Get Me Out of Here! I Am Not an Animal! Or a Felon! Or Dead! Yet!

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

They come from the Dark Side.

They kill the mind and steal the spirit. Metal box, fabric walls, suspicious smells, inches from the neighbor - just the place to spend eternity. And there is no escape from...

Pig pens? Prison cells? Caskets?

Hell to the no.

We're talking about All-American, life-blood-draining, soul-sucking cubicles.

That's right, folks. Tired of sunlight, warm air and plant life? Bored of basic human respect? Grown weary of visual stimulation? Feel like dying a little inside, every day?

Well, then. Your local place of employment has just the square for you. And you and you and you...

It's true. You've sat in the cube. Probably, you're sitting there now, doin' your time. Workin' for The Man. Checkin' the Facebook.

Because almost everyone works in the cubicle, The Box these days.

• Customer service representative? Box with phone.
• Architect? Box with slanty table.
• Writer? Box with coffee and empty wallet.
• Car salesman? Box with lies.

It doesn't matter what you do for a living. The Box experience is the same.

Watch as precious minutes, hours, days of your life tick slowly, slowly, SLOWLY away. Look longingly out the window at the beautiful day. You'll never see it.

Steal glances at photos of your children. Those little cash-mongers. They're the reason you're there, stuck in The Box.

Know way more than you ever wanted to about people you don't like, and spend far more time with these jokers than your own family.

Listen as your neighbor Richard loudly discusses his colonoscopy over the phone with his wife - in great detail. Listen again as Dick discusses it with his mom. In great detail.

Smell the lunch of your other neighbor, Mary McFishbreath. She's having  reheated cod and stuffed cabbage. Again. No need to pack your own food. Simply open your mouth to taste Mary's. It's Cubicle Cuisine!

Overhear Mary and Dick's loud conversation:

Mary: "Hey, can I borrow your crank?"
Dick: "Yeah. Are you sure mine is the right size?"
Mary: "Well, it looks too big for the hole, but it might work..."

Blush beet red. Then realize the only "tool" they're discussing is the one that adjusts desk height.

Sigh. Whatever happened to offices? I watched The Mary Tyler Moore Show. I thought that if I got an education, gained experience and worked hard, by now I'd have my own office like Lou Grant  - with real wooden walls and liquor in my desk drawer.

A nice, private room, where one could nap, check personal e-mails and Facebook in peace, without pesky bosses walking in unannounced. A room with an actual door that slammed loudly, in case of anger. Or termination for e-mailing, Facebooking and napping.

But here I am, with all the other dummies, stuffed into a Box like an egg in a carton, a pig in a pen, a corpse in a casket.

Please. If I'm going to spend my days in a Box, make mine a jail cell. Much roomier. And at least I'd get meals, a bed and some free time.

Not to mention that handy toilet.


(One from the archives. I am still over here, trying to think of something funny. Send help. Or boxed wine.)

The 80s: Decade of Unfortunate Hair. And So Much More!

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber. Image from epic fail.com)

Nothing shouts "Possible Porn Star!" like a man’s mullet.

In fact, this hairstyle says many things, such as:

-"Dude. Where's my car?"
-"You ordered two large pizzas, ma'am?"
-"Hey, babe. I won you this bitchin' Motley Crue mirror over at the street fair."
-"How many kegs?"
-"Yeah, I'm here to clean your pool with my long . . . vacuum."
-"Aw, man! Give me a hit of that!"
-"So. What time will your mom be home?"
-"Don't tell my heart. My achy-breaky heart."

Yes, the mullet: Bad enough on a man.

A freak of nature on a woman.

That's right. If you think this hairstyle was just for guys, you didn't live through the Reagan administration. Case in point:

That's my mulleted senior picture up there, 25 years and 25 lbs. ago. I'd kill for that chin - although I have several chins now, so really, I'd kill for just one chin. But that hair? Was totally for sure business-in-the-front, party-in-the-back.

You youngsters out there, laughing at the mullet. "Ha Ha Ha!" say you.

Shut up. It was the 80s - everybody mullet. Pretty much a federal law. And some of us had more success than others. Just like, this, um, girl:

Trust me. This is a female.

Epic chick-mullet. I bet she's glad someone saved her mullet mug-shot. I sure am happy my mother saved mine. She really treasured it, too, I can tell because for the past couple of decades, she's had it stored on the top of a dusty open box in her garage.

Nice. I am feelin' the love, there, Mom.

