Lighten Up!

Roses, They Die. Violets Do Too. I'll Be Buying Nothing for You!

2012-02-15T05:52:00.000-05:00

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

Flowers and candy and blah blah blah.

Save yourself some time. Just give me the cash.

Because, really, Valentine's Day? Who gives a shit? That's my motto, anyway. Roses are a decaying waste of money, chocolate causes ass expansion, and lingerie stays on for about 11 minutes, including liftoff and the male's successful touchdown.

Romance. You're at the wrong blog.

Still, I am not above parlaying this idiotic, sap-soaked holiday into something for moi. No sir. Far be it from me not to take advantage of good old-fashioned Valentine's Day Man Guilt. So each year, I allow the husband to take me out to dinner.

People. I am NOT going to turn down the fine dining experience that is the Heath, Ohio Applebee's.

I told ya'all before: I'd rather dine in Pickerington with its wider array of chain choices. But Pick-town is 10 minutes further southwest than our usual nightspots, and like I said - the husband. He ain't going that far.

"I'm NOT driving to FREAKIN' PICKERINGTON!" he says over and over.

Luckily, things have improved somewhat here in the greater Central Ohio metropolitan area (Motto: Respect the Cows.). It's not just Applebee's, Bob Evans, Dead Lobster and Olive Garden anymore. No sir. Developers have graced us with not one but TWO Japanese restaurants recently.

That's right, folks. Sushi has finally! come to the rednecks.

And my man said that for V. Day he'd take me to Tokyo Steakhouse in beautiful downtown Heath.

We fancy. Buh-bye, Applebee's.

Ride along with us, readers, for a date - you know me already, and you've also met the husband - Swervy McDangerPants - a time or six. Grab a Honda ceiling handle and experience the love, the passion, the high-speed hairpin turns of our night on the town.

"Why did you go this way?" I ask. He picked a dumb way to swerve dangerously into town. So I tell him, "This is a dumb way to go. You should have turned on Irving Wick."

"Who's drivin' this boat?" he says. "Me or you?"

'Driving this boat'? More like 'piloting this jet.' But perhaps I should shut my pie-hole for now since it's VD Day. And thanks to his Mach 2 speed, we soon arrive at Tokyo we fancy! Japanese Steakhouse.

We go inside, sit down, and begin perusing the menus. I want the shrimp and scallops, but it's expensive. So I say:

"I want to get the shrimp and scallops, but wow, it's expensive!"

He looks over at me. "Well, this is all you're getting from me, so do what you gotta do to satisfy yourself."

Huh. THERE's a sentence I've heard from him before.

I continue reading the menu. "Have you ever tried tempura? If you'd try it, you'd like it."

Uh-oh. Foreign words. Suspicious, he wrinkles his nose. "What is it?"

I try to explain. "It's like crunchy...salty...it's really good...fried stuff."

He looks up from the menu.

"And there's a bad fried stuff?"

We order, sip our drinks, wait for the food, and the manager stops to greet us. I chat him up for a good five minutes. Working the system - I'm no dummy. I figure the friendliness could work to our advantage.

I am right. Of course I am. Have you met me? The manager leaves then returns with a fresh beer for the husband, another glass of merlot for me. On the house. Score! He heads off to check on other tables, and Swervy stares at me longingly. The adoration in his eyes! I can tell he he has something really special he's about to say.

"What? What is it?" I ask.

"You can get anything you want from anybody, can't you? You're amazing," he leans closer to me.

Oh, this will be awesome, I can tell. A gott-dang Valentine Moment to Remember!

"You should be a phone sex operator!" he says.

Yes. Clearly, I missed my calling.

We fill our bellies, empty our we fancy! wallets, walk out and hop back in the Honda. He starts it up and I grab my ceiling handle. Heading out of the parking lot at Mach 2, he aims the car toward 30th Street instead of Route 79. Goofy.

"Why'd you go this way?" I shake my head. "This is a dumb way to go."

"Shut your pie-hole, woman," he mutters.

I look over at him, narrowing my eyes. He doesn't appreciate my badass navigational skilllz.

"I just like to help you out with your directions."

Glancing my way, Swervy gives me a cocked eyebrow and a smile.

"You just like being a pain in my ass."

He is correct.

I smile back at him. He's a smart guy, that one - but he ain't that smart.

Because all I really wanted for Valentine's Day? Was a nap. And some cash.

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

2012-02-01T05:41:00.000-05:00

(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.

What Would Betty White Say?

2012-01-24T20:29:00.010-05:00

Betty White turned 90 years old last week.

Still. I bet she could kick my ass - and yours. With only her words.

She's short. She's blonde. She's naughty. Sound familiar?

Oh, I love me some Betty. My mom love Betty. My 14-year-old daughter - she love Betty.

My late grandma - born one year before her - loved Betty. And I bet that somehow, someway, even Upstairs, grandma still love Betty.

Hell. Everybody love Betty, because she's keepin' it real.

Betty, you're so awesome that I'd like to take you out for your birthday. Yeah, I'd fly to L.A., come to your house, and ring your doorbell. Everybody knows - you love pets. I bet you have a bunch of them, and that when you opened the door, your dogs would go ape-shit, barking and whatnot.

I wonder, then, What Would Betty Say (W.W.B.S.)?

You and I, Betty, we'd hop in your Cadillac and hit Sunset Strip. Cruising along, a cool 20 m.p.h. in the left hand lane, folks honkin', swearing, trying to pass on the right. It would make me angry. I'd yell at those a-holes:

"This is Betty-damn-White, and she's 90! Go the hell around us!"

But Betty, it wouldn't bother you. You'd stay cool as a cucumber, wouldn't you?

W.W.B.S.?

As we drove, Betty, you and I would discuss things, like that fact that you are - undeniably - old. So I would say:

"Betty, you're old. What's it like?"

What Would Betty Say?

I'd take you dancing, Betty, oh yes I would, at the Viper room, and I'd pull you out on the floor. Dudes would come up, ask us to dance, because yeah - we're still hot like that.

W.W.B.S.?

Oh, I love Betty. She pimpin' what she got.

Sure, haters gotta hate and talk over-exposure, but for the most part, everybody love Betty right now.

And isn't it about damn time? Finally, FINALLY we appreciate, honor and respect a woman who isn't a 105-lb., 23-year-old.

There is, in every woman, a little bit of Betty. And there are Betties everywhere. Resting in the branches of your family tree. Sitting alone in the halls of your local nursing home. Coasting in the fast lane of your nearest interstate. Every-Betties.

They all deserve some Betty love.

At 40-damn-two, I am just a baby. But when I grow up, I want to be a Betty.

Because she? Is still bold. Still working. Still somewhat blonde.

Betty White is still here. And still, decidedly. . .

Badass.

This post is for my Aunt Dee, who recently passed on, and my Grandma, Laura, who were sisters.

Betty White, in looks and mannerisms, always reminds me of a cross between the two of them.

I love and miss you both.

You were both - decidedly - badass.

How I wish you were both still here.

In Which the Husband Tries to Pimp Me. At Bob Evans

2012-01-16T06:52:00.000-05:00

(Post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)
Sunday morning, 8:52 a.m.

But we're not sleeping, because we want to, nay, we WILL get to Bob Evans before the old people.

We have our goals.

Also, the kids are still sleepy and don't want to go with us. We must escape the house before they change their minds. Imagine the peace! Imagine the freedom!

People, imagine the cost savings in chicken fingers alone!

The husband - Swervy McDangerpants - drives, so we hit the road at Mach 2. I grab the ceiling handle.

I can see that it's time once again to helpfully point out that he's breaking the law and endangering our lives. This is an observation I make often on our rides together. Ever the caring wife, I like to assist him with his driving skills every chance I get:

"Pick a lane, why don't ya?"
"Watch out! There's a cat by the road up there..."
"You know, you have to turn here...just sayin'..."
"That car ahead of us is stopped! Maybe we should slow down...?"
"Shee-zus!!"

When I help him in this manner, Swervy generally points at me. With his middle finger.

Despite his concerted effort to kill us, we arrive at the restaurant safely, around 9:30. So once again we beat the post-church, old-folk rush. Only a few Buicks in the lot.

Clearly, it's going to be a fantastic day.

On our way into the dining room, I notice a man, about 80, sitting slack-jawed and alone. His only company is a cup of coffee. He has the lost, adrift look of a widower. This makes me sad.

"Aw - look at that old guy," I whisper, nudging McDangerPants. "He looks depressed. I wish I could cheer him up."

"Well...show him your boobs," he says.

I decline.

The hostess seats us and gives us menus. I see an elderly couple at the next booth, across from each other, chewing, chewing, chewing. They stare at the table and say nothing - just eating in silence.

I never want to be one of those couples. So I say:

"I never want to be one of those couples, quiet like that, not speaking to each other."

"Mmph," says Swervy, studying the menu.

He continues considering his menu choices, finally settling on the Grand Slam Fatty McGreasy Combo Skillet.

In a loving and supportive fashion, I remind him that his pants are getting tight. Then, I helpfully point out the Bob Evans healthy menu options, such as the Egg Beaters omelette and the fruit plate.

He declines.

I chatter on about my week, the kids, I complain about my job and my commute. I tell him about the noise the truck now makes, and that I think the house will soon need a new roof.

"Mmph," he says.

The coffee and biscuits arrive. I sip my coffee and try to eat a biscuit, but end up dropping half of it onto the floor.

"Crap! I missed my mouth," I say.

"How did that happen?" he says.

I point at him. With my middle finger.

"That is not very nice to do to your husband," he says. "You know what would probably make me feel better? A blo..."

I decline. Then I kick him under the table.

McDangerPants and I finish our meal quietly, chewing, chewing, chewing. We pay the tab and walk out to the Honda - now surrounded by Buicks - and Swervy starts her up.

We hit the road at Mach 2.

"Shee-zus!" I say.

And I grab the ceiling handle.

Cookie Dough Crackhead

2012-01-09T08:36:00.003-05:00

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)
Life: far too short to bake the cookie dough.

Don't look at me like that. You know it's true. Why, why, WHY do folks insist on turning soft, sugary lumps of heaven into hard, dry, sandy desert-discs? It's a freaking outrage.

Salmonella? Pffftt. Salmonella that doesn't kill you only makes you stronger.

Oh cookie dough. I love you so. I can taste all your ingredients individually - butter, brown sugar, white sugar, salmonella. You dance on my tongue, you make me smile, you release serotonin...

Excuse me. I need a cigarette. And I don't even smoke.

You people call it cookie dough.

I call it crack.

Because psstt...come over here. I'll tell you a secret. When I was a kid? I stole stuff. Oh yes, I did. I stole cookie dough, cake mix, icing, and maybe Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs shut up right out from under my mother's and grandmother's noses.

Little cookie crackhead.

It all started with the cookie dough that I stole from the fridge. Even little thieving-thug-crackheads know that cookie dough spoils, so I snarfed it down immediately after lifting it. A few times, I got away with it. But eventually, she caught on. I have no idea why.

So I had to get a little more diabolical with my crime. I turned to cake mix. Straight, no chaser, out of the box, with a spoon. This, too, I lifted from Mom and Grandma. They didn't make cakes often, so they never seemed to remember if they had any on hand, allowing me ample opportunity to grab a box, a spoon and run to my room. Wonderful child.

Do not judge me.

Cake mix was fantastic, because cake mix? Doesn't spoil. Even little thieving-thug-crackheads know that. And after eating the quarter of a box it took to place me in a ~~diabetic coma~~ happy sugar high, I could close the package and keep the rest of it under my bed. For future ~~diabetic comas~~ sugar highs.

Verily, I shall burn in hell. For Duncan Hines yellow cake.

Little sugar crackhead.

Cocky from cake mix success, I started eyeing the box of Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs my Grandma bought for Easter each year. These were the EGGS, people. Far larger, far more awesome than the measly little Reese's cups, and I drooled and begged each year when she brought home the orange and yellow carton. Grandma knew I was a little sugar crackhead addict, and she hid the box on the steps leading to the attic.

Methinks you underestimate me, Gran.

I waited until she was on the phone, snuck up the attic steps, and loaded my pockets with Reese's eggs. I crept back down, parked myself on the floor in front of the couch and commenced snarfing. Then, I stuffed the wrappers under the sofa.

Gran: "Dawn, what happened to all the Reese's eggs?"

My plan seemed foolproof - disappearing candy, no wrappers in the trash.

It was a gott-dang Scooby Doo mystery! Clearly, I was a genius.

But unlike my mom, Gran was anal about her spring cleaning. Gran pulled out her couch a few weeks later.

Gran busted me. Methinks I underestimated Gran.

And so, lo those many years ago, my life of crime came to an end. I mended my ways, confessed in church, tried to live a good life.

Until I had kids. Kids who want cookies. Little cookie crackhead kids.

Now I have to buy cookie dough, which comes with this warning:

Do not consume raw cookie dough?

Yeah, right. Just you try and stop me.

Methinks you underestimate me, Pillsbury.

New Year's Fails. Er...Resolutions

2012-01-03T06:14:00.000-05:00

(Post copyright 2012 - WTFFFFF!!!??? Where's my Hover-Car?, Dawn Weber)

Well, it's the New Year. I can tell because my pants are once again choking my ovaries.

They're also strangling my kidneys, intestines, and spleen. My liver? Has its own battles to fight.

My pants are assholes.

I bet yours are, too.

No wonder. The main damn four food groups these past few weeks have been cookies, fudge, candy and cookie dough. Strangers have asked me when the baby is due.

And then I punch them in the throat.

My healthy and wholesome recent lifestyle - and profoundly tight pants - signal that it's time to ~~lie to myself~~ make some New Year's ~~fails~~ resolutions. Again. For some reason, my ~~fails~~ resolutions are the same each year.

I bet yours are, too.

We will...

Lose weight!
Spend more time with family!
Stop punching strangers in the throat!

Yeah, right. Fail, fail and fail some more.

I have good intentions. But somehow, throughout the year, I get sidetracked with more important things. Such as working, sleeping and Googling pictures of Mike Rowe. I have a Dirty Job for you, Mike Rowe...

No more. I've decided that it's time to get real. Be honest. Ask yourself: What can I truly accomplish in one year's time?

Here at the Lighten Up! Self Help Center (Motto: Better Living Through Chemistry), I have put together some practical, do-able goals for all of us.

No thanks is necessary. Just send cash.

Or a nice box of wine.

Repeat after me, party people:

-I resolve to eat healthier potato chips.
-I resolve to go to church bi-annually.
-I resolve to help my fellow man be less idiotic.
-I resolve to get more sleep -ing pills
-I resolve to learn new things in the bedroom.
-I resolve to be a nicer person to animals.
-I resolve to pray for more money.
-I resolve to be a better role model for crackheads.
-I resolve to volunteer to punch idiots in the throat.
-I resolve to give more money to the Walmart and Target corporations.
-I resolve to quit drinking non-alcoholic beverages.
-I resolve to control my road rage when asleep in the passenger seat.
-I resolve to be happier about my humdrum existence.
-I resolve to cuss less at church. Bi-annually.
-I resolve to read more erotica.
-I resolve to quit smoking crack.
-I resolve to eat less vegetables.

These we can do, folks. No more New Year's fails. Yes sir, I am feeling really good about it.

And that ain't just the crack-pipe talkin'.

It's the Most Wonderful Time for a Beer

2011-12-27T06:47:00.002-05:00

(post copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)
(Please enjoy this re-post while I take a little bloggy break. Anyway, can it really be the holidays without this ~~goofy shit~~ little ditty I wrote last year?)

