that one could use to communicate face-to-face via a smart phone.

I pondered whether I really wanted to chat bad enough to learn an entire new language. Maybe I could just call people and get together with them instead. I don’t have a good history with electronics. I once made a Speak ‘n’ Spell cry.

While I don’t mind all the technological advances, I do resent having to learn new electronics vocabulary words. Someone should develop a set of flashing flashcards to enhance the learning process or offer a video course called “Hooked on Electronics.”

When it comes to TV, I don’t know whether to Hulu or Roku. Maybe I should TiVo. I could record the Broncos game and TiVo Tim Tebow.

When I heard that Best Buy was having a big plasma event I went right down because I thought I could donate blood. I don’t know my 720p from a 1080i. Is there a tutorial on how to use an online tutorial?

I felt confident that I could master the electronic language, it would just take time. After all, I had learned to speak Pong, Atari, and Nintendo. I was now Bluetooth-ready.

“By the way,” the clerk said, “this cell phone has a built in translator. It recognizes over ninety languages.”

Those words were like MP3 downloads to my iBuds.

“Does it speak electronics?” I asked, “Because I have more shopping to do. I’d like to become buy-lingual by lunchtime.”

“Well…”

“Will it translate what a teen is saying in unintelligible grunts that sound like a tribal tongue?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Is it fluent in Repairmanese? I have a guy scheduled to look at my dishwasher tomorrow.”

“Really, lady, I don’t know…”

“I tell you what,” I said, “if you throw in a Zweet, Wheeme, and a Zwark, we have a deal, Mork.”

“Ma’am, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s time to sync up your lingo, sonny,” I said. “I’m sure there’s an app for that.”

Lynn Rebuck is an award-winning humor columnist, speaker, and comedian. Read more at www.LynnRebuck.com and email her at Lynn@LynnRebuck.com. Her column appears weekly in the print, online, and on Amazon Kindle Blogs. In her spare time she enjoys reading instruction manuals for electronics devices. © 2011 Lynn Rebuck

 On the first day of Christmas my true love said to me

There are some presents that need assembly.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

2 end caps

And instructions in Chinese

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

3 wrenches

2 end caps

and said this will be easy

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

4 short screws

3 wrenches

2 end caps

Insert part A into part B

On the fifth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

5 wooden dowels

4 short screws

3 wrenches

2 end caps

And an extended warranty

On the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

6 bolts a-tightening

5 wooden dowels

4 short screws

3 wrenches

2 end caps

And there’s a part that is missing

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

7   screws a-turning

6 bolts a-tightening

5 wooden dowels

4 short screws

3 wrenches

2 end caps

This is a catastrophe!

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

8 tabs inserting

7   screws a-turning

6 bolts a-tightening

5 wooden dowels

4 short screws

3 wrenches

2 end caps

Why didn’t we pay for assembly?

On the ninth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

9 parts attaching

8 tabs inserting

7   screws a-turning

6 bolts a-tightening

5 wooden dowels

4 short screws

3 wrenches

2 end caps

That’s not how it looked on TV

On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

10 nails a-tapping

9 parts attaching

8 tabs inserting

7   screws a-turning

6 bolts a-tightening

5 wooden dowels

4 short screws

3 wrenches

2 end caps

What am I supposed to do with these?

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

11 fasteners fastening

10 nails a-tapping

9 parts attaching

8 tabs inserting

7   screws a-turning

6 bolts a-tightening

5 wooden dowels

4 short screws

3 wrenches

2 end caps

And the part that was missing

On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

12 decals attaching

11 fasteners fastening

10 nails a-tapping

9 sides attaching

8 tabs inserting

7   screws a-turning

6 bolts a-tightening

5 wooden dowels

4 short screws

3 wrenches

2 end caps

Please read instructions before assembly!

© 2011 Lynn Rebuck

            What’s so hard about turning a few pieces into a finished product?  Well, let’s just say the cam bolts aren’t cooperating, the pre-drilled holes were not pre-drilled, and the instructions were translated into English by someone in a foreign country who has a sense of humor and a sadistic side.  At times like this I do not enjoy my Constitutional right to assemble.