She pulled it from the pile at Christmas, swept off most of the dirt, slapped on some gift-wrap and gave it to my husband. That's the general gift-giving procedure of a 68-year-old woman on Social Security: Dust something off, wrap it up.

And now this thing hangs in our house, where everyone can admire my mullet, and I have to see it all the damn time.

I don't look much like the mullet-girl in my senior picture anymore, but I remember her. She majored in flammable, piece-of-shit cars, classic rock and minor acts of spray-paint vandalism. She worked at McDonald's and lived for Saturday night. She was probably supposed to work AT McDonald's ON Saturday night. But if there was a party somewhere, that did not happen.

There are things I'd like to tell this girl, things she should know. Such as purple and blue work great in crayons, but eyeliner and mascara? Not so much. Also, the main food groups are dairy, meat, grains and fruits and vegetables. Not sugar, grease, salt and cheap beer.

That boy you like? The one who never calls or asks you out? Yeah - that's a sign! He isn't interested at all. But admiring him keeps you mostly out of trouble with the boys who do like you. So carry on with that. Additionally, you should know that red traffic lights are not just a suggestion, and rainy roads can be slicker than snot. Remember this in 1988. And 1989. Also shut up 1991.

Sit down and talk to your grandparents more often. Pretty soon, they'll be gone, and then you'll only see them in dreams.

Start your AP English senior term paper. Start it now. Do not wait until the day before it's due. It's 1987. Teachers can (and will) throw heavy objects at you.

You were warned.

Yes sir, judging by my poor choices, hairstyle and purple eyeliner, I was a teen of the 80s. Were you?

Here at Lighten Up!, we are all about the BS hard-hitting, investigative journalism, so let's find out:

You were a kid of the 80s if you remember:

-Growing concerned about your palm-sweat output during the Couples' Skate.
-Spending Saturday morning hunched in front of a boom-box for the countdown, fingers poised on 'record' and 'play.'
-"Oh, Mickey you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind! Hey, Mickey! Hey, Mickey!" (Kill me, please. Kill me now.)
-Wishing you had Jessie's Girl.
-Wishing you WERE Jessie's Girl.
-Furtively disassembling and reassembling your Rubik's cube, then showing your mom, because you "solved" it.
-"Look for the purple banana 'til they put us in the truck . . . " (Prince. WTF were you smoking?)
-Never watching the 'Very Special' episode of "Family Ties" or any of your other favorite sitcoms. 'Very Special' was code for pregnancy, drugs and/or alcohol. Parental discretion was advised.
-Singing along to "Rock Me, Amadeus." Smacking the shit out of yourself for doing so, but still - singing along.
-Stabbing a Stretch Armstrong to see what's inside.
-"I only wanted to see you bathing in the Purple Rain . . ." (Again, I say - Prince: What the purple f*ck were you smoking?)
-Rocking the middle-school fashion world in your sweet new "Members Only" jacket.
-"We don't have to take our clothes off . . . to have a good time" (No, but it sure helps.)
-Calling 867-5309, hoping Jenny would answer. She never did. Dammit.

Well, I hope I have provided some vital insight into your past. As you can see, I am full of bullshit valuable information.

Really. Who needs Google when you got me?

And with that, from the decade that brought you such important contributions as the single glove, the Tammy Faye Bakker, and the almighty mullet, I leave you with one epic, final, definitive thought:

"Oh, Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind. Hey, Mickey! Hey, Mickey!"

You're welcome.

The Day of Three Burritos

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber. Image from someecards.com)

My buddy Al. Annoying Pestering Amusing me since 2005.

Just like the other day at lunch-time, when he burst into my cubicle.

For shit's sake, he didn't even give me time to look up from the Pinterest important work research I was examining. Normally he approaches my pod in a shuffling manner, groaning all the way across the 25th floor, from his space to mine. On this particular day, he just barged in on me. No shuffles, no groans. Apparently, he had big news.

"I can't believe I did that."

"What, Al, what did you do?" I said, annoyed. I wanted to get back to my important lunch-break Pinterest work research. That is just the kind of dedicated employee I am.

He held up three fingers. "I ate three burritos yesterday. Three."

Whoa. I closed out of Pinterest my important work research. This was going to be gassy good. I could tell.

"What do you mean three burritos? Are you crazy?"

"I ate one here, from the cafeteria. Then we went to Chipotle last night, waiting to pick my daughter up from practice, bought a burrito, ate that one in the car," he said.

But he wasn't finished. No sir, he wasn't.

Do not underestimate Al's burrito consumption skills.