It’s the Most Wonderful Time For a Beer!
My paycheck has gone
Straight to Amazon Com
And the husband’s in tears!
It’s the Most Wonderful Time
For a Beer!

It’s the Hap, Happiest Season
Of All!
Unless you're a woman
In which case you're gonna
Be frantic as hell!
It's the Hap, Happiest Season
Of All!

There'll be lights that aren't lighting
Causing Weber fighting
While hanging the crap on the tree
There'll be traffic to crawl through
To get to the mall through
Please - give some Xanax to me.

It’s the Most Wonderful Time
For a Beer!
The tree’s leaning left
Why is it leaning left?
Shit - give me more beer!
It’s the Most Wonderful Time for a Beer!

It's the most Wonderful Time for a Beer!
With visiting relatives
Making me wish I had
Non-working ears!
It's the Most Wonderful Time for a Beer!

There’ll be candy for eating
And fudge to be sneaking
And egg nog filling my glass
There’ll be cookies for scarfing
And pies to be snarfing
Just slap it all right on my ass!

It's the Most Wonderful Time for a Beer!
The money's all spent
I know right where it went
These two kids right here!
It's the Most Wonderful Time...
It's the Most Nerve-Wracking Time...
It's the Most Wonderful Time for a Beer!

You Spin Me Right Round. Like a 60s Crooner, Baby

2011-12-18T09:19:00.002-05:00

Arguing with my best friend - a tradition since 1976.

Yeah, she's entitled to her opinion.

Too bad for her it's wrong.

"Green!" I say.
"Red!" she says.

She is a stellar mother, wife, daughter, church council member and director of food services for an entire state university. She has been my very best friend for nearly 30 years. Still, she is...

...WRONG.

And frankly, I don't mind telling her so.

"No way, Amber! You know green is better. Come on!" I say.
"Uh-uh. Sorry. The red one is the best." she says.

She and I like to debate Very Important Issues. Such as politics, child rearing, religion and the Andy Williams Christmas albums.

Shut up. We're old. And, apparently, nerds.

In the 70s, over on Garfield Road, she grew up listening to the red-covered "Andy Williams Christmas Album" - the Red One - during the holidays.

Clearly Inferior

While a mile away, I spent my holidays listening to the Green One -"Merry Christmas" Andy Williams.

Obviously the right choice

Yep. From age four, the Green One was always the first Christmas record I loaded onto our big-azz wooden console stereo.

"Jing-a-ling! Jing-jing-a-ling!"

That's how it starts out, with "Sleigh Ride." Then, I'd begin my seasonal hobby of spinning in circles in front of the Christmas tree. The music, all those colors - they were everything. They brought magic, and I made it my mission to spin fast enough that my eyeballs would register the lights as one continuous blur.

Goalz: Even as a preschooler, I had them. Obviously, I was destined for greatness. And possibly autistic.

We didn't own the Red One, but lots of other folks did. So I tried spinning in circles as they played it on their big-azz console stereos. The first song?

"I'm dreaming of a white Christmas..."

Zzzzz. Lame. Try to spin fast enough to blur the lights with that one. I stopped spinning, plunked down and listened to the rest of it. Yeah, Andy still sang, but aside from "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," the record stunk. Lacked a certain Je Ne Sais What.

It was clear that the Red One was for losers.

I told this to my best friend. Then, we argued.

We argued about it in the 70s, wearing polyester.
"Green!" I said.
We argued about it in the 80s, with spiral perms.
"Red!" she said.
We argued about it in the 90s, with our toddlers in tow.
"Green!" I said.

We argued this in her Buick. We argued in my Ford. We have argued this in our high school, our kitchens, on cruise ships, on the phone and on Facebook. The other day, I received this text from her:

"RED!"

Obnoxious.

Sorry about your luck, my BFF. Because I now have proof positive that the Green Andy Williams album is better. I found the following information about your Red One on Amazon.com, therefore it must be true.

See that, Amber? Wade here says that "Andy's consummate artistry was better in the 'Green Album'"... and that "I will go to play the "Green Album before the 'Red Album.'"

And it's not just Wade, no. Rodney also prefers the green:

"Christmas man" Rodney says that the Green One "has a little more christmas spark in it..."

What's that, BFF? Still not convinced? O.K.

As you can see, "Joshua" feels strongly about this.

So go ahead, Amber, play your loser Red One.

I'll be spinning and dancing in front of the tree, playing the Green One, along with Wade, Rodney, Joshua, the rest of "Mankin" and this cool cat:

Santa and His Bra

2011-12-15T05:51:00.000-05:00

(post copyright 2010, Dawn Weber. Slightly re-worked post from last year. Because - surprise! - I'm a little busy over here!)

Pssst...Santa wears a bra. And panties. And, sometimes, pumps.

That's because he is a she.

Has to be. Take a look around - there's no other way to explain it. All around the U.S., women are frantically planning for the holiday season.

And men...aren't.

I hate to sound sexist. So I'll just perpetuate a male/female stereotype. This time of year, women cook. We clean. We decorate. We bake cookies for entire school districts. We plan gourmet menus for people we hate.

We deck the freaking halls.

Females stalk sales, surf the web, shop the shops and max out the credit cards. We Blacken Friday.

That's because we have to buy for kids, husbands, moms and dads. We have to buy for aunts, uncles, grandmas, grandpas, friends, friends' kids, dogs, cats, garbage men, the homeless and homeless garbage men.

There is one - and only one - logical reason for this: We are suckas...Sucka Clauses.

Guys? They don't worry about this stuff. They don't have to. They have us.

Hold the angry comments - because I know there are exceptions not many. But for the most part, women regard December 1 as the beginning of a frantic, stressful emergency.

Men regard December first as...December first.

In fact, the whole season takes my husband by surprise.

On December 10: "What? You bought 80 Christmas cards!? Do we KNOW 80 people?"

On December 15: "What? You want to get a Christmas tree? Already?"

On December 20: "What? You want to put up lights? Already?"

And my personal favorite, on December 24: "What do you want for Christmas, dear? It's time for me to start shopping..."

Of course, my holiday shopping began in December, too. December of last year.

Purchasing presents ranks as the only holiday activity I enjoy. That's because it's the one time of year that I can spend many thousands of dollars! Virtually guilt-free! Because it's for others! Mostly. Except for those boots...and that Ipod...and...

So as not to cause the husband's first heart attack yet, I usually try to space out gift-buying over several paychecks. I don't always succeed, though, judging by our recent conversation:

"Holy s%#t!" he said, looking at the checkbook register.

"I know," I said. "But I had to start shopping so the stuff gets shipped on time."

"But four hundred forty- eight DOLLARS?!!" he said. "What did you buy?!"

"Stuff for the kids...the grandmas... And I'm not even close to done yet, so stop complaining," I said.

"But...four hundred forty-eight dol..." he said.

"You think this stuff just magically appears under the tree, don't you?" I said.

"Don't Santa and the elves bring it?" he said.

"You're lookin' at Santa. And the elves. And her checkbook," I said. "Now, hand us a beer, would ya? We're beat, and these new boots are killing us."

Beer for Your Bra? Abso-flippin-lutely!

2011-12-08T05:37:00.001-05:00

Let's face it - boobs can be some worrisome sonsabitches.

They bounce. They sag. Sometimes, they hurt. They bring mammograms and medical worries and Pamela Andersons.

Really, our breasts are appreciated mostly by the men and babies in our lives. Infants seek them for sustenance, while guys like our coconuts for purely recreational purposes.

It's true - as I mentioned last week - that my bouncers have given me superpowers. But I am not immune to the problems they cause.

So ladies, I have a question: What have your blinkers done for YOU lately? Not a whole helluva lot?

That's all about to change, because girls - I bring you glad tidings of great joy.

Now your knobbers can work for you, with the Wine Rack sports bra!

This here hooter-holster holds up to 750 ml or 25 oz. of fluid, which is, conveniently, the amount of liquid in one bottle of wine, or one swig shy of two standard beers. As you can see from the helpful website, you simply fill the bra's polyurethane bladder with your "favorite beverage," put it on, run the "drinking tube as you wish" and then, apparently, suck away.

It's a gott-dang boobie beer bong.

Yes, we can now produce alcohol, basically, from our own chi-chi's gag! . That? Right there? Is disgusting! Klassy with a K, people! Where's my debit card?

No more pesky wine glasses, no more chilled chardonnay, no frosty beer mugs, thank-you-very-much. I'll take my hooch through a plastic tube at a balmy, possibly sweaty 98.6.

I get ~~nauseous~~ thirsty just thinking about it.

But wait! There's more! Of course there is! The manufacturer says that the Wine Rack, when filled, can transform your size B mammies into DD doozies. This will, apparently, make you extremely happy, and I have the pictures to prove it. Just look at this girl:

Before: Empty Wine Rack:

It's so frustrating, living life as a B-cup and a size 2.

After: Full Wine Rack:

Shazam! Now her life is complete!

I'm sure all three of my male readers are disappointed that the Wine Rack is obviously designed for females and transvestite hookers. Fear not, fellas, for I have good news for you, too.

The Beer Belly strap-on contraption holds 80 oz., or more than a sixer, of beverages. Haven't you always wanted a six-pack stomach?

And - when the fluid eventually works its way out - the Beer Belly could maybe serve as a handy catheter?

Which is the catheter, which is the Beer Belly? Hard to tell.

Kidding aside, the true glory of the these products lies in the fact that you can take your tepid beverages with you anywhere - to football games, concerts, church, staff meetings, parent-teacher conferences...

You know - all the places you need a shot.

So, this holiday season, grab a Wine Rack or a Beer Belly for the lushes special people in your life.

Because nothing says "Happy Birthday, Baby Jesus!" better than a bra full of body-temperature booze.

Wonder Woman? The Bionic Woman? They Got Nothin' on the Bacteria Banshee

2011-11-30T08:56:00.003-05:00

(post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

I have chosen a life of public service. Apparently.

I blame my boobs. I'm pretty sure they've given me superpowers.

It seems my big-girl beacons have made me an extraordinary human, because I am the ONLY one in my family capable of certain things. No one else at my place has a grown-up set of mammies, and no one else can do the things I do.

I am special. And not in a short bus, need-to-wear-a-helmet kind of way.

Now, you might think I'm not capable of being a superhero. You'd be wrong, sir, because I spent the better part of the 70s and maybe some of the 80s shut up watching "The Bionic Woman" and "Superfriends." So clearly, I am qualified.

I am sanitizer-toting. I am virus-seeking. I am a Bacteria Banshee!

Able to leap steaming puppy puddles in a single bound! More Powerful than any super-virus! Look! There with the Clorox wipes! It’s a maid! It’s Mrs. Clean! No - it’s Bacteria Banshee!

I first became aware of my Bacteria Banshee powers when I found that I am the sole family member with the ability to see the crumbs, food, dried milk, festering germs and sometimes dog hair shut up all over our counters and kitchen table.

Tuesday through Friday, I work late and arrive home long after dinnertime. Thus, my family members are lazy and go about their meals eating amongst – and creating more – debris, oblivious to the seething Petri dish on the kitchen surfaces. They are just too freakin' lazy weak to wipe. Apparently.

Lucky for them, come Saturday morning, I arise from bed, gather my Bacteria Banshee strength and hoist the Clorox wipe container. I whip out towelettes and commence cleaning, thereby saving my family, my neighbors and probably you from the pulsating pandemic that is our kitchen table.

My Banshee powers also give me the ability to be the only one who sees the dirty dishes piled in the sink. Though my family knows their dirty plates should go in the dishwasher, they are still freakin' lazy and choose to place them in the sink, where. . .poof! They disappear. It's downright magical! To their eyes anyway. No one can see the dirty dishes anymore!

Except for me!

And Saturday morning, after the kitchen sanitizing, I turn my attention to the crumb-, food-, dried milk-, festering germ- and sometimes dog hair-covered shut up dirty dishes. I load each piece into the dishwasher, a task too taxing for mere freakin' lazy mortals. Apparently.

I also provide Bacteria Banshee public service announcements in this calm and supportive manner:

"Use a *&$%# tissue!"
"Wash your #@%^ hands!"
"For f*#x sake, don't let the dog eat off your plate!"

Wacky commands like these perplex my crew. But they do what I ask, lest they suffer my Lysol wrath.

These are just the awesome superpowers I use at home. I am even more psycho impressive out and about:

Watch as Bacteria Banshee contorts body in effort to push elevator buttons without using fingers! See her recover money from ATM using sanitized pen and no hands! Marvel at Bacteria Banshee’s skill as she pumps gas with feet!

I bet you're wishing you had a Bacteria Banshee in your household. We all know that when germs are left un-checked, bad things happen in this country, such as pandemics and swine flus and George Bushes.

Fear not. Crazy bitch Women like me, with breasts, abound. And we are ready, willing and armed with chemical weapons to protect freakin' lazy families everywhere.

You're welcome.

Knowledge and Wisdom. As Seen on T.V.

2011-11-23T07:29:00.000-05:00

I am full of ~~bullshit~~ valuable information.

Yes, this is a blog filled with hard-hitting journalism. Sometimes, I wonder why people don't ask for my opinion more often. I mean, look at me:

Clearly, I am loaded. With knowledge. And stuff.

Far be it from me to withhold this wisdom from you. No sir -- I'm a giver. So here at Lighten Up!, I have written ~~three~~ tons of posts on very vital, useful, As Seen On T.V. topics.

Such as the Dairy Queen Blizzard Maker:

Well spank me sideways and call me 'fatty'! Where's my debit card?

And sugar free, generic Walmart margarita mix:

Spank me sideways and call me 'Maria'! Add El Toro tequila (red plastic sombrero included) for the world's skinniest, cheapest-azz margarita.

And, how can we forget the GoGirl! female urination device:

Spank me sideways and call me 'Don.' Because sitting down to pee was KILLING me! Where's my debit card?

I don't just keep readers informed about the latest, greatest products, no - I pass out nuggets of knowledge, too. I am so full of this type of shit intelligence that a couple of my fellow bloggers, Robyn and Iris I pimped you gals! Pimpin' ain't easy! have given a name to my pearls of wisdom. Ladies and gents, I present to you -- "Dawn-isms:"

Motherhood: the end of a perfectly good body.
Smartphones: because no one should be bored on the toilet.
Football season: a damn fine reason to go shopping. Every Sunday. For four months.
Dishwashers: proof of God's existence.
Broken Dishwashers: proof of Satan's existence.
Prozac: It's what's for breakfast.
Ohio: Just keep flying over - you ain't missing anything.
Mike Rowe: Come here, handsome. I've got a Dirty Job for you, Mike Rowe.
Adulthood: the end of a perfectly good time.
Life: far too short to live in Ohio.
Cheap beer: causing Dawn's dubious dancing since 1987 or 1986, maybe '85...shut up.
Reality: always a buzzkill.
Staff Meetings: Yes. You CAN sleep with your eyes open!
Pedestrians: the other white meat.
Breastfeeding: the end of perfectly good boobies.
Merlot: keeping Mommy sane since 1997.

I got a million of 'em. And really -- you don't have to thank me for all these insights. Just send money -- lots and lots of money -- then spank me sideways and call me 'Rich.'

Where's your debit card?

Ah, the 80s: Pickup Trucks, Parties and My Bright Red Neck

2011-11-05T07:28:00.000-04:00

(Post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)
At 17, I purchased a vehicle so that I'd have a way to achieve my dream...

Attend all parties.

It's good to have goals.

McDonald's job earnings paid for my ride, a 1984 Ford Ranger. But the McDonald's job also interfered with my mission of attending all parties.

So sometimes, I just didn't go to my McDonald's job.

Priorities. I had them.