            I got halfway through the project when I realized two of the parts were on backwards.  This is not a good thing, especially if you are putting together a bike. This kind of creativity can get you in trouble on Christmas morning.  So I not only enjoyed the experience of assembling the gift, but disassembling and reassembling it as well.

            It has become my Christmas tradition in this column to parody a well-known Christmas song as my gift to you, my devoted readers.  This year I put together some lyrics for you to sing as you attempt to assemble items over the next few days. See my next post for the lyrics and sing along! Merry Christmas!

Lynn Rebuck is an award-winning humor columnist, speaker, and holiday lyricist.  Her column appears weekly in print, online, and on Amazon Kindle Blogs. Email Lynn your favorite funny assembly story at Lynn@LynnRebuck.com. (c) 2011 Lynn Rebuck

As I searched the mall for an omnipresent (that’s the one gift that I could purchase in bulk for everyone) recently, I heard blaring from the speaker systems of three different stores an unintended medley of clashing carols:  “Silent Rudolph the Red-Nosed Manger.”  It was more than my fried-by-“Feliz Navidad” brain could handle.

I sought sanctuary in a nearby synagogue to escape the cacophony of carols. I hummed “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel” to soothe and center myself.  I don’t mind the holiday music, but it is so pervasive that it is affecting my every thought and intruding into all of my family’s conversations.

The other night I could have sworn that my daughter approached me and told me of her plans to go out with her adolescent friends by saying the phrase “We three teens of orient are….”  Maybe I’m just hearing things.

“Do you hear what I hear?” inquired one of my children the night before Christmas.

“Is it the little drummer boy?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“You know,” I said, “I heard the bells on Christmas Day.”

 “That’s nice, Mom.”

“Their old familiar carols play,” I continued, making conversation.

“Mom, you’d better lay off the eggnog.”

“Can I have a friend over?” my son continued, standing next to a kid I hadn’t noticed before.

“What child is this?”

“Chris.”

“Which one is he? The Drummer’s little boy?”

“Funny, Mom.  He’s the Taylor’s kid.”

“Joy to the world,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“Is that a yes?”

“What’s that smell?” interrupted another child.

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,” I mumbled.  “Or it could be dinner.”

“Mom, can I go on a date with Paul?” asked my eldest.

“The little drummer boy?” 

“He’s a percussionist in a rock band, Mom. And so what if he’s short, I just won’t wear heels.”

“When will you be back?”

“I’ll be home for Christmas,” she said. 

I nodded and reached for more nog.

As she walked out the door, she called over her shoulder “You can count on me.”

“Did the box from Amazon arrive?” asked my son.

“Yes, it came upon a midnight clear.”

“I didn’t know UPS delivered that late.”

“’Tis the season, you know.”

You know, the three wise men were the first midnight madness shoppers, and they didn’t have any criss-crossing carols to contend with.

I am now in a 12 Steps of Christmas Recovery Program. Fa-la-la-la-la, la- la-la-Joy! © 2011 Lynn Rebuck.  Follow Lynn on Twitter, fan her on Facebook, and email her at Lynn@LynnRebuck.com.

I didn’t have to occupy Wall Street or vie for early-morning Black Friday specials to narrowly miss getting hosed down (never trust a six-year old with a turkey baster) or trampled (avoid standing between a group of men and their seats in front of the first football game of the day).

Frankly, I am most thankful for the fact that I survived Thanksgiving.  Next year, to make the day go smoother, I am inviting an official from the NFL to referee our dinner.

What we need at our annual gatherings is a guy with a black and white striped shirt and a whistle to keep the peace.

This year I witnessed multiple dining room offenses that would have warranted a flag down on the plate.

I’m positive that that as I was calling an audible over the meal (saying grace), there was some illegal motion in the backfield.

Before the blessing was over an infraction occurred at the line of scrimmage. A hand reached across to grab a roll resulting in an offside call. The offender was given a warning and a ten-yard penalty into the kitchen.