"Then I got ANOTHER one from Chipotle, was going to save it for lunch today. But I ate it, too. Last night. Couldn't wait."

"Al. Three burritos? You know, those things have, like, eleven-hundred calories each," I told him. "You're going to explode. Get out of my cubicle."

"Mmph." Rubbing his distended belly, he ambled back to his desk and threw himself into the chair.

"I'm just so TIRED," he said.

There are some things you should know about my buddy Al:

1. He likes burritos. A lot.
2. He enjoys mocking me. All the time.
3. He is tired. Always.

But that's O.K., because:

1. I like burritos. A lot.
2. I enjoy mocking him. All the time.
3. I am tired. Always.

Al is a 6'4" African-American guy. I am a 5'2" pasty white girl.

We're practically twins.

We've worked together for more than five years now, on the 25th floor of a high-rise in downtown Columbus. But we both originally come from the greater Youngstown, Ohio area which - we think - makes us mobsters savvier than most folks. Yes, we have decided that we are wise and cool. According to us.

I generally greet him, my Y-town pain-in-the-ass partner in crime, each morning. He lurches into the office, shuffling and groaning, and throws himself into his chair. Maybe I'll say:

"Good morning, Al."

"I'm just. . .so. . .TIRED," he'll say.

Walking by him later in the day, sometimes I ask:

"Hey, Al, how you doing?"

"I'm TIRED," says Al.

Leaving for the evening, 5:30 p.m., I might yell over his pod wall:

"Have a good night, Al!"

"Gawd, I am SO TIRED," he says.

Feeling tired gives Al time to think of ways to mock me, and also to develop his theories. Because he has lots of theories. About life. About burritos. About my clothing. Yes, I have the great good fortune of receiving my buddy Al's thoughts on everything, up to and including my wardrobe. He's thoughtful like that.

For instance, my red gingham shirt.

"What is that? Some kind of...some kind of picnic blanket? Ha ha ha!"

And my green vinyl snow boots.

"What are those? Some kind of...some kind of leprechaun ass-kickers? Ha ha HAA!"

Now isn't he rude generous? He just gives and gives me shit.

Later on Al's Day of Three Burritos, I bravely went to visit him in his cubicle as he deflated recovered. We discussed his theory of "The Dummies."

The Dummies lurk everywhere: the grocery store, the Interstate, Chipotle. They're easy to see, though, because they're always in line. This irks Al. Al has a life motto:

"Don't wait in the line with the rest of The Dummies!"

Al told me how to skillfully avoid Dummies. I'll share these skills with you, though you may be a Dummy yourself.

You're welcome.

Involving oneself with Dummies means waiting, elevated blood pressure and wasted time, says Al. Why hang with Dummies when you can cruise away from Dummies?

Al stared out the window at a line of cars. They stood stock-still during evening rush hour, along Spring and High Streets. Dummies in Gridlock.

"Just look at all those Dummies," said Al, shaking his head.

He then gave me a detailed scheme to avoid this situation. He said that one should work out an "alley plan" before pulling into such a mess. One could zip down side streets, avoiding Dummy traffic.

"Bye-bye, you Dummies!" says Al.

But that wasn't the only traffic advice he had. No sir, it wasn't.

Do not underestimate Al's Dummy Avoidance skills.

Al said that - when approaching a traffic jam near an interstate exit - one should get in the far right-hand lane, and pass all The Dummies on the right.

Next, look for a semi-truck on the left, and then merge in front of it. He said to leave plenty of space, avoid cutting the trucker off. One should also thank a trucker with a wave or flick of taillights.

"You got to respect the truck! Respect the truck!" says Al.

As we turned away from the window, gathered our belongings and walked to the lobby, I thought about my buddy Al's Respect the Truck/Dummy Passing method. I told him that this tactic will not please the drivers of the cars lined up and waiting in the left lane. He was not concerned.

"Who cares?" he said.

He pushed the elevator button, looked over at me and shrugged.

"They're Dummies."

He rubbed his burrito-bloated belly as the elevator doors opened. "You coming?"

Looking up at him, I smiled.

"Nah. Thanks Al. You go on ahead. I think I'll just wait for the next one."

Clearly, I am not a Dummy.


(This is a re-worked post from a while back. I was inspired by my friend Vapid Vixen's genius post, about her co-worker Toph. Go. Read it now. One day, I shall exact a similar revenge on my buddy Al, who surely deserves it. You wait. You'll see.)

What Would Erma Say?

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

Three days, I was away.

And while I was gone, I can guaran-damn-tee you that no one at my house ate vegetables and no one applied sunscreen. Not a one of them sat up straight.