Yes, my first car was a truck, and it was fantastic. Never caught fire even once. (Unlike that piece-of-shit second car of mine, the Flaming Fairmont of Death. That sum-bitch tried to kill me. Several times.)

As you can see, I've been pondering Deep, Meaningful Bullshit About Life Long Time Ago When We Was Fab again, and I'm feeling kind of down because I've just found out I'm about to lose an old friend.

U.S. Ford Ranger production will end this year, on Dec. 22.

Reality: such a buzzkill.

Since its 1982-83 inception, 7 million Rangers have been sold in the U.S. One of them, the dark blue 1984 one with the strawberry-scented Rolling Stones air freshener, was mine.

I chose a pickup because they are an integral ingredient for a proper get together in my hometown - a Springfield Party. They're perfect transportation to your muddy party venue.

Yeah. Where you see a field or an abandoned strip mine, we see a dance floor.

Not only do trucks take you to the get together, they provide handy tailgate seating, and haul wood for the fire. And where I come from, it is not a party without a fire. And possible brawls. And potential police involvement.

It's all good, though - parties that don't kill you only make you stronger. And I fancied myself pretty badass heading to the fields in my sweet old man truck pickup. All the guys were SO not, not even close to checkin' my style.

Because really. What's sexier than a pint-sized, economically challenged girl in a 2-wheel-drive grandpa truck?

They see me rollin'.

Good, good times.

But then I promptly wrecked it. Three times. In less than two years. Not after parties, no sir - on the way to work and school. In broad-damn-daylight.

Driving skillz - I lacked them.

The insurance premium grew to an astronomical rate, and I was forced to get rid of the Ranger and inherit my Mom's beater, the aforementioned effin' Flaming Fairmont of Death. A mere sedan.

The truck ended up back at my hometown Ford Dealer, and I'm sure it then passed through several more hands and attended several more parties before rusting to death in the junkyard.

Although they weren't - and aren't - nearly as awesome as my ~~grandpa truck~~ 1984 Ranger, I've owned three more trucks since, including the red F-150 from Craigslist that we have now. The Husband says it's his truck.

The Husband is wrong.

Even though I'm older and possibly peri-menopausal shut up, I won't ever be without a pickup. You never know when you'll need to haul Walmart bags. Or a keg. Or throw a Springfield party.

Because where you see a tailgate, I see a dance floor.

Long may you run, blue Ranger. I miss you.

Me, My Son and his Cheap-Azz Costume

2011-10-31T08:27:00.001-04:00

(post and snapshot, copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

You're so splendid, in your ordinary costume.

You think so anyway. I guess you're supposed to be a Grim Reaper. Or a jawa. Or something. I don't know. This getup came from Walmart, of course it did. I'm not paying any thirty-damn-dollars for the fancy, bloody costume you wanted at the "Halloween U.S.A." store. You'll only wear it twice.

Anyway, have you met me? Yeah. C'mon, son, we're going to Walmart.

"O.K., Mom," you said.

Things are always O.K. with you.

A few days later, I help you pull the thin fabric over your head, and gently place the Made In China light-up glasses over your brown eyes. I have doubts that said Made in China light-up glasses will survive the evening. I am right.

Of course I am. Have you met me? I'm always right.

And before the night ends, your Dad has to duct-tape the frames back together.

None of this concerns you. Pleased as pumpkins, you are, with this chintzy scrap of black polyester. I know this because I catch your smile, Little Reaper, when your Death Hood blows in the breeze.

"O.K. I'm all ready for the costume contest."

You're excited. I know you are, though you try not to show it much because you're practically a man now, being nine and all. You walk proudly and regally to the judging. Just the way a tiny Harbinger of Death should.

You're pretty sure you'll win.

Me? I'm not quite as certain. At the party, I look around and see scads of kids whose moms obviously either 1: shelled out thirty clams for "Halloween U.S.A." offerings or 2: made elaborate costumes for their children. Using actual sewing machines. The colors and effort put into these outfits sear my retinas, like a flashing neon sign.

A sign that says: "You suck, Mommy."

Still proud, still regal, you parade in front of the judges with the others, in a getup that was probably sewn by a little Nicaraguan girl in a sweat shop. Now I wish I'd spent the extra money, bought you the nicest, bloodiest costume "Halloween U.S.A." had to offer. Or at least busted out my dusty sewing machine.

Because you didn't win.

Walking back from the judging, we discuss it.

"Mom, do you think they let the younger kids win? You know, since they're little? Because my costume is pretty good," you say.

Right here, I am nearly pulled to my knees with the weight of my love for you, your kindness and your absolute confidence in your cheap-azz costume. Next year, Little Reaper, we shall go to "Halloween U.S.A." with a giant wad of thirty-damn-dollars in cash.

"Yeah, buddy, I'm sure that's it," I say.

"Aw. That's O.K.," you say.

Things are always O.K. with you.

In Which I Nearly Have to Bust Out My Badass Gangsta Walmart Skillz

2011-10-17T09:31:00.003-04:00

(post copyright, 2011, Dawn Weber)
Your tired, your poor, your huddled masses.

They're all with me, over at the Walmart.

Yep. You’d never know it, but beneath this Klassy-with-a-K exterior of mine beats the blue, Made-In China, tight-fisted heart of an avid Walmart shopper. I know, I know - it’s hard to tell from my high-falutin’, Red Lobster-eatin’ lifestyle, but I loves me my No Boundaries bras and Faded Glory jeans.

Because really - no one sews a seam like an eight-year-old Nicaraguan girl.

I realize this makes me a terrible person. And a Person of Walmart. I am OK with that.

As I’ve mentioned in front of God, Google and everybody a hundred times before, I was born a poor kid. Back in the groovy day, my mother purchased EVERYTHING at Murphy’s Mart, K-Mart, Hill’s or Woolworth’s discount stores. She especially enjoyed torturing me with inexpensive, itchy school clothes from these dumps. Like I told you before, she was, emphatically, not going to The Mall.

“I am NOT going to that MALL!” she said.

Meh. I survived. Such is the life of a girl from the cornfields. Itching, scratching and blushing my way through puberty in lame-o, ghetto clothes made me ~~a loser without a boyfriend~~ tough and frugal.

These days, I celebrate my mother’s cheap-azz legacy by shopping exclusively at discount stores. Mostly Walmart. My children are thrilled about this.

Embarrassing the kids: Family tradition since 1969.

Lately, though, I admit it. I have been cheating a little, heading for the pull of the red bulls-eye. Target.

It all started when I began fearing for my car. In recent months, the Reynoldsburg Walmart parking lot has become a teeming Thug Central, and My-Husband-The-Cop doesn’t like me shopping there, what with the auto thefts and car-jackings and stabbings and whatnot. He’s funny like that.

I am not worried about myself - I have Badass Gangsta Walmart skillz. And I don't even mind the People of Walmart - I can deal with my own bad dye jobs and questionable attire.

But when my sweet little car, with her soft, vulnerable ragtop, sits alone and endangered amongst the Thugs of the Wally World Parking Lot, well, I draw the line.

And really, I have to say - I was learning a lesson: Target has more to offer than a lack of convicted felons.

Would you take a freakin’ look at this?

And this?

Salt and vinegar seasoning? I could put that on, like, ~~my fingers~~ everything and lick it off! Margarita-flavored-sugar-free drink mix? I could add tequila to that and ~~lick it off~~ drink it, like, all the time. It is all rainbows and unicorns and sugar-free margaritas up in here.

I think I just peed a little.

Yes, thanks to this kind of valuable, high-end merchandise, and the Thugs of the Reynoldsburg Walmart Parking Lot, I had been spending more and more time at Target.

And I have decided that we, The People of Walmart? Have nothin' on the Weirdos of Target.

I met one of them the other day, minding my own, pushing my cart and having a possibly peri-menopausal shut up hot flash feeling kind of warm. Heading down the baking aisle for cooking spray, I saw him.

Fifty-something, shrimpy, shifty-eyed, nervous dude with the frightening look of someone about to go postal. ...in a gentrified, plaid-clad, Target kind of way.

The Target grocery aisles are skinny, not super-sized like Walmart rows, and I needed to get past this freak and pick up my generic "Market Pantry" cooking spray. He didn't scare me - remember my Badass Gangsta Walmart skillz - but nonetheless, I was not in the mood for drama in the midst of a possibly peri-menopausal shut up hot-flash like I was.

"Excuse me," I said, like a proper Person of Target.

He grumbled and grudgingly let me by.

I stepped past, to the aerosol cooking spray, plucked and placed the can in my cart.

And that's when it happened. Weirdo Target Man went off.

"Unbelievable!" he said.

I looked before - and aft - my cart, to see who he was talking about. I was the only one there.

"Pardon me?" I said.

"Some people!" he said.

"Sir, I said 'Excuse Me ' when I walked by you..." I said.

"No! That's not it. Why would you buy that aerosol spray can? So BAD for the ENVIRONMENT! Just buy the oil and pour it in the skillet!" he said.

Oh no he did'unt! Did this man really want to mess with possibly peri-menopausal shut up me and my Badass Gangsta Walmart Skillz? Obviously, he was not aware of the average FOURTEEN FAT GRAMS in EVERY TABLESPOON of oil. Compared to the 0.0 fat grams in cooking spray.

In the time it would take for me to find the oil, unscrew the lid, pour the stuff, and put the lid back on, I could make two dozen, FAT FREE pancakes. With cooking spray.

Crazy-eyed, plaid-clad arms waving, he muttered on and on about the dangers of aerosol, carbon footprints and my apparent stupidity.

Weirdo Target Hippie Freak.

He had just squashed my new-found Target love, and I knew I wouldn't be hitting the bulls-eye as often. I wasn't afraid OF the freak - I was afraid FOR the freak. I can only control my Badass Gangsta Walmart Skillz/possibly peri-menopausal shut up hot-flash-mood-swings for so long. If I ran into the little nutbar again, he'd end up in a crimson plaid puddle.

This made me a little sad. I was going to miss my new products.

But then, the other day...

~~Goofing off on the company computer~~ Doing important workplace research, I found that there is a God. A God of Great Value:

Generic Walmart sugar-free margarita mix?! Buh-bye Target.

It's time to put the convertible away for the winter, anyway, and now I can go back with the Honda. To my felons, my rednecks, my People of Walmart. I'm going to buy scads of aerosol cans and stacks of Styrofoam and stuff everything into mountains of non-biodegradable plastic Walmart bags.

And after I get home and unpack, I shall fix myself a sugar-free, generic Walmart margarita, step outside and set my plastic bags free in the wind. To travel the earth, sail the lakes and mostly - to land in your trees, Target Hippie Freak.

How's that for a carbon footprint?

Smackdown: Dr. Doogie vs. Dr. Welby

2011-10-06T06:53:00.003-04:00

(post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

Welcome, party people, to yet another edition of "Time is an Asshole."

This week, starring my hips. And my new doctor, Doogie Houser.

Yeah, the old moneymaker shakers have never been the same since the difficult labor and birth of nearly nine pounds of baby boy and his GIANT HEAD a while back.

(At least that's how it felt.)

Cute kid. Giant head. Your hips would be shot, too.

I will spare you the details of his birth. Suffice it to say his giant head wanted to stay put, and I am still a gory legend at the Licking Memorial Hospital Maternity wing. My hips were terribly sore after his birth and for the first 18 months of his life. The boy is now nine. But still, anytime I exert my lower half, the hips flare up again. Those sonsabitches.

Anyhippy...

My new doctor's saying phrases like "Possible Arthritis...Bursitis...Broken hip." All referring to me.

Because apparently I'm 80.

While my doctor appears to be 18.

Let me ask you this: When did physicians get so young? What the hell? Doesn't it take, like, four or five decades to become a doctor? I thought that, to graduate from med school, grandchildren were required.

I do not trust a diagnosis from someone without at least one gray hair. And a Buick.

Yet here is my boy Doogie, earnest and red-faced, talking arthritis and bone degeneration and saying things like:

"Well, when we age..."
"People over 40 sometimes..." and
"As we grow older..."

Doogie don't know nothin' 'bout no "growing older." Doogie is on thin ice.

Also? I don't particularly like Doctor Doogie seeing me naked. It just seems wrong, and to me, it feels like he'll run back and tell his little Doogie friends:

"I saw her naked!"

I miss my other doctor. What happened to him? The sweet old dude? The bald guy with the glasses and the kindly smile and the wrinkles? My main man Marcus Welby?

He never said "Well, as we age..." "People over 40 sometimes..." or "As we grow older..." No sir.

Dr. Welby addressed all my concerns with:

"I wouldn't worry about such things yet!"
"You're only in your 40s!" and my personal favorite...
"You're way too young for that!"

Yes, young grasshopper Doogie. This is proper bedside manner.

Sigh. Dr. Welby, where art thou?

Actually, I know where he is. He's usually on a bar stool, at the Mill Dam Corner bar in Hebron, Ohio. He retired. Left me to Doogie.

Sometimes I see him there, swilling a beer, my old boy Dr. Marcus Welby. I go up and give him a hug, tell him how much I miss him and his old bald head and his glasses and his happy thoughts. And he hugs me back, tells me he misses me, too.

He's awesome. I'm pretty sure he could kick Doogie's ass.

He wasn't there at Mill Dam Corner a few weeks ago, though, and one of his barroom buddies said he had his boat out on Buckeye Lake. I told the guy I was one of his previous patients.

Dr. Welby's friend said he knew - he'd seen me hugging Doc before - and that after I left, the old physician mentioned how we were acquainted:

"Yep, she's a former patient," he said.

Then Doc leaned in, lowered his voice and told his buddy the same thing he does every time he sees a female client.

"I saw her naked. And she paid me for it!"

I want to thank both Gene Pool Diva and Lisa over at Main Street Musings for awarding me the Versatile Blogger Award recently! You guys rock! I'm not one for rules, so I will just tell you to visit both the above blogs. Lisa of Main Street Musings is hilarious, and Gene Pool Divan is one HELL of a storyteller! Thanks again, ladies!

Hangin With the Ohioans. Down for Whatever

2011-09-28T05:51:00.002-04:00

(Post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)
It's another exhilarating Saturday night in Ohio.

And we of the Too Old To Go To Bars club are doing what we do best: playing cards.

Titillating, no?

We play Hearts because I refuse to learn Euchre, Official State Card Game of Ohio. Not playing Euchre is a lifelong goal of mine.

I dream big.

My buddy Ron and the other high school boys tried to teach it to me in the 80s. Surrounded by dozens of cans of Milwaukee's Best, they'd explain the "tricks," the "reneging," the "trump."

I'd become bored, stand up and fast-forward the AC/DC cassette.

Then, as now, Euchre makes no damn sense to me whatsoever. Is trump good? Is trump bad? Pages and pages of rules, yet you can throw down any old card. Maybe a suit is followed, maybe it isn't.

It is the fickle bitch of card games.

I have tried learning Euchre while drinking, thinking maybe it would make more sense. I have tried stone sober. I have tried during the day, I have tried in the moonlight. I have tried at tables, on porches, in campers, and at many a picnic table. I have even tried on a boat. The Carnival cruise ship "Glory," to be exact.

Yeah, when the Big Guy handed out the Euchre genes, I was elsewhere. Probably over at the boombox, fast-forwarding the AC/DC cassette.It's supposed to be an easy game, I know, I know. But, as my friend Wow,That Was Awkward said, I am Euchre stoo-pid. Thanks a lot, Wow. You asshat. And since knowledge of the game is pretty much required in the Buckeye State - they'll probably kick me out someday. Please, somebody, do it. Get me the HELL out of here!