I could barely believe that in response to a simple request to “pass the gravy” several yellow flags could have been thrown down.

With the antique gravy boat poised in mid-air, I witnessed pass interference, roughing the passer, and a facemask infraction. Why one teen had to grab the other’s retainer head gear is beyond me.

When my adorable little niece in the high chair decided that she despised her food she intentionally grounded her strained turkey. Since she would still have to eat the festive fowl, she was informed she also faced a delay of game penalty. She then intentionally grounded her mashed potatoes and peas in protest.

Our halftime show is not nearly as entertaining as what the NFL offers. The musical selections are usually limited to a few eager, off-key not-so-sober soloists who relish a captive audience.  They are followed by a male a capella group that favors us with a series of burps in various keys. Occasionally there is a wardrobe malfunction that most prefer to forget, since it usually involves an overweight uncle.

The highlight of my day is when the tryptophan in the turkey kicks in and they all fall fast asleep. It can’t happen soon enough with this group.

There is one annual violation for which I make no excuse: excessive celebration. At the end of the day I spiked the turkey carcass and wobbled my knees triumphantly, playing it up for the holiday crowd. I might even make Madden’s highlight reel this year.

Lynn Rebuck is a national award-winning humor columnist, speaker, and photojournalist whose column appears weekly in print, online, and on Amazon Kindle Blogs. She once punted a roast turkey to avoid being tackled. Email her at Lynn@LynnRebuck.com, follow her on Twitter and fan her on Facebook. © 2011 Lynn Rebuck 

It was a hard day’s night.

Everyone experiences an occasional bout of insomnia. I just timed mine wrong and it coincided with the time change.

As I lay awake listening to others snore, I thought about sleep aids. I thought about waking the others to tell them about my insomnia. I wondered if I could list sleep deprivation as a hobby on Facebook.

Here are some of my favorite ways to fall asleep when I’m having trouble dozing off:

• Listen to Enya’s music.  I’m not sure what it is about this woman, but she makes me sleepy.  I wonder if her New Age household is full of a drowsy spouse and lethargic children. Her CDs should have an advisory label on them: “Do not drive or operate heavy machinery while listening to this music.” Dosage: Start with one track.  If still not sleepy after thirty minutes, listen to another track. Prolonged exposure may cause listlessness.

• Watch C-SPAN. Nothing puts me to sleep faster than a hearty dose of televised hearings from the House floor. Listening to the steady drone of elected officials just lulls me to sleep. I’m pretty sure this is how most of the objectionable bills get passed by Congress. Just use caution that you don’t end up watching British Parliament by accident.  Watching their energetic interaction with the Prime Minister on the question and answer sessions is the equivalent of drinking three cans of Red Bull.
• Make a list of all the things you need to get done the following day, then hire an assistant to do them.

Here are a couple of interesting sleep-related facts. Reading helps you fall asleep. Men fall asleep faster than women.  In fact, statistics show that at least four out of five men fell asleep while reading this column.

The week following the switch from Daylight Savings is the most dangerous week of the year for pedestrians.  More pedestrians are hit by motor vehicles during this week than any other. So as you drive and walk around town, please be careful.

I managed to make it through the time change on the heels of arriving in a new time zone.  I am already on the appropriate sleep-wake schedule for Malaysia. Unfortunately I am in the middle of the United States.

I have discovered that when it comes to the switch from Daylight Savings, people react in one of three different ways. There are those who set their clocks back Saturday night before they go to sleep, there are those who forget about the time change entirely and arrive everywhere an hour early the following day, and there are those die-hard time change fans who, like me, insist on staying awake until 2 a.m. Sunday morning to usher in the new hour.  It’s kind of like New Year’s Eve without all the confetti.

How certain am I that my body will eventually adjust to time change? Well, let’s just say I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.