Utter chaos, when I travel. I really don't know how they survive without my bossiness guidance.

The whole time I attended the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop last week, I worried about my family's lack of vegetable consumption, good posture and general disregard of common health practices. I worried at the conference, on the drive home, up the driveway, through the door. And then I saw them, there in the living-room.

They were breathing, but smelled of Doritos. Also, I questioned the recent hygiene habits of the little one, the boy.

I hugged him anyway. I'm brave like that.

"Hey Levi, I missed you!" I lifted his body - almost as long as mine now - swung it side-to-side like a pendulum and inhaled into his neck.

Nacho Cheese. Perhaps Cool Ranch. Or maybe, both.

Same as it ever was.

"Hi Mom. Happy Birthday," he said, rubbing and smearing his face on my shoulder, the way he has since babyhood.

Well, they were alive. That was something. Doritos aside, I guess my long-suffering husband does a good job with the kids when I travel for work or writing. And by "good job" I mean everyone has a pulse when I get home. Usually.

And these days, he's not the only one in charge while I'm gone - my teenage daughter often runs the show. She feeds herself and her sibling from their four main food groups: pizza, pizza rolls, pizza Bagel Bites and chips. I complained about all this on Facebook last week. Have you met me? Of course I complained. On Facebook. My cousin Mark replied:

"What Would Erma say?"

Hell. I don't know what she'd say. I know she'd say it much better than me. With less cussing. I am no Erma - not even close - and I can tell this when I look at my checkbook balance.

Anyway, as a young mother, before her success, Erma didn't have much chance to leave the house the way I do. Even though she held an English degree from the University of Dayton, society generally frowned upon such endeavors in the 50s and early 60s. A woman? Leave her kids for a career? What's a career?

Erma powered through anyway, starting a column for a small local paper in 1964. They paid her $3 per piece. Her hilarious, realistic essays on life as a suburban housewife grew wildly popular, and over the next few decades her success snowballed to the point of three weekly columns published by hundreds of newspapers across the U.S. and Canada. These became anthologized into a series of best-selling books.

And oh, these books, these BOOKS! There they were on the back of my grandmother's couch and sometimes, the toilet. My mother bought them and then passed them on to Grandma. And her couch. And her toilet. That's where they fell into my grubby eight-year-old hands.

At Wit's End. . . Motherhood: The Second Oldest Profession . . . If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits? The title alone of The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank had me in a giggling fit, tears rolling down my cheeks, for at least 30 minutes one evening as I hid the book under the blankets, reading before I fell asleep at my grandparent's house while Mom worked the night shift.

Grandma busted me. The undercover laughter gave it away. But once she saw what I read, I received the go-ahead, because my grandmother - a former stay-at-home mother and child of the Great Depression - loved Erma. My mother - a baby boomer, a working woman - loved Erma. And I - a tom-boy not yet in a training bra - I loved me some Erma.

So after merrily plowing through all available Erma paperbacks from the back of the couch and toilet, I began waiting for her newspaper columns to arrive. I parked myself in the front yard on a webbed lawn chair, until I heard Alice the Paper Lady's VW Beetle buzzing down Garfield Road. Jumping up, I waited for the very blonde, very bee-hived Alice at the Youngstown Vindicator box, where she handed me the paper, and I raced back to my chair.

My eyes devoured Erma's column. Then, even though I didn't much understand them, I read Art Buchwald's and Mike Royko's pieces, which sometimes gave me a bewildered chuckle. During my time there in the lawn chair - and with those eight years under my belt - I figured that someday I would write funny columns. After, of course, becoming a vet and a forest ranger.

But even though I eventually earned a photojournalism degree and worked at newspapers, both as a photographer and a reporter, I never became a columnist or vet or forest ranger. A few times, I pitched the idea of a humor column to my editors, but we already had someone on staff who wrote such a piece, and then I left the newspaper business anyway to find a job with a salary above poverty level.

The years flowed by like water, like a river. A husband, a couple babies, a few jobs later.

I blinked.

And then I was 40.

Cliche. I know. But I started thinking it was time to do the things I had always wanted to. At this point, I worked in a state communications department, the contacts at my former newspaper, the Newark Advocate long gone. And Lord, I was tired. Also, I was old.

One day, feeling blue, I Googled Erma Bombeck to read some of her stuff and cheer up. Amongst the links were bios, so I clicked on them and did some math. Approximate age Erma began her first real humor column?

37.

She was 37. I was 40. A little late, but not much difference.