But that's O.K. I own it. And? I quit. Yes - although it threatens my status as a Midwesterner - I'm just going to admit it: I am blonde. I am forty-damn-two. I am done trying.

And I love NOT playing Euchre.

Hence? Hearts.

So. Come, join the fun at Marj and Greg's kitchen table here, in Beautiful Downtown Brownsville (Motto: Septic Tank Optional). Be warned - the jokes here are juvenile. But the beer is cold. Longtime Lighten Up readers all five of you! I love you guys! may remember "Wise Marj" from this post, and Greg the Handyman from this post.

We're down for whatever, for some high-life, with our cans of Miller Lite, our bags of mixed nuts, our Skynyrd Pandora channel...

"Greg! Play your damn card!" says Marj.
"What was led? Clubs?" says Greg.

He looks back at his hand, perplexed. He isn't paying attention again, Googling on the laptop beside him, looking up local folks who've lapsed on property taxes.

It's a hobby of his.

Marj rolls her eyes and leans over on her right cheek. She farts, aiming at Greg.

It's a hobby of hers.

"Shee-zus! Marj! Don't you think that's rude in front of our guests?" says Greg.

Marj crumbles her face, laughs hysterically. Marj is an Avid Farter, proud of her Legendary Abilities. We, "The Guests," have been playing Hearts surrounded by her "aura" for at least eight years now.

We know our fate. It's sealed. Airtight.

The Skynyrd channel plays on, we stack cans, we throw cards. Marj's first cloud clears. And amazingly, something smells good.

So I say...
"Hey. Something smells good,"
"I think it's my nuts," says Greg, waving the bag of Planter's at my face. "Wanna smell my bag of nuts?"

We all double over, cracking up. The laughter taxes my middle-aged bladder, so I run for the bathroom, and Marj, chortling, leans over on her right cheek. She farts.

"Shee-zus! Marj!" Greg says.

A few minutes later, I return to the kitchen, start clicking through the Pandora channels. I have plenty of time to do this, because Greg is perplexed. Again.

Marj cheats, peeking at his hand and telling him which card to play. He does what she suggests.Then he promptly loses the hand.

"I see why you wanted me to throw that. Twat," he tells his bride.

Visibly annoyed, he looks over at us.

"You guys owe me!" he says.
"You're trying to get me to show you my boobs, aren't you?" I say.
"You offering?" he says.
"Wouldn't be the first time boobs were flashed at this table," says Marj.

She refers, of course, not to my boobs, but the boobs of others. Boobs not present this particular evening.

Over the years, Marj's table has seen many boobs, for various reasons. But not mine. Yet. Give it time.

We stack more cans, throw more cards, crack more jokes causing me several more trips to the bathroom. All the washing up dries out my hands.

So I say...
"Yuck. All this washing dried out my hands."

Greg waves his Planter's nut-bag.

"Here. Rub them on my greasy nuts."

Marj's face crumbles, she laughs, she leans...

Everybody ready? All together now. You know the drill:

"Shee-zus! Marj!"

I tell you what - this is all the excitement I can stand.

And it sure beats the hell outta Euchre.

Y'all Are Invited To My Wedding. To Some Chick. From the Ukraine Or Something...

2011-09-21T05:10:00.005-04:00

It's not every day a girl gets a marriage proposal. From another girl.

Yes, apparently word of my many charms has spread to the Ukraine. Last week, while sitting at the office, minding my own and ~~playing Angry Birds~~ working hard, I received an international email. I don't often get such correspondence at work, and the last time I did,it contained news that I had inherited money from a rich relative in Kenya!

So of course I clicked it open immediately, but sadly, none of my rich Kenyan relatives had died. This letter came from one Roksana Tsvetka, a young Ukrainian woman. Imagine my great surprise when she asked to be my wife and said she'd come live with me in the U.S.!

And I don't mean to brag, folks, but this proposal? Came from royalty.

"I will be your Princess," she wrote.

How you like me now? She threw down more enticing news:

"I will take you to the Wonderland full of Harmony and Miracles!"

Harmony and Miracles? I could use some Harmony and Miracles! And what is this "Wonderland?"

Although Miss Tsvetka hasn't met me in person yet, she must have heard: Along with my ~~average looks~~ legendary beauty, she could have a piece of all this:

Obviously, Roksana wants to lead the Glamorous Life.

Because my days are filled to the brim with many Exciting Activities. Such as running to Walmart! Driving with dummies in traffic! Sitting in a cubicle! Scooping up dog crap!

Unfortunately for her Highness, I am already married - to a man and stuff - and even if I wasn't married, it's dudes I dig. Although Harmony and Miracles are very tempting, I enjoy the Franks and Beans.

Not the Bikini Biscuit.

Still, the Princess painted a pretty picture. She teased me on through the email with her skills and assets...

"My major interest or I may call it hobby," she wrote, "I admire to cook true Ukrainian dishes."

Hold the phone. She cooks? Do you mean, for example, that I could arrive home at 7 p.m. to find, like, food? For, like, me? Most days, all I encounter after work are dirty dishes and leftover frozen Tony's Pizza crusts which I scarf down immediately.

You know, I am a fan of the old Thrill Drill. But I have to admit this was getting more intriguing by the minute. I read on...

"I have been given birth in 1986," wrote her Highness. "I have a blue eye and black hairs. I have height of 179 centimeters and a weight of 45 kilograms."

I could get past the one eye. But we'd have to work on her English skills. I know not these "centimeters" and "kilograms" of which she speaks.

Still, it was all very exciting. So I posted the news of my unexpected proposal on Facebook, and my notifications bar fired up like a Ukrainian red-light district. Thirty-some people - most of them female - were happy for me.

Yep - very few male F-ookers commented on my exhilarating news. Did they not covet the Harmony, the Miracles, the Wonderland?

Every guy I've ever known wants to go to Wonderland ALL the dang time.

But the women...I think they liked the idea of a wife.

My friend Kim, working mom and busy general manager of my home town Ford dealer (Welsh Motors. Represent!), said it best:

"Ladies, ladies, think about this. You walk in the door from a long day at work, your meal is on the table, your house is clean, your laundry is done, your kids have been picked up from all their activities and the grass is mowed! Hell ya! It's Miller Time!!!"

You know what, Kim? You've really got something here. Dip Sticks be damned - her Highness and I will just have an "arrangement." I'm forty-damn-two - I ~~am familiar with~~ could handle celibacy.

Because a clean house? Finished laundry? An actual meal? For actual me?

That's all the Harmony and Miracles I'll ever need, right there.

Yo. Princess Roksana...
Call me.

Where Were You?

2011-09-11T13:45:00.005-04:00

(post copyright, 2011, Dawn Weber)

On the TV of the fifth-floor break-room, I watched those towers fall. I was working the morning of September 11, 2001 - you may have been, too. Just as they were.

My co-workers and I gathered around the set, white-faced, looking on as people jumped from the 110-story structures to end it, to escape the building's fiery hell. I wanted them all to get out, get OUT of there. Somehow.

I had visited the roof viewing deck of the World Trade Center just a few years before, in 1998, with a close friend of mine who lives in New York City. I wasn't thrilled about it at all.

"Um, isn't this the place where some guy blew up the Ryder Truck in the basement a while back?" I asked her.

She laughed, told me it would be fine, that I had to see the view.

A New Yorker, you know.

I have never liked tall buildings, and vowed never to work in one. In 2001, I didn't even like working on the fifth floor. Girls like me, from the cornfields, generally don't trust high-rises...too far from the outside and the earth and the...cornfields.

A hillbilly, you know.

As I watched the towers collapse on the TV in Ohio, I wondered how many of those people had been working when I visited in '98. If the lady who sold me my Diet Coke at the Trade Center's rooftop snack bar went to her job that day. If so, she didn't go home that night.

Two Thousand Nine Hundred and Seventy-Seven people did not go home. Ever.

My co-workers and I went home. We didn't have to work the next day, either. I sat on the front porch of my house, in the direct flight path of the Columbus airport, and looked at a sky now empty of its usual jets and vapor trails. Flight 93 had crashed near my sister-in-law's house in Pennsylvania, after reversing its course over the skies of northeast Ohio. Over the skies near my hometown, my mother and my friends and my fields.

The days and months following 9-11 blurred into mostly news coverage, and a while later, I visited my friend in New York City. Although I had talked to her, I wanted to be sure she was OK, that she was really still there. I went to the giant pit - all that was left of the World Trade Center. People in hardhats worked day and night, scooping rubble into dump trucks. I watched at the site as shredded computer paper swayed in the trees.

Then I realized it wasn't paper at all. It was the crumbled remains of the building's metal window blinds, twisted into the branches. I felt a little guilty, a little silly, for my sadness. After all, I was just a woman from the Midwest. I hadn't personally lost anyone in the terrorist attacks, I still had my family and my life and my work.

That changed soon enough. As a direct result of the post 9-11 tanking economy, many of my co-workers and I lost our jobs. Good jobs, close to home. Jobs that never returned.

Life goes on, the way it does. We had a new baby, so staying at home for a couple years became a blessing in disguise. Although the terrorists made sure our country would never be the same, I kept moving forward. You did, too.

In the blink of an eye, ten years have passed. Osama Bin Laden is dead. I work where I swore I never would: the 25th floor of a high-rise, an hour away from my house. I have no choice. Like so many of my laid-off 2002 co-workers, I had a hell of a time finding ANY job, let alone one nearby.

A few weeks ago at work, I watched my pencils roll across my desk for no apparent reason. The metal mini-blinds quivered in the windows of my building. Aftershocks of the earthquake in Virginia. Who'd have thought they'd reach all the way to Ohio? Although I felt somewhat alarmed, I watched the little scene in my office unfold with an almost amused detachment. Since September 11 - and all the tragedies and natural disasters since - nothing surprises me anymore.

The innocence is gone.

But I was O.K., I was lucky. I worked the rest of the day and walked out of my building that night, drove home from work to my family.You probably did, too.

We are Americans. That's who we are. That's what we do.

"Baby Got Back." Chock-Full of Life Lessons.

2011-09-05T09:18:00.000-04:00

(post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber. Image from sodahead.com)
Edited to add: The winners of the Wade Rouse book, "I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship..." are number 3, Annie, and number 18, Dawn in D.C. Congratulations, ladies! xxoo--Dawn

I have been strongly encouraged not to sing. Ever.

I'm not sure why. I'm a great singer. Just ask me - I'll tell you.

"I'm a great singer!" I'll say.

Who do I sound like, you ask? Carrie Underwood? Katie Perry? Miranda Lambert, maybe?

Nope. Someone more famous, more legendary than any of those ladies. My voice has been compared to that of the incomparable, the irrepressible, the unforgettable...

Neil Young.

I know, I know - all of ya'all have turned green with musical envy. And I understand, I do. Because really - why sing like a soft, pretty woman when you can croon like a caterwauling hillbilly?

Most folks don't say anything when I sing, no doubt struck speechless by my incredible skillz. My daughter's the only one who says she doesn't want to hear me. And I am not to sing EVER in front of her friends.

This past Saturday, I was following the rules. I had the SUV loaded with my girl and her crew. I was driving, keeping the mouth shut, trying not to do anything embarrassing for her. Such as breathing.

She was using her phone to play songs on the car stereo, music from people with first names like "Lil" and last names like "Thug."

I willed myself deaf.

Although she's not allowed to play music with lots of bad words, I still hear shreds of phrases that gray my hair. Words that rhyme with "sick" and "duck." Words she shouldn't understand yet. Or ever.

It's a losing battle. Because, as she always says:

"Mom, I ride the school bus. I know things." Kill me now.

In fact, she knows everything. Just ask her.

And I don't know ANYTHING these days. Just ask her.

I certainly don't want to know all the lyrics to any of her music - I'm just able to grasp words here and there. The ones that rhyme with "duck" and "sick." After a few minutes of listening to Lil Thug, I feel the need to shower, go to confession...maybe get a prescription for antibiotics.

But in the interest of peace, last Saturday I shut my mouth, put it all out of my mind and aimed the Honda south to the school, down Ohio 13. My brain went to its happy place, separating itself from the sounds of Lil Thug, and my inner jukebox played some mellow 70s soft rock. Something long ago made into Muzak. Something smacking of daisies and white gauzy dresses and orange-balled sunsets.

What? Have you never been mellow?

Smack-dab in the middle of my silent Olivia Newton-John reverie, I almost didn't notice when Lil Thug abruptly stopped, and the girl cued up something different. Something kind of...awesome.

"I like Big Butts and I cannot lie
You other brothers can't deny..."

My hips start wiggling, head begins bobbing of its own accord. Can it be? Yes, yes...she is playing "Baby Got Back," and she's enjoying it too. From the corner of my eye I see the smile, the head-bob so much like mine.

But I dare not comment, and I better not sing. No sir. I know my role: the Silent Chauffeur. I must stay content with covert wiggling.

"...when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face you get SPRUNG...'

That's when it happens. The unthinkable. The unbelievable.

"Sing it, Mom! C'mon! You know every word!" says my daughter, excitement in her voice.

I can't quite believe my luck. Not only un-banned from singing, I am encouraged TO sing.This has never happened before. And she's right - Badass Gangsta that I am, I have memorized every word to "Baby Got Back." Of course I have.

I knew it would be a valuable skill someday.

As I rap, it strikes me that the song has some of them-there 'teachable moments':

"I'm tired of magazines sayin' flat butts are the thing
Take the average black man and ask him that
She gotta pack much back!"

It's clear here that Mr. Mix-A-Lot appreciates a, um, round female form. I hope the girls in my vehicle are catching this. Apparently sexy women eat food...

"To the beanpole dames in the magazine
You ain't it Miss Thing!
Give me a sista can't resist her. Red beans and rice didn't miss her."

And...AND! All colors and creeds can appreciate a real woman, as Mix tells us here:

"Turn around! Stick it out! Even white boys got to shout!"

Look at that. Peaceful race relations, natural female body types. All in one song. What more could you ask for, really?

Kum Ba Ya.

Though obviously chock-full of sage wisdom, Mr. Mix is no saint, as evidenced by some of the song's words. And I am not sure whether to sing one particular line, a sentence with questionable imagery.

Then I remember: They listen to Lil Thug. Also? They ride the school bus. They know things. Kill me now.

So I belt it out, loud and proud:

"My Anaconda Don't Want None Unless You Got Buns, Hon!"

Laughter, smiles and giggles erupt, all around. From girls. From teenagers.

From my daughter.

Well. Hell hath surely frozen over in the Honda.

Clearly, I made the right decision, throwing down that lyric. Maybe not a 'teachable moment.' But a 'moment' nonetheless. I'll take it.

Thank you, Sir Mix-A-Lot.

Crazy Bitch: A Bloggy Doggy Giveaway

2011-08-29T09:24:00.000-04:00

(post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)
Be sure to comment below to win one of two copies of "I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship: Hilarious, Heartwarming Tales About Man's Best Friend From America's Favorite Humorists," edited by Wade Rouse

Every day, I deal with a little bitch.

She's short. She's black. She's dangerous.

She is Suzie Q. Weber, Dog of Doom. Dark Streak of Holy Terror. Furry Weapon of Mass Destruction.

You remember Suzie - sure you do - from posts such as this and this. As you may recall, her hobbies include sexually assaulting stuffed animals, scratching visitors' legs to bloody ribbons and chewing pavement.

Yep. I know a thing or two about bitches being one myself, so you can imagine my glee when I received the request to review "I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship: Hilarious, Heartwarming Tales About Man's Best Friend From America's Favorite Humorists," edited by acclaimed memoirist Wade Rouse.