Lynn Rebuck is a national award-winning humor columnist, speaker, and Christian counselor whose column appears weekly in print, online, and on Amazon Kindle. She has six clocks and three watches, none of which are set to the correct time. Email her at Lynn@LynnRebuck.com, fan her on Facebook, and follow her on Twitter. © 2011 Lynn Rebuck

While most people are aware that the whole concept that daylight could be saved was invented by that irrepressible inventor, Benjamin Franklin, many are unaware that he conceived of the idea after pulling a candle-lit almost-all-nighter in France.  

Mr. “a penny saved is a penny earned” Franklin finally crashed at 3 or 4 a.m. after being totally amazed by a new invention being demonstrated on QVC called the “oil lamp”. At 6 a.m. he was so startled by the sunlight streaming into his room that he reasoned, in the midst of his sleep deprivation, that a drop of wax saved is a drop of waxed earned.

Interestingly enough (or not, you decide), Franklin first proposed his radical idea in a letter to the editor.  He reasoned that tons of wax and livre (which is books, money, or chopped liver according to my very vague French dictionary) could be saved if the Laissez-faire French would stop sleeping until noon.

He humorously suggested that a cannon be set off on the streets each morning to jolt people to wakefulness.  Not a bad idea, especially for today’s hard-to-wake teens.  He also suggested a financial penalty for homeowners whose residences had shutters to keep the sunlight out.  Today that would be the equivalent of a Levelor levy.

But the time-change concept didn’t go straight from Franklin’s quill to instantaneous world-wide acceptance.  People were amused but resistant.  In 1907, William Willet, an English builder and the first one with a “Save the Daylight” bumper sticker, proposed the time change but with a more humane transition than the sudden one-hour shift: on each of four consecutive Sundays in April, at 2 a.m., set the clock forward a mere twenty minutes and back in like fashion in the fall.

He was ahead of his time.  About twenty minutes ahead. The idea was mocked, dismissed, and eventually passed by legislators.  Those time lobbyists were very persuasive.

People used to rely on local time from a town clock like we rely today on the time from our infallible computer screens (mine is still set on Pacific Time).

In the United States the entity that actually drove hardest for the standardization of time was the transportation industry.   That was so that in the future airline passengers would eventually know just how late their flights were.  To get from one location to another back then often required stopping at more locations with different times than flying on Southwest does today.

Times have certainly changed since Franklin and Willet. We now efficiently light our homes in the evenings with energy-saving 40-inch HD screens tuned to QVC, where tonight they are demonstrating lava lamps.  I’ll probably be awake until 3 or 4 a.m. 

Lynn Rebuck claims the deadline for this column was 2 p.m. Pacific Time. Email Lynn@LynnRebuck.com (c) 2011 Lynn Rebuck

                Many people are upset by the recent changes to Facebook. Not me. No, I’m more upset by something else on Facebook.               

                Recently one of my friends on Facebook announced that the next individual to “friend” him would become his 500th friend on the popular Internet social networking site.  Since I am already his Facebook friend, I responded to his post by informing him I was going to defriend him.  He replied that the correct term is “unfriend.”  Whatever.  I’m antisocial networking.

                It is probably my competitive nature that caused me to threaten to virtually abandon him.  We’ve always known that some of our friends are more socially connected.  With Facebook, the popular people get to overtly brag about it, as the number of one’s friends is quantified for all of cyberspace to see.

                I just recently passed the milestone of having one hundred purported friends on the site.  Actually, most of them aren’t real people.  I created their profiles myself.  I have make-believe Facebook friends. It’s just easier that way. 

               You see, when I had real people as Facebook friends, I was overwhelmed with the volume of data that they were disseminating in my direction, from Farmville crops to Farkle scores.  Some shared far too much information.  I really don’t need to know which 1970s hairstyle my friends are most like. 

                Some of my three-dimensional friends have not become my virtual friends, since they are not yet on Facebook.  But so many people have created profiles on the website it is now the premier online destination for social connectedness.

                According to sales guru and author Jeffrey Gitomer, “Facebook is the third largest country in the world.”  When I joined the site, I had no plans of emigrating.  Perhaps the United Nations will give a seat to Facebook as long as it agrees not to friend China. I had no idea my password would become my passport to the online culture where you can instantaneously (and perhaps regrettably) share your impulsive likes, dislikes, rants, and faves with everyone within Facebook’s Boolean borders. 