Still, I was tired. Also, I was old.

But I had nothing to lose. I called an old acquaintance, the editor/owner of a tiny paper, the Buckeye Lake Beacon, and asked if I could write a humor column for him. He agreed, worry and uncertainty in his voice. 


Of course he worried. Have you met me?

I began writing the "Lighten Up!" humor column in April, 2009, the month I turned 40. The editor ran it occasionally, when he sold enough ads to make space - not an easy task in this economy. In June, 2011, the National Society of Newspaper Columnists (NSNC) gave me a third-place award for humor in newspapers under 50,000 circulation.

However, with ever-dwindling ad-sales, the paper barely runs my column anymore, and with similar cash problems and ever-shrinking staffs, no other newspapers have expressed interest. The state of modern journalism (and whatever it is that I write) sometimes saddens me.

But I wasn't thinking about any of this the other day when I got home. I was worried about my Doritos-scented family. And before I even unloaded my bags from the Erma conference, my husband grabbed my hand and pulled me to the bedroom.

It was clear I was not going to achieve my birthday dream of taking a solo nap.

"Oh shee-zus honey, I am tired. Also, I'm old," I said.

"Shhh. . ." he said, pulling me over to the wall. There, he showed me this:

For my gift, he had framed my NSNC award. I have been so busy working and blogging and mothering and chauffeuring and possibly peri-menopause-ing-shut-up, I forgot all about the certificate. So I said:

"Wow, thanks! I forgot all about this certificate!"

He laughed. "I squirreled it away. Got the frame at Walmart. I hope it's OK."

"Oh it's awesome. I love it," I said. He had me at 'Walmart.'

He looked intently at my face, then his eyes wandered to my shoulders and chest.

Oh boy. There goes my nap.

"What? What is it?" I asked. "I am tired, also I'm really old now."

He lifted his hand and rubbed my blouse.

"On your shirt. . .Dorito dust. . .from Levi's face," he said.

I looked down.

Nacho Cheese. Perhaps Cool Ranch. Or maybe, both.

Same as it ever was.



Thank you, Erma Bombeck, for your legacy, your laughter and the motivation you gave me in 1977, again in 2009, and ever onward.
       -Your devoted fellow Buckeye (and World's Youngest Erma Fan, 1977),
               Dawn

With Bill Bombeck, Erma's husband, and Betsy Bombeck, her daughter
at the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop. Erma's family is very involved
with the workshop, and Bill and Betsy were so sweet, as I stalked them
to get a photo. 

This One Time? Up Home? We Discovered the Underground Railroad. And the Soul Train.

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber. Image made at someecards.com)

We were just kids.

But clearly, we were going to be famous.

That's because we found the Underground Railroad, back there by Mr. Nesbitt's tree.

Word around New Springfield was the famous freedom train ran through our town in the 1800s. Some said the ancient bar down the road - the Springfield Inn - had been one of its stops.

At age seven, or maybe eight, I had this all figured out. Of course I did have you met me? In my mind, a giant black steam engine - just like the cartoon at the beginning of "Soul Train" - roared and pulsed underground hundreds of miles from down South - through a giant underground tunnel - bringing the slaves North to freedom. And the Springfield Inn.

I pictured this, but really didn't give it too much thought. It was ancient history. Marshall the Neighbor Boy and I were very busy - things to do, you know. We spent a good bit of the 1970s - and probably part of the 80s - merrily and obliviously ruining the yard of our other neighbor, Mr. Nesbitt.

After the rains, around his place, we dug into all the mud we could find. We climbed each of his trees and broke the branches. We slid barefoot in the marshy puddles of his grass until we wore it to a bog.

Mr. Nesbitt watched us from his porch chair, with a PBR and a smile, but worried eyes. He didn't say much about our havoc. At the end of each week, he scooped out great handfuls of grass seed from a bag and scattered it over our paths of destruction.

Mr. Nesbitt had to scatter a lot of grass seed.

His tormented yard was where we found the Underground Railroad one summer day in 1977 or so, industriously demolishing digging around the base of his old maple tree with our mothers' garden spades. Marshall's hole was deeper than mine. This made me mad, and I was busily trying to catch up when he pulled something from the dirt.

"Look!" he yelled. He held up a rusty nail.

"Wow!" I replied.

Fascinating! Obviously, we were perched on the edge of something fantastic.

We stepped up our mining efforts. My spade hit a rotted piece of old lumber, and I tugged it from the dirt.

"Whoa. . ." I sat back on my heels.