It sounded like a book about bad dogs. Clearly, I am just the person for the job.

Except I guess we shouldn't call them "bad dogs" these days, lest we hurt their "feelings." We should call them "dogs with behavior issues."

Don't you think so, Suzie?

Contributors include five of my current favorite authors: Rouse, W. Bruce Cameron, Laurie Notaro, Jen Lancaster and - perhaps most notably - Chunk. You know, Chelsea Handler's dog.

Chunk himself writes the book's introduction. It's shocking that Handler even owns a dog - she's merrily mocked both dogs and dog owners in past books. But somehow, she decided to rescue Chunk from an L.A. shelter on his last day of doggie death row. And, just like the rest of us dummies dog owners, he has wrapped Handler around his paw.

He pulls her around on the leash. He "takes big dumps" for Handler to pick up. He sniffs everyone's ass and usually their crotch.

Huh. Sound familiar, Suzie?

In "A Dog Day Afternoon," Cameron tells the story of his late dog Carly, who enjoyed rousting him from bed so she could go back to sleep. She begged for bacon. She barked uncontrollably at the neighbor. She took off down the street and delayed Cameron's column writing.

Suzie? What say you? Suzie?!!

Rouse writes of Marge in "My Best Paw Forward." Marge, who willfully ignored her dog trainer's screamed commands and responded only to the high, lilting language spoken by Rouse and his partner, Gary. She much preferred commands such as "Itty-bitty-boo" (sit), "Dum-diddle-dum-dum" (come) and "Get-um-good-ums" (eat your food). Thanks to her language barrier, Rouse's beloved mutt Marge? Was soon a puppy school dropout.

Suzie and Marge are soul sisters. Obviously. Because recently, our girl also repeatedly ignored the obedience class trainer. She yanked me, pulled me and lunged on every living creature in class, making me a sweaty, angry bitch myself wild woman.

After four weeks of this torture obedience class, my arms and sanity gave out. And Suzie also became a puppy school dropout.

There goes eighty bucks I'll never see again. Thanks a lot, ya little bitch.

But my dog's and Marge's similarities got me thinking which is usually dangerous : Maybe Suzie just doesn't understand anything regular commands. Maybe she speaks Rouse-ese.

It was worth a shot:

Me (high, Rouse-y voice): "Suzie! Itty-bitty-boo!"
Suzie: *Blink*
Me (Still with the voice): "Dum-diddle-dum-dum!"
Suzie: *Stare* *Head-tilt*
Me (More voice. Kill me now.): "Get-um-good-ums!"
Suzie: *Yawn.* *Blink.*

Bah. It's no use. Suzie ~~is a bad dog~~ has "behavior issues." She's certainly not alone: a good 85 percent of the dogs in this anthology ~~are rotten~~ have "behavior issues."

But 100% of the dogs in this book are loved. Anyway.

Oh, and Rouse? I'm writing all of Suzie's shenanigans down. So that we're, you know, ready for her chapter in your next "Bitch" book. Call me!

Because here at the Weber house, bitches be crazy.

Ain't that right, Suzie?

Rouse is donating 10 percent of his royalties from the book to The Humane Society of the United States. So grab your copy today. And comment below for your chance to win one of two copies! I will make my boy-child break from the Wii long enough to draw the winners from a Tupperware bowl, and I'll post these Tuesday, 9-6.

My Life Story. In a Buckeye Nutshell

2011-08-19T05:52:00.002-04:00

(Post and badass picture, copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

Do ya'all like my Official Badass Author Headshot up there? Yeah, you read that right. Your funny little friend has had an essay accepted for a Valentine's Day humor anthology book. A BOOK! With, like, PAGES! Not bad for a girl from the cornfields. It's all rainbows and unicorns and corn up in here. Again.

I'm kind of not a big deal.

I'll share the approved cover with you at the end of the post, and don't worry, you won't miss the book because I'll endlessly pimp the thing when it's published. Hopefully, all five of my readers will buy it. Meantime, though, I thought I'd share with you guys what I had to write for the anthology - my "Bio," a.k.a. my life story, a.k.a. some B.S. I had to come up with so that people would read my shit.

Dawn Weber is a wife of one (she thinks) a mother of two (that she knows of) and the author of, well, not much so far. She blogs at http://lightenupweber.blogspot.com/and writes the "Lighten Up!" newspaper column in the Buckeye Lake Beacon, for which she won the 2011 National Society of Newspaper Columnists third place, humor award. No one is sure how this happened.

She was born a poor white child in Cincinnati. Despite her best efforts, she is still poor, still white and definitely still in Ohio dammit!

Raised by a single mother in New Springfield, Ohio, do you see a theme here? Dawn spent her childhood riding a bike "no hands!" back from the little store. With a pizza in one arm and a jug of milk in the other.

As you can see, she was brilliant and questionably parented.

Dawn graduated from Springfield Local High School in 1987, and her classmates didn't vote her "best" or "most" or "prettiest" anything. But that's O.K. She'll get over it. Someday. Maybe. *Crazy eyes.* She then received a bachelor's degree from Kent State University, where she majored in flammable, piece-of-shit cars and cheap beer.

Many towns around the Buckeye State dammit! have served as her home, but currently she resides in Brownsville (Motto: Indoor Plumbing Optional) with the husband, kids and an ever-changing series of dirty, ill-mannered pets.

She's spent the last 20 years being grossly underpaid and unappreciated in a wide variety of communications positions at newspapers, corporations and state government. Her goals include thinner thighs, a nap, maybe a solo trip to Walmart.

She works. She mothers. She still drinks cheap beer. She wonders why she's writing in the third person right now.

She thinks she'll go take a nap.

Apparently I am one of "America's Most Hilarious Writers." This is news to me! And everyone else!

My 25-Damn-Year-Class-Reunion. Must Be Mistake - I'm Only 29

2011-08-12T05:22:00.003-04:00

(Photo by Dan Drotleff, Post by Dawn Weber, copyright 2011)

Well, Google thinks I'm old. So it must be true.

Yes, it's a well-known fact that Google collects ages and other user demographics. And now every web page I visit with "Google Ads" has great news for me:

"How to Build Muscle When You're Older!"
"Lose Middle-Age Belly Fat the Easy Way!"
"In your 50s? Try this one weird trick to fall asleep at night!"

My 50s?! WTF?

Google is an asshole.

As if the all-knowing search engines weren't enough to make me feel ancient, I am helping to plan my 25-damn-year class reunion.

Wait, what?

You heard that right. Let me say it again so that maybe I'll start to believe it:

Twenty-Five-Damn-Year-Class-Reunion. Yes, that's its official name - according to me.

Time is also an asshole.

I am not sure where the years went. I am not sure how this happened, where I was, what I was doing.

Wait. I take that back. I know where I was - at work.

Yes, it's been a fast 25 years, a fulfilling life, full of riveting activities and achievements. Such as sitting in cubicles! Driving amongst dummies in traffic! Loading dishwashers and changing several hundred thousand diapers!

And soon enough, somebody will be changing my diapers.

Happy Thoughts: You're still at the wrong blog.

But this Twenty-Five-Damn-Year-Reunion got me thinking about things. Pondering Deep, Meaningful Bullshit about life, aging and the way things used to be, long time ago when we was fab.

My school, the old Springfield Local High School, was built in the 1920s. A crumbling building even when I was there in the 80s, full of dust and asbestos, it sits on State Route 170 near cornfields and the Petersburg, Ohio post office. We called it "The Shoe Factory." Because it looks like a shoe factory.

Here are my Top Ten Ways to Know You're From Old School Springfield Local, a.k.a. The Shoe Factory:

10. You knew that the first day of deer season? All boys (and several girls) would be absent.
9. The school parking lot contained four pickup trucks for every one car.
8. To this day, you know when corn in any given field is ready for the John Deere combine.
7. You can clearly remember the "Asbestos Removal" men in the building. Working in head-to-toe Haz-Mat suits. As you ambled past in jeans and a t-shirt.
6. You don't understand how any school year can start before the Canfield Fair ends. Obviously, 4-H is more important. Obviously.
5. You purchased your first piece-of-shit vehicle - at least in part - yourself. And again, odds are 4 to 1 it had a tailgate. (See number 9).
4. Proper locations for parties include fields, abandoned strip mines (!) and backyards of unsuspecting, vacationing parents.
3. You could tell that first lunch break had begun by the smell wafting up from the questionable, archaic ~~maybe non-existent~~ septic tank.
2. You know that spray paint is not for huffing. No. It's for painting your name on road signs and turnpike underpasses.

And the number one way to Know You're From Old School Springfield Local, a.k.a. The Shoe Factory?

1. A six-pack and a bonfire were - and still are - all you need for a good time.

Thank you ~~Dawn~~ David Letterman.

Blah. Enough reminiscing. I blinked, and it's 25 years later. Google says I'm old, I've got a 25-Damn-Year-Class-Reunion to help plan and a cubicle in which to sit.

The former Springfield Local High School - a.k.a. The Shoe Factory - still stands. Barely. Whoever owns it now, I hear, has filled it with vehicles and junk.

They built the "new," current Springfield Local High School (our old middle school) - I think - in the 70s. Fancy! I hear the kids who go to that carcinogen-free building now have air conditioning, a functioning septic system and safe drinking water.

Pansies.

Asbestos that doesn't kill you? Only makes you stronger.

Exactly When the Hell Does School Start?

2011-08-03T07:18:00.003-04:00

(Post, copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

Ah, summertime. When a kid can be a kid. And bathing?

Is just a concept.

Me: "Son. When was the last time you took a bath?"
Son: *Crickets*
Me: "SON! WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU BATHED?"
Son (lifting head from Nintendo DS): "Well, I went swimming Tuesday."
Me: "It's Friday. And I'm not asking about swimming. I'm talking SOAP. I'm talking SHAMPOO. I'm talking WASHCLOTH in your BUTT-CRACK."
Son: *Crickets*
Me: "GET IN THE TUB NOWWWW!!!!"
Son: *Stripping streak*

This is not totally his fault. He and his sister have been very busy, you see.

It begins each morning, after 11 hours of sleep. They log onto the computer for their daily dose of online shopping: Toys Backwards R Us, Amazon, Foot Locker online, Game Stop online... Decisions are made. Items are listed. Virtual shopping carts are filled.

And every evening, after my ten-hour workday and two-hour commute, the 19-page lists and shopping carts - printed with Epson ink costing $67 per milliliter - are shoved in my hand before I can put my purse away. Then I know what I can buy for them that particular day. Isn't that thoughtful? And all accomplished with such diligence, such attention to detail!

You know, I'm really glad they're taking the initiative here and working on solutions. Because they have a dreadful, serious problem.

They're bored.

The poor darlings! I feel awful for them. 159 video games on three different systems. A puppy. A trampoline. Two computers. A four-wheeler. Three mp3 players. 213 dvds. Five bikes.

An in-ground damn swimming pool.

Tragic, no? You can see here why the little lambs find their world so very dull.

Yes, it's truly a difficult life they lead. Every summer day is a struggle.

I can tell, because obviously some kind of terrible tussle takes place at our house before I get home at night. Popcorn bags scattered, candy wrappers dangling from the dog's mouth, cereal milk souring on the kitchen table, eleventy billion effin' drinking cups on every effin' surface...

My brave children. Must get so tired of fighting off the thirsty, popcorn-scarfing marauders invading our house that they can't clean up the resulting mess. So exhausted indeed that they cannot STAND to go outside.

No - the unbearable heat has turned out to be too much for my fragile flowers, who will surely wilt in the sun.

Teen Daughter: *Complain* *Grumble* *Whine*
Me: "Go outside and play!"
Teen Daughter: "But Mom - it's too haau-uutt outsiiiiddde-duh!"
Me: "Then go swimming!"
Teen Daughter: "But I just washed my hair-er!"
Me: "GO OUTSIDE! NOOOWWW!"
Teen Daughter: *Complains, *grumbles*, *whines* out door.

*Returns 9 minutes later.*

Teen Daughter: "But Mom - it's too hauu-utt out there-uh!"

Kill me now.

You know whose fault this is besides mine? Air Conditioning that bitch.

Believe it. Back in the Groovy Day? When I was a kid in the summer? You wouldn't find me in any stuffy, damn, 80-degree house. No sir. You could find my little ass one place only.

Out-damn-side.

I biked! I nerd alert roller discoed! I skateboarded! I played catch and weirdo alert Peoples with Marshall the Neighbor Boy!

I did not know this word you call 'Bored.' And I did not return to the house until the streetlights came on.

Because my mother locked me out all day. Then retired to the only air-conditioned room in the house: her bedroom. And that was that.

But that's O.K. It was the 70s, man. Everybody locked out! Everybody weirdos roller discoed! Everybody ~~dehydrated~~ sweaty!

Air Conditioning? Nintendo DS? Water? Basic shelter? Ha ha-flippin'-HA!

You kids these days. I laugh at your cool air, your video games, your health and safety practices.

Bunch of amateurs.

Warning: Excessive Cussing Ahead. Because Excessive Junk Is Involved.

2011-07-25T09:46:00.002-04:00

(post copyright, 2011, Dawn Weber)

Behold my junk:

And also my feet. Made you look.

I know. It's hideous. Feel free to turn away. For I am ashamed of my junk. A massive tangle of USB, A/V and charger cords for electronics dating back to the Carter administration.

It's a mess. It's a disaster. It’s a landfill in a box. It's...

The Asshole Drawer of Shame.

And I feel bad about it.

Need a certain cord for your IPod? Your 8-track? Perhaps your Victrola? Go ahead. Dig in. Knock yourself out. More than likely, I have it, because I keep all cords.

Hey - I might need them someday.

Shame on my drawers. People think this is my allocated "Junk Drawer." No, friends, no. I have another entire Asshole Junk Drawer dedicated to other things. Paperclips. Rubber Bands. Penis Drinking Straws from my Bachelorette Party.

You know. All the important stuff.

I also have: An Asshole Closet of Shame, An Asshole Cupboard of Shame and even an entire Asshole ROOM of Shame.

I feel bad about them, too. In fact, like most females, I feel bad about lots of things.

Guilt: the original Woman’s Work. But that’s another post. Stay tuned…

Recently, I needed an “Aux In” cord to connect my Ipod to the truck‘s stereo. I know I have one of these cords. In fact, I know I have several of these cords. And I know where they lurk.

In the Asshole Drawer of Shame.

I had to dig into the ADOS. The hands went clammy, blood pressure rose, heart raced… I wasn’t sure I could handle it, but it had to be done.

I used my Lamaze breathing, my cardio stamina. I meditated and chanted to Jesus and - just to be safe - Allah. (Sorry, Jesus).

And I did it - I burrowed into the embarrassing mass. I untangled. I untwisted. I wrestled. Sweating, I untangled, untwisted and wrestled again.

Then, I chugged some whiskey.

Did I find the Asshole “Aux In” cord? No sir. I did not.

I found every-flippin‘-other-thing, though. Especially things I didn’t need or want. Especially things I wasn‘t seeking.

Especially Asshole Things I’ll Probably Never Use Again.

Like the cord for the camcorder, which we haven‘t turned on in five years. Like the box for my Ipod, the warranty long expired. Like a teething ring for the baby. The baby who starts third grade in a couple weeks. The baby who can do long division.

None of these things were the “Aux In” cord. No sir. Not one.

I could put all these Asshole Things on the Asshole Chair of Shame, also known as The Chair of Things to Donate to Goodwill. Otherwise known as the Asshole Chair That Fills Up Every Weekend.

I really hate to do that, though.

Because hey - I might need them someday.

Run and Hide. Estrogen in the House!

