Miss Piggy's Advice

Dear Fortun-ate:
As far as gypsies go, they have terrible taste in clothes (and those tacky dangly earrings and chains are too much!) but moi must admit that they often speak the truth. Moi recently went to a certain Madame Zaranskaya, and after crossing her palm with silver (a number of times), she predicted that Kermie and moi would be married before too long. Isn't that exciting? And moi is going to make absolutely Sure that that furtune comes true.
One of the most accurate fortune-telling methods moi has come across is the fortune cookie. Those itty-bitty pieces of paper always tell moi the truth. It's to bad you have to break open nine or ten of the little things before you get to the fortune that belongs to you.
Then there are those silly horrorscopes. Those are very aptly named. Mine always says something horrible, like "Beware of tall, dark pigs" or "Your scale will be a little high this month. Cut back on the fortune cookies." Moi never pays any attention to them.

Dear A:
I imagine that what you're feeling must be a little like le fright de stage-something that moi has never experienced. However, moi has been told all about it by some less successful and experienced performers, and it sounds absolutely dreadful!
One thing that always calms moi's nerves when moi gets a little peevish is taking deep breaths. Then, if moi is still a little anxious, I get out my sewing kit and sew all my buttons back on. (Deep breaths can tend to expand the clothing a little, so make sure you are either wearing something loose or that you have a needle and thread handy.)
Moi is told that some brisk exercise is also excellent for nerves, but I find that just the idea of exercise makes me so nervous that it doesn't help.

Dear Breaking:
It is tre difficult to break anyone's heart, but when one is as popular as moi, one must learn how. The classic way to do it is with a "Dear John" letter. But frankly, moi has never understood why one should bring John into it. It's certainly none of his business.
One of moi's favorite techniques is to sneeze uncontrollably every time you're near your boyfriend. When he asks what's wrong, tell him you've become allergic to him, and can't see him anymore.

Dear Gifted:
"Unfortunately"? "Dogs"? Au contraire! Vous were extremely fortunate to receive dogs as presents. Moi's own little Fou-Fou has provided moi with many hours of delightful company. Moi is sure that if you give the little puppies a change, you will learn to love them just as moi does.

Dear Mr. Mint:
Permit moi to congratulate you on your very good taste in selecting me to receive you shoe trees. Do you have to water the trees and leave them in the sunlight, and also, must they be planted in a pair of shoes? I am awaiting your reply.

Dear Pet-ulant:
Frankly, birdology is not my specialty, but I'd give the little feathered deadbeat the air and purchase a clock radio.

Dear Baffled:
I remember that ad. The lady had a bottle of Harry's Bryl Cream, but I never figured out what the hair tonic had to do with it. Anyway, it is perfectly correct to ask a man for a date, but you must adopt a subtle approach. Here is how moi does it. I dial Kermit. He answers. He says hello. I say, very sleepily, uh, who is this. Kermit says, who is this? I say, oh, it is you, Kermie. No, you did not wake me up, I just rotated my sofa cushions and I was testing them for balance. Kermit starts to say that he didn't call me, and I say, no, no, don't apologize, Kermit. I'm wide awake. He says that his phone rang and he picked it up (frogs can be very single-minded). I just right in and say, my goodness, does that happen to you too? It may be mental telegraphy, you know, like those people who can tell what is in a lady's handbag without looking into it-extra-sensory purseception. Kermit, you must be a mind reader. Perhaps he starts to protest as this point. I say, I will try to read your mind. I see a little restaurant. I see a candle in a bottle with hay on it. I see a large plate of lasagna. Why, Kermie, you were calling to invite me to dinner. Mio froggo, how sweet! Shall we say eight, at the little Italian place with the picture of the Bay of Naples with the volcano that lights up? I'll see you then. Ceow!
That's all there is to it.

Dear Valley:
Why, no, of course not. Yes, it can be a little unsettling, but stars such as moi are trained to maintain our composeure.
The way moi feels is that there would be no problem if everyone wore lavender gloves.

Dear Troubled:
You can get your point across without hurting his feelings if you use a little subtlety. You might say, "Um, those hamsters in you mouth-do they pay rent, or are they just in town for the weekend?" He'll get the picture.

Dear Too:
I totally sympathize with vous. To maintain moi's gorgeous complexion, moi always uses something to block the sun's rays in the summertime-usually, a small, handsome frog carrying a parasol. But if you don't have your own frog, you might find a crayon and connect the dots. At least you'll have an interesting pattern.

Dear Next:
Many people don't know this, but I think I read somewhere that in the United States, you are legally entitled to marry the cutest person at the wedding if you catch the bouquet. Take advantage of it.

Dear Invisible:
Although I do sympathize, I must say that moi has never had this experience. Any man I have noticed has always fallen at my feet...one way or another. Perhaps you are being a teensy bit too shy. A volleyball can be a terrific attention-getter when aimed correctly.

Dear Etta:
Never wear white shoes on your first date. It's much too obvious. Vous might as well answer the door in a wedding gown. After the third date is time enough, especiallly if the relationship is beginning to look serious.

Dear Relatively:
The question of what to call the various members of one's family has always been a tricky one (unless Gonzo happens to be in your family. In that case, I can tell you exactly what to call him). Here is a simple chart to help you tell them all apart:

Your aunt and uncle's son: Your first cousin

Your aunt and uncle's daughter: Your first cousin

Your parents' first cousins' children: You second cousins

Your first cousins' children: Your first cousin once removed

Your first cousins' children
who have moved to Pittsburgh
(unless you already live in Pittsburgh,
you poor dear): Your first cousin twice removed

Your first cousins' children
who have moved to Nome, Alaska: Your first cousins very removed

Your first cousine, who lives across the street: A near miss

Actually, the whole thing is too confusing. Why don't you just call them all by their names?