                Like it or not, we must face the Facebook facts: the site is here to stay, as are other recent technological trends, like Twitter and text messaging.  We can choose to bury our heads in the sand (I’m sure there’s a Facebook app for that), or we can reluctantly take part in it.  It is our chance to be connected in a world that increasingly seems to lack true connection.  Think of it as the ultimate linguistic challenge as you attempt to condense thoughts into witty, insightful 140-character tweets.

                I attended a social function recently.  I was frantically tweeting the happenings as they happened.  My tablemates were tweeting that I was tweeting.  We didn’t speak a word to each other all night, but we did accidentally text each other.

                In addition to texting, cell phones have given rise to another phenomenon called “butt dialing.”  This occurs when a phone placed in a rear pocket decides to call someone with the help of your gluteus maximus muscle.  It calls the last person dialed.  I refer to it as “call backwarding.” 

                Let me offer some advice, one virtual friend to another.  Unless you want your Facebook friends to accidentally butt in on a cell phone conversation and overhear you talking about them, don’t keep your phone in your back pocket.  After all, you need all the virtual friends you can get.

Lynn Rebuck is a national award-winning humor columnist, speaker, and counselor whose column appears weekly in print, online at www.LynnRebuck.com and on Amazon Kindle Blogs.  Her goals are to have thousands of Facebook friends, high scores on Farkle, and to retire to Farmville.  You can friend her on Facebook, follow her on Twitter, and email her at Lynn@LynnRebuck.com. © 2011 Lynn Rebuck

Every morning when I arrive at the school it appears the race is already in progress. Cars whip into the lot, slow down momentarily to catapult children towards their classrooms, and re-enter the race. I’m convinced that I saw Jeff Gordon dropping off his daughter. He was the only one with a pit crew.

It didn’t take me long to realize that I needed to enroll at the famous Bondurant School of Race Car Driving just to keep up with the other drivers. I’m hoping that they offer practical classes for parents like “Weaving Between Cars, Vans, and Busses while giving a Bottle to a Baby in the Car Seat in the Back,” “How to Park in a Red Zone and Make It Appear You Are Still Moving,” and “Quadruple Parking: How, When, and Why.”

Maybe the school of driving has courses like “When Your Carpool Drives You Crazy,” or “Meditation near the Median: Dropping Your Stress While Picking Up Your Kids,” or “Yoga for Yugo Drivers.” After a few unsuccessful trips through the lot (it was about 33 laps before I could actually pick up my child), I got smart.

I borrowed a workman’s jumpsuit and my daughter’s bicycle helmet. In the style of all great racers, I put large stickers on the helmet and patches on the jumpsuit. Extra Strength Tylenol. Huggies Diapers. Kraft Miracle Whip. NASCAR had nothing over me, except for wealthy corporate sponsors paying a large fee for high-speed advertising, great publicity, and a huge, loyal following. Still, I decided I’d give it my best shot. Early the next morning I donned the jumpsuit and strapped on the helmet.

With paint still dripping down the sides of my minivan from the red number 7’s I painted on each door, I climbed in behind the wheel. I revved my engine and squealed the tires. Then I remembered to put the garage door up. As I drove I felt the adrenaline pumping through my veins. When we turned onto the street the school was on, I noticed fewer cars on the road.

As we were about to arrive, my daughter reached into her backpack then handed me a crumpled piece of pink paper with the school letterhead at the top. I glanced at it as I pulled into the deserted elementary driveway.

After a moment, I rolled down my window, unsnapped my helmet, and screamed at the eagle atop the empty flagpole, “What do you mean there’s no school today!” Only one question crossed my mind: How many more laps before summer vacation?

 Lynn Rebuck races around writing a nationally award-winning humor column that appears weekly in print, online, and on Amazon Kindle Blogs. You can email her at Lynn@LynnRebuck.com. © 2011 Lynn Rebuck