Marshall looked at my finding, then me, and jumped up to get his sister Shelly.

She was a few years older than us - the prettiest girl in town - and I worshipped the very flip-flops on which she flapped. I was a tiny, scrawny, raggedy little thing, but Shell never let anyone pick on me. Marshall and I consulted her on all urgent matters. Such as arguments, kickball and lunch.

On this particular day, we knew she needed to see our trash discoveries and help us figure out what trash we found. I sat holding and examining the timber and the rusty nail when she approached, with Marshall jogging up behind her.

"Look, Shell, look at this stuff," I put the garbage items in her hands. She turned the nail and the board over, held them closer to her face, and squinted at them. Then she looked at us with raised eyebrows.

"Do you guys know what this is?" she asked.

 We did not. We shrugged.

"I bet you this is part of the Underground Railroad!" she said. "If you find it, you'll be famous. Mom will call the news - they'll put you on TV and in the (Youngstown) Vindicator . . ."

Marshall and I gaped at each other, simultaneously dropping our jaws. We fell to our knees and began plowing furiously at the earth. Without speaking, we knew that we would dig until we found the railroad and the tunnel. And the Soul Train.

Shelly hung around to supervise our efforts, and even helped us dig some. We found lots more rubbage things, like old, broken blue Milk of Magnesia bottles and clear liquor containers.

"The slaves probably used this stuff on the train," she told us.

Though she didn't stick around too long, Marshall and I kept mining. Wasn't easy, burrowing through tree roots, but this did not stop us from our mission. We were going to find the tunnel. And the Soul Train.

We failed to locate it that day. Exhausted and muddy - but still excited - we each went home at dusk. I relayed our discovery to my mother.

"Hey Mom. . . Mom. We found the Underground Railroad back by Mr. Nesbitt's tree!"

She looked up from the Vindicator, and gave me a slow smile. "You did? Wow. . ."

"But we didn't get down to the tunnel yet . . ." I told her.

She held her smile, but quickly looked back to the paper. "Well, keep digging then."

Marshall called me on the phone that night, said his mom told him the same thing.

So the next day, we reported back for duty back at the tree. Marshall brought a bigger shovel, I still had Mom's little garden spade.

"Where's Shelly?" I asked.

"She said she'd come out here later," he told me. And he sliced the shovel into the mud.

We dug. And dug. And then we dug some more.

The day wore on, and we worked hard, but we weren't unearthing bottles or nails anymore.  Nothing but dirt. When Marshall walked over to the tall, weedy field to pee, I made sure he wasn't looking back towards me. I put my ear to the ground to listen for the train.

This is the kind of genius I was.

Shelly didn't show up. But Marshall and I kept digging, like our moms told us to, and met up again the following day with our archeological tools, the garden spade and the coal shovel. We gave up on our deeper holes, moving all around the tree, plowing up smaller cavities.

Mr. Nesbitt was running out of grass. Fast.

We kept at it. On the third or fourth day, while Marshall and I sweated in the sun, I looked up and across the yards to see Shelly languidly hanging out on her front porch.

"Hey Shell!" I yelled. "We aren't finding much anymore - just a bunch of dirt and worms and sticks. How far down do you think this underground railroad is?"

She turned her head to me.  "Just keep digging!" she hollered back.

Huh. She wore the same slow smile as my mother did a few days before. Odd.

But one does not have time to ponder facial expressions when one is making history.

So we did as we were told. We kept digging. Missed "Happy Days," AND "Laverne and Shirley" on the TV that week. Missed the "Lawrence Welk Show," which was fine by me, but we missed Saturday morning cartoons too.

That was a shame.

We dug in the dewy morning, in the afternoon hot sun. We dug until the streetlights came on.

We dug all damn week.

But we never did find the tunnel. Or the Underground Railroad. Or the Soul Train.

Saturday night's streetlights popped on, and finally - sweaty, muddy and defeated - Marshall the Neighbor Boy and I gave up. We stood from the ground, brushed off our dirty knees and began dragging the shovels home.

Old Mr. Nesbitt, with worried eyes and a smile, put down a PBR, rose from the porch chair, picked up his bag and walked out to the maple tree.

There, he scattered great handfuls of grass seed.

Marshall the Neighbor Boy and I, 30-plus years later. Not Famous. We tried.

I may have mentioned it a time or two (hundred), but I grew up in a fantastic town.

 Like Mr. Nesbitt, my neighbors did not sweat the small stuff, and they looked out for each other. 

Even now, the folks in /from New Springfield, New Middletown and North Lima still pray for, worry about and look after my aging mother, as they did recently when she was ill.