2011-07-14T06:06:00.000-04:00

The husband really should have knocked me up sooner.

Understand - I'm not dissing my beautiful, talented, intelligent daughter. She'd probably agree. Because she is 14.

And I am forty-damn-two.

It's simple math:

Take one woman in her late 20s

Add one newborn daughter.

Then add 13-16 years.

This equals

One possibly peri-menopausal shut up hormonal woman, one hormonal teenage girl and

BOOM!

Too much estrogen for one place.

Really, it's probably this way for many women. Silly us, getting our lives, careers and general shit together before having kids. Those "Teen Moms" are almost looking smart. Nah, not really.

Do you hear that? That sobbing? It's the males of the house.

Yes, here at the Weber home (motto: "Bitches be Crazy!") the son and husband spend their time ducking, running and generally avoiding the estrogen festivus. I can't speak for my girl, but I don't blame the guys.

Lately, my moods even piss me off.

For our boys, I've come up with a new set of guidelines - some ideas on navigating this stormy sea of constant PMS. I'll share them with all five of my male blog readers. Because I'm in a good mood right now:

There are times when we - the females - are going to argue with each other. Times such as daytime, nighttime and all of summertime. Should you accidentally walk into one of our many dark moods or many disagreements, do not try to cheer us up or intervene. Just turn around and run. Quickly.
When we ask you how we look, the acceptable response is a hearty "Great!" Suitable synonyms include "Beautiful!" "Gorgeous!" "Awesome!" Write it down.
However, if we're trying on clothes - especially items that used to fit - refrain from commenting - at all. In this instance, it's best for you to stay quiet and go to a safe location. Such as Canada.
When we want to be alone, we mean it. Don't try to cuddle, kiss or otherwise pester us. We are not afraid to cut a bitch. Your best bet? Turn around and run. Quickly.
Estrogen flare-ups can be controlled with substances. Give the 14-year-old chocolate. Give the 42-year-old wine. Repeat continually as needed, and do not comment on our intake of said items.
Additionally, hormonal flare-ups can be completely AVOIDED with retail therapy. Follow the example of George Jetson: Hand over the wallet often, rapidly and with a bewildered smile.
Do not ask "Why are you crying?" We ~~do not~~ may not know. Or, see above - we may have just tried on clothes. Or stepped on the scale. Or seen ourselves in a photo. Or exhaled.
Make no mistake - things you guys do will annoy us. Actions that will send us over the edge include walking, talking and breathing. Avoid these.

So there you have it. Hopefully, my handy-dandy advice will help the men of my house, and maybe my five male blog readers, deal with the teenage girls and possibly peri-menopausal shut up women in their lives.

And if not? Well, I really don't care.

In fact, you better turn around and run. Quickly.

Sh*t My Dog Ruins. And Violates.

2011-07-07T07:26:00.001-04:00

(post copyright, 2011, Dawn Weber)

Suzie the new puppy has many names. Some of them are even printable.

Suzie Poo, Suzie Destructo, Suzie Horn-Dog, Suzie Chew...

She can be such a little bitch. *Knee-slap!*

It's time yet again to discuss my bad dog, because she has reached new highs of terrorism. You may remember her from posts such as this. Back when she woke us up every two hours and chewed mostly clothing.

Ah - the good old days. Suzie was relatively well-behaved then - she's much more diabolical creative now.

Lucky for her, I know what's going on. You see, I've been through the puppy gig a dozen times.

Puppies behave well when they're super-tiny for two reasons:
1. To help trick potential owners dummies into adopting them, and
2. They are riddled with worms.

Indeed, nasty parasites have invaded their intestines, roiled their insides, left them completely listless...

...and made them sweet little angel pups.

Mmm-hmmm, when really young, they're big brown-eyed docile things, wagging their wee puppy tails, snuggling up to your neck, sleeping all the time.

Yeah. That's the worms talkin'.

Now that Suzie is healthy, well, we see the real pup. A Dog To Be Reckoned With. A Furry Weapon of Mass Destruction. A Black Streak of Holy Terror.

Her specialty is chewing - Every!Single!Thing! she can find. As I type this, she is mouthing a piece of...meat, you say? A bone, you ask? Rawhide, maybe?

A rock. Yes, she is right at this moment, as I type this, leisurely eating a rock. And also a plastic hose diverter. She's not picky.

Part of this Nutritious Breakfast!

She also savors all flavors of human flesh. We know this because she has tasted the four of us, and most visitors, with her needle sharp teeth. You can almost read her mind by the hunger in her eyes:

"You there! Little boy! You look nice and tender," thinks Suzie, lunging at my kids and me. "Teenage girl, I bet you're sinewy and salty... And you! Large middle-aged woman! I'm guessing you're full of greasy fat. And beer!"

She has many other hobbies - she quite enjoys getting rid of things for us. Items she feels we don't need. Not a hoarder, our Suzie:

We used to have lovely rope lights lining our stone steps. Suzie didn't like them. Apparently.
We used to have a battery charger for our AA batteries. Suzie didn't think we needed the cord. Apparently.
We used to have several hundred pairs of flip-flops. Suzie didn't think we could really use all those. Apparently.

After a fun day of terrorizing everything and everyone in sight, Suzie likes to unwind with a little bit of sexy time. Yep. At five months, and not yet fixed, back up, Bob Barker, she's scheduled for surgery Aug. 14 she is a very horny - and very gender-confused - pup.

Fun fact: Female dogs hump too. At least mine does. I wish I didn't know this, but I do.

She's been molesting poor "Sally," here, her stuffed animal twin. It's sick! all kinds of wrong, and when I see the violation go down, it kind of makes me want to poke out my eyes.

I didn't want to subject my dear readers all nine of you! I love you guys! to said humping, so I took a photo of them after the lovin'. You're welcome.

Yes, that's Suzie and her bitch, Sally. They're very happy together at least, Suzie is. Perhaps they will adopt.

Good luck, Sally. You'll need it.

Spanx You Very Much! (Winning: Part Two)

2011-06-30T05:16:00.004-04:00

(post copyright, 2011, Dawn Weber)
Very few friends will let you into their pants.

Unless you buy them a drink first.

Lighten up, Frances. You too, Esther. Don't start writing in nasty comments about my foul mouth again. I'm saying my buddy Robin Spanxed me...all the way from Cleveland.

And I loved it.

Yep. I had quite a dilemma last week: I was up for the Humor (under 50,000 circulation) award at the National Society of Newspaper Columnists Conference in Detroit Saturday evening. I was also going on vacation the five days before this event - arguably one of the biggest nights of my life. So I needed to continue to fit into this dress, which is - amazingly enough for me - not from Walmart:

Yeah - it's all shits and giggles, rainbows and unicorns the day before vacation, when the dress still fits.

Obviously, I had two choices:
1. Eat, drink and be merry or
2. Fit into expensive, non-Walmart dress

Have you met me?

Yeah. I was merry.

Then I was worried.

What if I waddled to the podium? What if I popped a zipper on the way up? What if I burst forth from the dress like a stuffed sausage, and everyone saw my goodies?

I took my concerns to the experts - the girls on Facebook. My friend Robin, author of this hilarious blog, didn't let me down. She reminded me of Spanx.

You've heard of Spanx. Sounds modern, sounds sassy. Right?

It's a girdle. It may look a little different, but it's a girdle. As in your granny's girdle. As in sucks-in-the-gut-girdle.

As in crack-open-a-vacation-beer-because-you-have-a-girdle...girdle.

I never thought I'd wear a girdle. To do so, in my mind, admits defeat. Although people usually don't believe it, I work out like an O.C.D. idiot.

But obviously I had a situation - a vacation situation.

The good news for me? Robin owns Spanx.

Robin hates Spanx.

This worked to my benefit, because she gladly said she'd part with her Spanx and send it to me via Priority Mail so I'd have it in time for Saturday night.

People: A friend who loans you her intimate apparel? Who rushes said skivvies through the U.S. Postal System so you have it in time for the weekend? Keep this person close to your big belly heart. Forever.

Yes, a solution was on its way. Witness the following Facebook transaction:

Robin Daugherty Suttell
The Girdle is in transit. I repeat. The Girdle is in transit.

June 20 at 1:47pm · · · See Friendship

You and Kerbi Sexton like this.
- Marcia Camino um...
  June 20 at 1:59pm ·
- Dawn Weber You are so awesome! ! Now I can relax! *cracks open another Landshark*
  Srsly. You're awesome
  Xxoo
  June 20 at 2:46pm ·
- Robin Daugherty Suttell I think Marcia is a bit concerned about the whole operation. :)
  June 20 at 2:53pm ·
- Dawn Weber She is just jealous cuz she isn't borrowing your intimate apparel. Everybody wants to get in your pants. *knee slap*
  June 20 at 3:13pm ·
- Marcia Camino If it's a girdle then of course I'm jealous!! You two have your secret language that sprinkles into your postings on occasion. I have to crack the code. I thought 'girdle' was code for something like a secret tech tool for a double agent or operative.
  June 20 at 3:42pm ·
- Robin Daugherty Suttell No...we're really talking about Spanx this time. I'm apparently the official Spanx Higher Power lending library. Although I hate that thing so much, she can keep it if she wants.
  June 20 at 3:45pm · · 1 person
- Dawn Weber I'm super-thankful to borrow it, but from the looks of things, it'll be difficult to breathe. I think I can handle one night, but you're talking to a woman who regularly walks around with the top button of her pants undone for comfort.
  June 20 at 4:01pm · · 2 people
- Robin Daugherty Suttell Dude, I already told ya...the thigh zone is so tight that I put runs in it trying to put it on the only time I wore it.
  June 20 at 4:06pm · · 1 person
- Marcia Camino crack. me. up.
  June 20 at 7:35pm ·
- Robin Daugherty Suttell I'm not kidding. Thing was so damn tight, I ripped it a bit trying to put it on. I shoulld have known better at that point and let the flab hang free.
  June 20 at 7:37pm ·
- Dawn Weber OK. Now I'm frightened.
  June 20 at 7:57pm ·
- Robin Daugherty Suttell Be afraid. Be very afraid. Let's just say I'm wearing a knit dress today, and even if that thing wasn't somewhere in the US Postal System, I wouldn't be wearing it.
  June 21 at 4:55pm · · 1 person

The package arrived on time, but I was still kind of frightened, so I didn't open it until I was getting ready for the awards dinner. I pulled a tiny sliver of fabric from the envelope. Surely, Robin was punkin' me. It was the size and width of a snake.

I am the size and width of a heifer middle-aged mother-of-two. Who may or may not have some food issues. Who - as we discussed earlier - sometimes gets merry.

Obviously, I would need some assistance.

"Uh, honey?," I called to the husband. "Can you help me with this thing?"
"What thing?" he said. "I don't see anything."
"This...here," I said, holding up the tube-snake of fabric.
"What is that? A sock?" he asked.
"No...it's Spanx. It's a girdle. It goes over my legs and torso," I said.

It took him a while to stop laughing. But eventually, we got to work. We sweated. We wrestled. We pulled. We rested. Don't be pervy! And then we sweated, wrestled and pulled some more. You perve.

Finally, we had success, and the thing was painted on my body. I looked at myself in the mirror. Gone were my hips, my twice-pregnant belly, my infernal thighs. Gone was most of my womanhood.

I had the shape of a 13-year-old boy. With boobs.

In other words, I fit today's beauty standard. Perfectly.

It was - sadly - awesome.

Thanks to the girdle, we were running late, so I pulled on my dress and we rushed out the door.

Walking in Spanx is like continual resistance training. It's like 39,000 rubber bands, wrapped stubbornly, and somewhat painfully, around your body.

It's like the slow, methodical strangulation of a boa constrictor.

But I'll tell you what - it worked. Despite my week of vacation partaking, I looked OK in the little black dress. And the butterflies in my stomach? Gone. Smothered and smashed, no doubt, by the boa constrictor Spanx.

Just as I predicted, the National Society of Newspaper Columnists awarded me and Robin's Spanx third place. Not bad at all - this-here girdled-gal has only written humor for two years.

I may have placed third, but I felt like a Grand Champion. Because walking - not waddling - to the stage to get my award, I did not pop a zipper. I did not burst forth from the dress like a stuffed sausage.

And no one - not even one person - saw my goodies.

That, my friends, is what I call a raging success.

I'd like to Spanx the Academy...

Real Men of Genius: Lighten Up! Edition. The Sequel. And the Other Sequel

2011-06-16T05:25:00.003-04:00

(copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

So long, Sucka!

Nah. I'm not talkin' to you. I am talkin' to Ohio, Landlocked State of Misery. State of Boredom. State of Blah.

Not very nice of me, is it? Sorry. I love Ohio's people. But its steadfast refusal to offer me A: Much sunlight B: An ocean or C: Anything exciting at all makes me, well, downright postal at times.

I was born for the beach. Surfing all day, slinging cocktails and BS all night for tips.

But no one got this memo. I have somehow managed to live here all my ever-lovin' life.

I'm not going to dwell on Blow-Hio today. No sir. Because I'm outta here, folks! That's right. This here funny little white girl is headed to the beach!

I'm not telling you exactly where I'm going. Or when. Or how long I'll be gone. You could be a crackhead, for all I know. Taking a break from smokin' the rocks to read my blog, then break into my house to steal my vintage Fisher Price Little Peoples.

Oh you know you want them. Everybody wants them. *Crazy Eyes.*

Remember the rule: You toucha my Peoples, I breaka you face! And you better not try to burgle me, ya bunch of heathens. Our house is protected by a pack of...large wolves. Yeah, that's right. And gangstas.

And maybe the Devil himself.

Even though you could be a gaggle of crackheads, you are my dear readers. All nine of you! I love you guys! Also, as I mentioned a hundred times before, I am OCD about posting once a week. Hence, I give you not one but TWO! TWO! TWO! mini-posts this week.

See that? Even on vacation, I just give and give.

I've decided to write more pieces about about Folks Who Irritate My Balls. You know, if I had Balls.

Like the guy who ruins my coffee breaks at the Quicky Sack because he takes for-freakin'-ever! to buy his 23 scratch-off lottery tickets.

And, for added ball-irritation, I've also thrown in a piece on the well-documented dude with the saggy, baggy pants.

Thanks to nineteen never-ending My-God-When-Can-I-Retire! years in communications, I know the best format for Folks Who'd Irritate My Balls If I Had Balls. We shall put it in the Real Men of Genius: Lighten Up! Edition series, inspired by the lovely Muffy. Because I've found, in life, that most things can be improved with a beer commercial.

Or just plain beer.

Read on, ya bunch of thugs. ;) I'll be back when I'm happy and relaxed. (Have you met my Type-A ass? You may never hear from me again.)

Real Men of Genius Presents: Mr. Scratch-Off Lottery Ticket Addict
Today we salute you, Mr. Scratch-Off Lottery Ticket Addict.
Mr. Scratch-Off Lottery Ticket Addict!
Some men spend cash on food for the family, you spend cash on colored pieces of paper.
I could be a winner!
Tying up the line, oblivious to 16 glaring eyes searing your back, you slowly ponder your many choices.
All those shiny tickets!
What'll it be today, Scratchie? "Pot O Gold?" "Bonus Bingo?" "Christmas Cash?"
Give them all to meeeee!
Bills to pay? They can wait. For your big "Lucky Sevens" win. You know it's coming.
Can you say 'bankruptcy?'
The odds - 30,000 to one. Totally in your favor.
I won five bucks one time!
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, O Genius Guy Gambler. You may have spent Friday's paycheck. But hey - there's always next week.
Mr. Scratch-Off Lottery Ticket Addict!