 She still lives there.

 And I am lucky to have come from such a great place.

Picking Up the Feathers

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

I could always tell when he was thinking about the war. It hung in his blue eyes. Faraway, like clouds. Wet, like rain.

Some were born to fly. And some are forced to pick up the feathers. So it was with my grandfather, who served in the Army Air Force during World War II. He loved planes, loved flying, and had hoped to take the skies, to lead missions. He wanted to be a hero, like in the movies.

Life is not a movie.

He served in the Army Air Force, but he was not a pilot. His main job was to sail out and recover airmen - or what was left of them - after their planes were shot down over the Pacific.

He found very few survivors. Some. But very few. I never could fathom the horrors he'd seen. I don't - I can't - call what he did picking up the pieces. I call it picking up the feathers.

I wonder how many he helped send home. How many families have closure because of what he found. I hope he knew that this was important work.

Of course, he didn't talk much about it to me, anyway - the little blonde granddaughter. He spoke only of good things: the stunning beauty of Hawaii, the unforgettable friendships, the unwavering patriotism.

The Army Air Force had told him he was too "uncoordinated" to fly, too clumsy to wield the controls of an airplane. I have always been suspicious of their judgment: He was a good driver, an experienced farmer. He was used to machines and engines.

Sometimes I wonder if the USAAF, when faced with hundreds of thousands of wannabe-pilots, didn't deem many unsuspecting men "uncoordinated." And sent them on to other, less glamorous, still necessary tasks.

Like picking up the feathers.

But that's just my hunch. What do I know? And of course, it never, ever occurred to him to question his superiors. No one said such dishonorable things. Back then.

So he did his job. He didn't complain. A farm boy knows much of life and death and blood and guts - that's what they did. Back then.

On a three-day pass, with my grandmother, he made my mother. A good thing, too, because he promptly caught a severe case of measles in the service. No more babies would be possible after that.

And, eventually, he came home. Unlike so many others.

In the end, maybe the USAAF was right. It's good he didn't fly, that he didn't end up as feathers in the ocean. He lived a relatively long, happy life, married 50 years to my grandmother. He helped raise me in a wonderful small town in Ohio. In 1998, he got to meet my daughter, his great-granddaughter - who is named after his wife, Laura.

He died six months later.

Much to his great dismay, he never flew a plane.

That's fine with me. He was here. He came home.

And he was still, very much, a hero.

(This one's for him)

(a re-post on the eve of what would have been my grandfather's 92nd birthday, and my grandparent's 70th wedding anniversary.)

My First Bloggy F Bomb. Courtesy of Pinterest and . . .

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

All the cool chicks do it.

And if there's one thing I learned in high school, it's to do what the cool chicks do, because it's idiotic brilliant! And following their lead could make you drunk grounded jailed happy.

Yep, be a follower, not a leader, is my motto. Unless you're my daughter, in which case CLICK AWAY NOW YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ON MOM'S BLOG AND GO FOLD LAUNDRY LIKE I TOLD YOU!!

Ahem.

ANYwhoo...

Yeah, I tried to avoid it, because I am very busy and important, what with all my Facebooking and boxed-wine drinking parenting and working. But I caved, because succumbing to peer pressure always makes me a grounded jailed happy idiot, and I joined Pinterest.

I am pretty sure Martha Stewart is behind this devil's work online bulletin board, because I'm learning so much. Mainly the fact that I am a complete failure.

I had no idea! Thank you, Martha Pinterest.

On Pinterest, you will find pictures of beautiful rooms. Beautiful women. Beautiful crafts. Beautiful women in beautiful rooms with beautiful crafts.

And none of these beautiful things? Are yours, also you're probably pretty ugly, yourself.

Thank you, Martha Pinterest.

On Pinterest, you'll find healthy, tasty recipes.

Buffalo chicken tacos, via Pinterest and mrsregueiro.com

At my house, you'll find:

On Pinterest, you'll find beautiful and sexy hairstyles.

Via Pinterest and weheartit.com

On my head, you'll find:

Look at the husband in the background, laughing at my FAIL-do. Yuck it up cowboy.

On Pinterest, you'll find ways to organize your closet.

Via Pinterest and Google.com.br

At my house, you'll find:

But really cute shoes!

Still.

I want an organized closet! I want tasty recipes! I want a pretty hairdo!

Obviously, though, I need help with all my FAILS. So I kept examining the site, and now I am a crackhead. The Pinterest pictures...so pretty...MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES.

• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES on my cell phone while cooking dinner.
• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES on Ipad in bathroom, dripping wet  after a shower.
• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES when supposed to be blogging.
• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES with laptop, Saturday night on couch.

Saturday night, people! The hell? What is WRONG with me? Saturday night is for nightlife!

I love the nightlife! I got to boogie!

But the pictures...so lovely. And everything looks simple and doable.

"This looks easy!" is what you think.

"I could do this!" is what you say.

You're wrong. Loser.

Like a good crackhead, I study the projects, thinking maybe I can complete some of them. Then, I set my sights on a dog bed for that crazy bitch of ours, Suzie. You may remember the evil Suzie from posts such as this and this and even this.

Suzie is pretty sure she has a dog bed already, called the couch, or rather "Suzie-get-your-ass-offa-that-couch!" I've been pricing dog beds, and even cheap-o Big Lots beds in her size cost at least $20. Soon enough, I find a dog bed idea on Pinterest.

"This will be easy!" is what I think.

"I can make this!" is what I say. Ha ha ha! Oh, I crack myself up.

I head down to the basement, locate my sewing machine, bring it up, blow off all the dust and begin trying to thread the needle.

"Mom - my 'Call of Duty' game isn't working - can you clean it off and get it to work?" says my son, walking into the kitchen.

"Sure," I say.

Twenty-three minutes later,  I begin again trying to thread the sewing machine needle.

"Hey Mom. Did you wash my cheer uniform yet?" says my daughter. "You know, I have a game tonight."

Nineteen minutes later, I - what? - start trying to thread the needle once more. Nineteen minutes after that, I am sweating, cussing and STILL trying to thread the needle. I pull out the sewing machine user's manual, 13 minutes later locate the needle-threading instructions in ENGLISH, and start to...

"Honey? What's for dinner?" says the husband.

And...she's out. That's it. I fold.

Fuck you, Pinterest.

You too, Martha.

And so it goes that on the Pinterest you'll find:

Via Pinterest and Etsy.com

And at my house, you'll find:

Scoot the hell over, Suzie. It's Saturday night.

MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES.






                                                                                                                                                  

Well, I have absolutely no idea what I did to deserve the honor, but the incredible, badass Vapid Vixen over at The Ginja Ninja awarded me the Tell Me About Yourself Award. Also she said some really nice things about me, which floored me because this chick? Is uber-cool and does things like snowboard and run through mud in the Dirty Dash (which I may do now, at the Warrior Dash, thanks to her lead).  I know her first name. I won't tell you what it is, but it begins with D and ends with n and other badass chicks have the very same name. She is funny and smart and I really like her, even though she calls me an asshole sometimes.

ANY-whoo...

I am supposed to tell you five things about myself, but I am lazy and let's go with three:

1. I am a total pansy when it comes to scary movies. Haven't watched one since the 70s, when I was 5 and "Carrie" was on our 11-inch black and white RCA, and Carrie's-bloody-hand-came-out-of-the-grave-at-the-end-OH-MY-GAWD!!! I jumped straight up from an indian style position at my Mom's feet, into her lap - I mean a sheer vertical leap - and had to sleep in her room for the next 8 months. Pretty sure if I saw a scary movie now, I'd have to drive the 3 hours to Youngstown and sleep in my Mom's room for the next 8 months. 

2. I am also a total pansy when it comes to hypodermic needles. They are the very tools of the devil. Can't even look at those sonsabitches without peeing just a little. Effin' needles.

3. I have great taste in music. Sometimes. And sometimes I have the musical taste of a 60-year-old virgin. Yep. Give me some Ambrosia or Gerry Rafferty or some "Please Come to Boston," and I'll be putty on your hands. Or, um, I would, um, if I wasn't happily married. Ahem. 

I am to pass this award on to five awesome bloggers,but I laugh at authority - Stick It to The Man, is what I always say. And so I'm giving it to three fellow bloggesses (TWSS):

1. Diminishing Gene Pool - You'll be reading this woman's book someday, mark my words. She reminds me so much of the awesome Hollis Gillespie, and she has such an amazing knack for dialogue.

2. Dawn in Austin - Another badass Dawn. All her posts are great, but her recent post about getting c*ck blocked by her newborn grandson had me doubled over. Fun-nay!

3.Muffintop Mommy - Self-effacing, dead-on accurate day-to-day accounts of her life as a SAHM. Much like me, she loves to pimp her dull existence (sorry, Twig ;), but 'tis true.) 

Check them out, they all rock.