Real Men of Genius Presents: Mr. Low-Down Baggy Pants Wearer
Today we salute you, Mr. Low-Down Baggy Pants Wearer.
Mr. Low-Down Baggy Pants Wearer!
Sure, proper-fitting jeans are more socially acceptable, but you're the type of guy who does your own thang.
I don't see no dress code!
Never mind slacks that fit. The ladies wanna see your sh*t.
Take that literally!
Are you a plumber? Are you a gangsta? The world will never know.
Crack Kills!
So crack open an Ice Cold Bud Light, Prince Pants on the Ground. Because we see Paris. We see France. We sho' as hell see your underpants.
Mr. Low-Down Baggy Pants Wearer!

One more epic awesome video from the original Bud Light Series:

Say Hello To My Little Men

2011-06-13T07:31:00.002-04:00

(Photos and post, Copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

Hey. You there - peering at the computer. Come over here. I'll tell you a secret.

I have another man.

In fact, I have several other men.

And I'll tell you something else: Size doesn't matter. My men are small, but firm, and they love it when I play with them. Often, they sport wood. Or plastic.

Some of my men are women. Oh yes. I'm a freak like that.

You want to see pictures, don't you?

Of course, the husband is jealous of my little men. I can tell because he did it again. He went and asked that question. And he should know damn better.

"Hey. Can I get rid of these?"

The hell you can!

You toucha my vintage Fisher Price Little People, I breaka you face! Imma gonna go all gangsta up in here! And shizzle.

What? I know, I'm lily white, and not Italian at all. Or gangsta. I forgot for a minute. Shut up.

Apparently, my medium-ish box of Peoples, as I call them, takes up too much space in his 450-square-foot garage. The garage the husband - Mr. Neatnik - is always trying to organize.

A couple of times a year, I have to rescue my little men, their schoolhouse, their barn (with working "MOO!" doors), their airport and their parking garage from the trash. He simply does not see their value.

The hell? Some of them go for two...$2-fiddy on Ebay.

And Peoples make me happy.

I didn't have them when I was little. As I mentioned before, we were poor. Much to my dismay, my mother had other, less important things to buy.

Like food.

One day, when my daughter was a baby and I was, oh, 28, I jumped, nay, LEAPT on my co-worker, Marty, who said he'd sell me his family's vintage Fisher Price Little People collection - for only $30. I couldn't wait to buy them for ~~myself~~ my kids!

Now, we are the proud owner of a medium box of Peoples, with accessories. And yes, I the kids play with them. And protect them from Mr. Neatnik and his Garage Organization.

And maybe take funny little pictures of them.

I call the above masterpiece "Lap Dance."

Oh yes. Peoples make me happy. Always have.

And since I didn't have them as a kid, there were always intense negotiations with Marshall the Neighbor Boy, Lucky Owner of Many Peoples:

Me, circa 1977: "I know, I know! Let's play Peoples!"

Marshall the Neighbor Boy: "Nah...we played that yesterday! And the day before. Let's throw the football."

Me: "Aw, come on. Puh-leeze?! I swear - I'll throw the football AFTER we play Peoples."

So it was that I we spent the better part of the 70s many afternoons and maybe part of the 80s playing with his Peoples.

Oh yes. There was nothing like placing those happy-colored Peoples in their schoolhouse chairs. Nothing like opening (MOO!) and closing (MOO!) the barn door. Nothing like riding them down, in their twee little cars, on the swirly-twirly slide of the parking garage. Good, good times.

Eventually tiring of my weird-ass little men obsession, Marshall the Neighbor Boy, Lucky Owner of Many Peoples, would wander off. Searching for someone with whom to throw the football.

He's probably still looking.

Poor Marshall the Neighbor Boy. Pimped. For Peoples.

My Dear Marshall the Neighbor Boy, Lucky Owner of Many Peoples, circa 2010. I hadn't seen him for at least 10 years - he is like a little brother to me. Those are real tears in my eyes, Peoples.

(I hope I've answered the burning question on everyone's mind: Why is there a Fisher Price Little Person in my Banner? Now, you can sleep at night because you know the answer. You're welcome.
I want to thank my friend Jen at Jen Has a Pen for directing me to this awesome post about Little People by The Bearded Iris. It pumped me up to write this piece. Go - read both women. Do it. Now. You'll love them.)

Discount Stores...Because Poor Kids Need Pants Too.

2011-06-06T09:31:00.003-04:00

(copyright 2011, Dawn Weber. Thanks to my old-school friends Mike McAndrew and Sarah Lowrey for giving me the idea to write about this oh-so-important topic!)

You may not know this from my current high-falutin', Applebee's eatin' lifestyle, but I was born a poor kid.

Yeah, I said it. I'm putting it out there in front of God, Google and everybody: We were broke.

And I'm talking poor, as in, during non-pay weeks? Boiled hot dogs for dinner. All week long.

I'm talking poor, as in, when the ONE black and white TV broke during the Blizzard of '78, well, we had no TV. During the Blizzard of '78.

I'm talking poor as in Hill's, Murphy's Mart, Bargain Port and Fisher's Big Wheel discount stores - for my school clothes.

Let me repeat that, so it sinks in: DISCOUNT STORES FOR MY SCHOOL CLOTHES.

The horror. My face turns red just thinking about it.

I know, I know. I was lucky to have clothes. Kids, probably without clothes, were starving in Africa.

But I wasn't worried about them. My great and urgent concern was that my little ass didn't sport a "Levi's" tag, like so many of my classmates.

You see, Hill's, Murphy's, KMart, Fisher's Big Wheel, etc.? They didn't carry Levi's, Gloria Vanderbilt, Sasson, Jordache, or any other horribly overpriced very essential brand. They were only available at the mall.

And my mother was emphatically NOT going to the mall.

"I'm NOT going to that MALL! Too damn expensive," she said.

Hell. I couldn't even score a pair of Sears Toughskins. Had to get those at the mall.

Obviously, pants were crucial.

So I walked around cracking jokes at school, hoping no one would notice my heinously economical "Togs" and "New Friends" jeans.

"New Friends"? WTF kind of jeans are those? More like "No Friends."

Although I hated the clothes they sold, I secretly loved the discount stores. Loved wandering up and down every aisle with my mother and grandmother, avid tight-fisted K-Mart shoppers, both.

And in northeast Ohio, during the 70s and 80s, a girl of reasonable age could shop by herself in such a store, without too much fear of abduction by a pervy stranger. I'd ask permission to go on my own, then prance over to the Record Department, drunk with the freedom of it all.

Oh yeah - there's the good stuff! Fleetwood Mac, Boston, the "Saturday Night Fever" soundtrack...had to make sure to peep at the ones with the racy covers before I got caught. I'd be in deep weeds if she saw me glancing at the R.E.O. Speedwagon "Hi Infidelity" or Loverboy "Get Lucky" cover.

After a thorough ogling of the smutty albums and new-release 45s, I'd wander alone into all the other vital departments. Toys, candy, plastic swimming pools - all the junkiest junk finest money could buy.

Most stores had their own best sections. Murphy's had the choicest toy department, Woolco sold the most excellent records. For passable "Togs," I could tolerate Fisher's Big Wheel.

Those stores are all gone now, leveled or replaced by today's two measly choices : Target or Walmart.

At least you can, occasionally, buy Levi's at either place. Not that my daughter likes them - she only wants Abercrombie, Aeropostale or American Eagle jeans.

She's dreaming.

Because I am NOT going to that MALL! Too damn expensive!

Dong You, Autocorrect!

2011-06-02T19:26:00.018-04:00

(copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

Hey - How u Dong?

Yeah, that was just another brilliant text I sent to the husband the other day. He appreciated my concern, reporting that his "Dong" was fine, but - in so many words - it could use my attention.

It could always use my attention.

As I've mentioned before, he is quite randy, just like most guys, and just like my cell phone, which has a mind of its own. A dirty, filthy mind of its own.

Obviously, I meant to text him the question:"How u Doing?" But I misspelled "doing." Obviously.

Stupid phone. This is all because of autocorrect - the annoying little cell-phone feature that fills in words it thinks you want to write. I had turned it off, but even then, my sick bastard of a phone managed to text the word Dong.

I took this little incident to the experts - the girls on Facebook. My friend Kerbi reported that "dong" is actually a real word. Of course, I had to look it up.

Dong: (n.) A penis.

Well, I already knew that.

Dong - (n.) A unit of Vietnamese currency.

Valuable information! Also? Heh. I said "unit."

I learned a lot on The Day of the Dong, and it ranked high on my list of phone faux pas. But it was worse when autocorrect was activated and the gadget filled in the blanks. I have written - and nearly sent or published - sentences similar to these:

"Hey - Let's bang with Marjie and Greg tonight." How about we just hang with Marjie and Greg tonight?
"What do u want for dinner? Boogers?"Um, I'd rather have burgers...
"Their house is impressive, plus they have a big dick!' Bet their big dick is fun on their big DECK.
"Want me to bring an appetizer? How about humans and crackers?" Great! The humans will taste great with the hummus.
"I'm getting dick...can't stop blowing my boss."Please. Use a tissue when you're getting sick and blowing your nose. Or your boss.
"He's out riding his bisexual." I bet his bicycle is jealous.
"Gah. Am so thirsty. Get me poop at the store." Only if you say plz. Would you also like some pop?
"Do you need head?" Not right now. But I need help - as you can see.
"All ready for tonight! Pork masturbating in the fridge!" Filthy pig - you're supposed to be marinating!

As you can see, autocorrect on or off, sending texts or just writing, my phone is a determined, dirty old man who desperately needs a wanking.

Ergh...I mean spanking! Stupid phone.

The Flaming Fairmont of Death

2011-05-27T05:06:00.003-04:00

(post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber. This post was inspired by this other post by Pearl over at Pearl, Why You Little... Check it out!)

My first car? So HOT!

Hot as in flames. Hot as in smoke. Hot as in DANGER.

I have never - before or since - known a car so intent on killing its driver. Which was me.

That is why I called it the Flaming Fairmont of Death.

Let's be clear: the F.F.O.D. was my first car. My first vehicle was a Ford Ranger. A great ride, that truck. Really, it deserves its own epic blog post Maybe its own book. And it never caught fire even once.

Yeah, I was pretty bad-ass in my sweet pickup. Until I managed to wreck it. Three times. In two years.

Driving skillz. I had them.

Eventually Mom bought a new car, and I ended up with her piece of shit Fairmont, before it became the F.F.O.D. I wasn't happy about it, but I needed something to get me to the parties.

Also, the radio worked.

The first time I saw Fairmont fire, the police had pulled me over again. It was college. Getting pulled over was kind of a job of mine.

Me: What did I do now, officer? I wasn't speeding. today.
Cop: Miss. There are flames shooting out of your muffler.
Me: What?

I followed him back and peeked under the car. Sure enough, blue fire blazed from the tailpipe.

Me: Huh. O.K. I'll get that looked at as soon as I get some money.
Cop: No...you'll call a tow truck NOW. This car is not safe. I'm not letting you drive it.
Me: What?! But I don't have any money for a tow truck!
Cop: Do you have a credit card? You can use that.

I only liked to use my credit card for Very Important Things. Such as Pitchers of Beer. But Officer Buzz Kill here didn't give me much choice. I had the effin' car towed back to my apartment, with strict orders from Buzz Kill not to operate it until I had the exhaust fixed.

Did I mention I had no money?

Anyway, I didn't see a problem. Various boys were consulted, and we - the brain-trust - figured mufflers were meant to be hot. Half of my friends drove cars that needed new exhaust systems. We were, apparently, quite the mechanical idiots experts.

So I kept driving my four-door blast furnace everywhere, Smart! cheating death, ignoring the black, polluted stink wafting from under the car.

You can't hurt me, F.F.O.D. I laugh at your blue muffler flames!

Until one evening, coming back from class, the stench grew a little stronger than usual. I glanced in the rear-view mirror - nothing but smoke.

My backseat had caught fire.

I ran to a pay phone (This was 1989. Olden-times. Pre cell phone. Shut up - I'm old) and called the boyfriend, who quickly drove over and somehow ripped out the burning seat before the whole car engulfed.

Now I had no backseat. And obviously, it was time to get the exhaust system fixed.

Did I mention I had no money?

Anyway, the Flaming Fairmont of Death still ran. You could literally fry an egg on the metal under the removed backseat. (Fun. I tried it.), but with the flammable objects removed - really. What was the harm?

And the radio worked.

So it was that your little blonde friend here began driving around with two or three gallon jugs of water. When I smelled smoke, I'd simply pull over and pour water on the hot metal above the muffler, where the backseat used to be. I was a numbskull genius. That'll cool her down! You're foiled again, F.F.O.D.

I laugh at your blue muffler flames!

My jugs also came in handy a few months later, when the Fairmont Of Death's radiator sprang leaks. Anytime I saw smoke from the front of the car, I simply refilled the radiator with the handy-dandy jugs, and went on my way.

Engine fire? Exhaust fire? I got it covered. I didn't need no stinkin' fire extinguisher.

I had Aquafina!

Really, though, I probably should have had that fixed.

Did I mention I had no money?

Real Men of Genius: Lighten Up! Edition

2011-05-20T05:36:00.002-04:00

(post, copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

You're probably expecting Thoughtful Journalistic Pieces from me now...since I'm still a ~~big, fat nobody~~ finalist and whatnot. But I didn't get this far by thinking. No sir.

Intelligence: You're at the wrong blog.

Anyway, I am busy this week, planning a camping trip with old friends, where we will do Very Important Things. Such as sit around a fire, tube down the river and drink beer.

Luckily, my friend Muffy over at She's a Little Bit Cupcake, She's a Little Bit Out of Control gave me a great idea with this hilarious post about her brother. Please check her out, follow her and drink her Kool Aid!

Remember the "Real Men of Genius" Bud Light commercials? Muffy and I find them useful for many situations especially the situation called Muffy's brother...

As for me, Ladies and gents, I give you...
(If you're eating, stop now. I beseech you. Alright...you were warned.)

Lighten Up! Presents: Real Men of Genius

Today We Salute You, Mr. Interstate Booger-Picker.
(Mr. Interstate Booger Picker!)
In broad daylight, one hand on the wheel, the other knuckle-deep in the noggin.
(Pick yourself a winner!)
There in the car, you feel invisible. You pick and flick and pick some more.
(Flick it out the window!)
Tissue? You don't need no stinkin' tissue.
(Tissues are for pussies!)
Yes, you may cause nausea in rush-hour traffic, but you arrive at work snot-free.
(Let's shake hands!)
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, O' Man of Mobile Mucus...Because anyone can use a hanky, but only rock-stars like you have balls enough to dig for green gold - in full public view.
(Mr. Interstate Booger Picker!)

Lest you don't know where Muffy and my genius idea originates, see below.

The Biggest Loser...Me. Finally Winning.

2011-05-14T08:04:00.002-04:00

(post and photo copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

Well! Slap me sideways and call me Charlie.

Sheen, that is. Because I am winning, ya'all!

I just found out that I'm a finalist in the National Society of Newspaper Columnists 2011 contest (Humor, under 50,000 circulation) for my "Lighten Up" newspaper column in the Buckeye Lake Beacon. This means I've either won first, second or third. How ya like me now?

Yep. Tuesday began like any other day- wake, kids, dummies in traffic, whatnot. Pounded away at my job, attended three boring meetings...at the end of the day I decided to read all my Very Important E-mail:

"You Have Won Nigerian Lottery! Contact Barrister Abu Dabba-Doo With Bank Info..." - Ooh! Lucky Me! Quick-where's my bank statement?
"My Name Natalya I am Interesting to date with you" - Thanks "Natalya," but I'm not in the market for a Russian bride. Although, some days, a housewife would do nicely...
"Get a Bigger, Harder, Thicker..." - You know where this one's going...and I try to keep this blog PG-13. I try.

You can see here why I check my e-mail about once a week. Delete, delete, delete some more.

My finger poised over the DEL key, one entry caught my eye:

"Congratulations," Oh boy, I thought - more Nigerian Lottery. Great. My finger descended on the button until...

"After lengthy review, the Judges of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists annual conference have selected your entry as one of the finalists in category D: Humor in newspapers under 50,000 circulation. This means you have placed first, second or third in the category."

And then it went black.

I cannot believe it. I just can't. People, NSNC is Serious Shizzle! A Society full of Very Important Past and Present folks: Heloise, Andy Rooney, the late Mike Harden, my buddy Jerry Zezima. Art Buchwald is in their Hall of Fame. Dave Barry was a past speaker at their conference.

Do these fine journalists at NSNC really want to include me? I mean, I cuss. Proudly and often, I shop at Walmart. I have been known to accidentally drink beer that is popular with crackheads. ("Steel Reserve" brand beer. Shut up. With the "Steel" title, I thought maybe it was brewed in my hometown.That's what I get, representin' for Youngstown...)

According to this email, NSNC wants to honor me with a prize. And maybe a little cash. Bonus!

I'm not used to winning - I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I am the world's most practiced loser:

Tried out for seventh grade basketball, 1982. Did I make it? Hell no.
Down to the last two spellers for the jr. high spelling bee. Did I win? Hell no.
Nominated for Class Clown, Best Personality and Life of the Party 1987. Did I win? No, no and HELL no.

That's just the tip of the bad luck iceberg, the things I feel comfortable discussing. And people wonder why I don't like Vegas.

Over the years, I became used to losing, to second or third place. Need an also-ran or a runner-up? I'm your girl - I'm always the proverbial bridesmaid.

Hey - that's OK with me. I'm still around, still kickin', and quite enjoying my five wee minutes of fame. It's all rainbows and unicorns up in here!

Also, you don't want to read my sad stories. I'm supposed to make you laugh. That's why I make ~~nothing~~ the big bucks.

So if you're looking for me around the end of June, I'll be in Detroit at the NSNC conference, busily trying to buy Dave Barry crackhead beer drinks in return for his pictures and autographs. But I'm not a stalker, Dave...*crazy eyes.* I'll find out on June 25, 2011 whether I win first, second or third prize.

Do I care where I place?

Hell no.

Because Charlie and I...

...we are full of ~~shit~~ WIN!

Crappity-Crap. New Puppy. All My Fault.

2011-04-21T05:18:00.002-04:00

Sh#t. My dog does.

Every two hours.

She's adorable, though. And if you're going to crap yourself, cuteness helps.

Here at the Lighten Up Center for Useless Information (LUCUI), we have a theory about this (of course we do). Baby animals are irresistible so that someone will clean up their poo. And put up with their wailing. This ensures survival of the species.

We have our own new little mess machine. Her name is Suzie. She's a two-month-old, mixed-breed mutt. As you can see, I put quite a bit of thought into the decision to adopt a dog:

Dawn: Sees Puppy.
Dawn: Sees Big Brown Eyes! Twee Furry Face! Pouchy-Pup Belly!
Dawn: *MELTS*.
Puppy: Sees Dawn *YAPS!*
Dawn decides: Puppy must live with her. Now.
Puppy: *YAPS!*
Dawn: Picks up Puppy to take home
Puppy: *YAPS!*

And that? Was that. According to the husband, this is my usual method of choosing pets.

"You see a cat, you bring it home," he says. "You see a dog, you bring it home."

You'd never know Suzie is a pet. To hear all the conversations at our place this week, you'd think we had a newborn human baby:

"Did she eat yet?"

This is very important information. Because the timing of the food is directly related to the timing of the poo. We must enforce strict schedules - Suzie doesn't particularly care where or when she makes a deposit. But I care. I care a lot.

"Did she poop yet?"

Again, with the schedule. The last poo is directly related to the timing of the next poo. Because sh#t happens. In Suzie's case, it happens EVERY TWO HOURS.

"My God! Get that outta her mouth!"

What an advanced palate has our puppy! Safe to eat? Suzie says yes! Yes, please! To electrical cords, Legos, my son's underwear, flip-flops, tissues, my underwear, fingers, toes, the husband's underwear...Edible underwear? They are now.

"Uh-uh. No way. It's YOUR turn to get up with her."

Getting a puppy was my idea.This comes up often. It comes up at 12 a.m., 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. Comes up EVERY TWO HOURS. She whimpers from her crate, the husband's foot creeps under the covers to my leg and...*KICK.*
I've had smarter ideas.

And I should have known better. I've been through this before.

But...but...

The Big Brown Eyes! So precious! While yapping in the crate...
The Twee Little Furry Face! So adorable! While chewing holes in socks...
The Pouchy-Pup Belly! So irresistable! While producing more poo...

Yep. Babies are cute for a reason. I've said it before, I'll say it again.

God - He's no Dummy.

My Bloggy Birthday! Directly Related to My Midlife Crisis!

2011-04-11T09:58:00.007-04:00

I turned 40 ~~a couple years ago~~ recently. So I figured it was time to go batcrap crazy.

Not really. But I did decide to have a midlife crisis - get off my ass and do some things I always wanted to.

You know, before I dropped dead and all.

What to do, what to do? Skydive? Nah - way too wimpy. Buy a new sports car? Way too poor. Have a steamy affair? Gah! Way too tired, and keeping up with one man's sex drive is plenty, thanks.

Nope. I didn't want any of these things. I wanted to write. Funny stuff, like my hero, Erma Bombeck. And my other hero, Jen Lancaster (even though Jen never answered my fan e-mail. Thanks a lot, Jen! Betcha Erma would've answered. I still love ya, Jen. And I'm not a stalker. *Crazy Eyes*)

Anywho, I did get off my ass and start writing. Two years ago this month, I had my first newspaper column published in the Buckeye Lake Beacon, here in Blow-Hio. It was (and still is) as successful as it can be in such a small market. But efforts to expand it to other papers ~~failed miserably~~ faltered, since newspapers are dropping dead faster than Charlie Sheen's brain cells.

Also? I wanted to cuss. Can't cuss in newspapers - you'll piss off the old people. And they're really the only ones who still read the paper.

So it was that I also began a blog, one year ago today. Yay for cussing! I wrote 50 posts last year. And I'm damn proud of it.

Proud because, probably just like you, I am already swamped, with work, life, spouse, kids, kids' sports, buying stuff for kids, driving kids around, listening to kids tell me what stuff to buy them... Proud because I force myself to write at least one post per week, whether I feel like it or not. Proud because writing is difficult, and writing funny? So much harder.

I'm so grateful that people actually read this silliness. When I started, all I wanted to do was make people laugh and smile. Nothing - NOTHING is more gratifying to me. And someday, who knows? Maybe I'll contribute absolutely zilch, zero, nada to literature and write a book.

You know, before I drop dead and all.

Thank you to all you poor suckers anyone who follows, reads - and especially comments - because that is the only payment most bloggers receive, really.

And it's enough.

Well, almost enough. I know, I know - you're probably wondering what gift you can buy for my Bloggy Birthday. What to get a funny little white girl? It's really not necessary. But, since you insist, I'd really like this....

Because boiling pasta can be such a challenge. And...AND - it's a 12-in-1 kitchen tool! Doubles as a colander, for rinsing and straining. Which are also, apparently, difficult activities.

What's that? You don't like this gift? OK. I have other ideas. How about...

Washing feet is also very taxing. Apparently. And look - says so right there on the box - no more of that pesky bending! Thank God! That was killing me!

Are you serious? You don't like either of these presents? You want to buy me something REALLY special? A gift that really Means Something?

OK, I guess you can get me the Best Gift of All:

Yes, this would be lovely. My buddy Oilfield Trash (he rocks, check him out!) filled me in on the Crackhead Charlie Winning Love Doll here, and now I must have him. Who doesn't want a Warlock Rockstar from Mars?

But damn it! Goddesses, Tiger's Blood and Crack Rocks not included! Says so right on the box.

That's OK, you guys. Mom will pick those up for me.

Winning!

Go Ahead...Ask Me If I'm Pregnant. I Dare You.

2011-04-07T05:51:00.000-04:00

(Post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

Lately, people have been asking me when the baby is due.

The baby’s eight, and capable of long division.

I guess I can see why they ask. It’s been a long, cold winter, and nowhere is this more evident than my gut. And maybe my thighs. Also my ass.

It began innocently in October, with a few hundred snack-size Snickers bars from the kids’ stash. The children hate nuts - I was just helping them. We wouldn't want the candy to go to waste. It's a public service.

I also give back to society on Thanksgiving. Since no one but me likes the Crock Pot-full of sweet potatoes that I fix, I'm forced to eat them all. It's a tough job. Someone has to do it - I'd hate to throw away food, and people are starving in Africa. So I just try to look at it as a chance to ingest mass quantities of melted butter and brown sugar. Simultaneously.

My selfless acts continue all through Christmas and New Year's. Those leftover cookies and unwanted chocolates, those bottles of gifted wine? They aren't going to consume themselves, now, are they? And, again - we wouldn't want them to go to waste.

You can see here how I provide a valuable community service by doing away with unwanted food. I'm a giver, really.

I'm not sure how much I'm helping, though, because all the goodies have gone to waste anyway. My waist.

I know it, because my pants are once again trying to kill me. It's an annual April event, the strangling and crushing of my internal organs. This is the thanks I get for my food removal services.

So begins the annual Spring War With My Pants.

That's right, Pants, I'm talking to you. I blame you - for puffing my muffintop. For bloating me like a pregnant penguin. Every breath I take is a fight with your fibers, Pants.

I see you bitches over there in the closet…folded, behaving...pretending to fit like you did in the fall. Smug, superior...feigning innocence.

But I know the truth. I know how you are, Pants. I’ll pull you on, and you’ll grip my gut like a vice, cutting me in half.

Pants. Haven't I been good to you? I painstakingly follow your care labels (“Machine Wash Cold. Hang Over Treadmill to Dry”) so that you air out slowly, allowing for maximum butt and belly stretch.

And still, you taunt me with your tightness. Depressing me, bringing me down, forcing me to cope with high-end pharmaceuticals. Such as Miller Lite.

If I had my way, I'd go without you, Pants. Pesky societal norms.

Instead, I'll fight you like I do every year. Toss your arses off the treadmill and crank up the exercise, cut back on the chow. And I'll beat you, Pants, for the summer, as always.

But Pants, next spring, after another winter of my public service, I know you'll try to crush me once more. Happens every year.

Folks will ask again when the baby’s due.

And then I will punch them.

Sh#t My Son Says

2011-04-01T05:27:00.000-04:00

(Post and photos and drawing, copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

My son: Adorable second grader. Baseball player. Pokemon fan. Straight A student.

And professional con artist.

Someday, he'll make a great attorney...or comedian...or car salesman.

Then again, those careers? Essentially the same thing.

I know he's clever because of the things he says and writes. The boy is very adept at arguing his opinion, using logic that gets him exactly what he wants.

Case in point: Tucking him into his bunk a few months ago, I noticed a boxy shape in his pocket. He'd already logged eleventy billion hours of video game play that day, and he knows bedtime is for sleeping, not games.

Still. He thought he'd give it a shot.

"Son. Is that a Game Boy in your pocket? Or are you happy to see me?" I said.
"Oh man!" he said.
Head hanging, crestfallen...
...and busted.
"Hand it over. Also, you're grounded off of video games for three days," I said.
"What?! Aww, Mom!" he said.

Oh - the drama! The whiny protests and promises! They followed me all the way downstairs.

The next morning, he walked to my bedside and handed me a letter. He called it a letter anyway. I call it Felon Logic:

Genius defense, no? He was the envy of convicted criminals everywhere. He was also still grounded.

A few months later, he was kind enough to leave us another note when he failed to finish his lunch. Such a thoughtful boy:

Really son? Did it make your belly hurt? Or did you have a brand new video game to get back to on the T.V.?

His capabilities extend into the spy arena. While butt-naked on the toilet, who doesn't want to see something like this?

Little stinker.

He enjoys spreading his BS skills all around the family. Here's what he wrote to his dad a few years ago, referring to the, er, squarish nature of my husband's rump-cheeks. And perhaps dad's gaseous emissions...

DadBob Squarebutt has busy pants. Apparently.

And speaking of anatomy, one night out, he carefully assembled his newly purchased Bionicle. He didn't feel that the toy needed to look like the picture on the box. Instructions? Those are for amateurs - not real men. He finished up, and waved THIS all around the restaurant.

We were so, um, proud. I think it was also happy to see me.

You're probably wondering how the little monkey gets away with all this:

Told you he was smart.

Tell The Boss You're Off On Fridays. Because I Said So.

2011-03-25T05:18:00.000-04:00

(post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

It's Friday. So sorry - but I'm closed.

In fact, by the power wasted on me, I hereby declare Fridays off. For everyone. From this day forward.

I can almost see your smiles, hear your sighs of relief at this wonderful news. Really, it was no bother for me to grant you a four-day workweek. I know, I know - you want to hug me. Just send cash.

My decision to give us all a reduced schedule is based on extensive research, with the following very scientific findings:

A. I am tired, and...
B. I need a nap since...
C. all I do is work and...
D. lots of folks tell me they feel the same way.

Want to know why?

For the most part - I think Americans work too much. We also work too damn hard. Do the math: Five of the seven days in a week, we use up HALF (or more) of our waking hours at jobs. HALF! Or More!

Somebody get me a Xanax.

Seriously, though - teachers spend more days with my kids than I do, and I spend much more time with my co-workers than my family.

I know that, for many decades, this is the way things have been. But please - tell me the name of the person responsible for deciding that we MUST work five days, 40 hours a week to earn benefits and a decent wage. If he's still around, send him my way - because I'd really like to kick him. Directly in the ass.

I do have some good news related to my decision to change your hours: There is some trending towards an altered schedule. Utah state employees - along with many American businesses - have adopted the four-ten hour work-week with great, money-saving results.

I found the following info on the Internet (therefore it must be true). Many four-day work-week supporters say such a schedule:

Increases employee productivity
Increases time spent with family
Increases employee happiness

Yeah. But can't you just hear The Man?: "Employee happiness? Ha! Who cares about that?"

True, in this employers’ market, increasing workers’ morale doesn’t usually rank as a priority. Today's business motto? “Shut Up and Work - You're Lucky to Have a Job.”

So how about these assertions from the same site, which state that four-day work-weeks:

Reduce labor costs for businesses
Reduce operational costs for businesses, in the form of decreased security, energy and utility expenses
Reduce employee absenteeism
Increase productivity

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Boss.

Anyway, screw him. I've decided I am your supervisor today, hence my decision to give all of us another day off. Because, simply put, if no one worked on Fridays, then no one else would have to work on Fridays. Word.

Stores could close. Offices could close. Banks could close. We could all stay home and spend more time with our loved ones. What a concept.

Imagine the savings! Imagine the reduced stress! Imagine the lack of dummies on the road traffic!

For the love of all that’s holy, people. Imagine the NAPS!

This One Time? At School? A Teacher Tried To Kill Me With A Book

2011-03-18T05:31:00.004-04:00

(post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber. Note: Names have been changed to protect the ~~guilty~~ innocent.)

The teacher had no idea how I ended up in advanced English. She said I had the penmanship of a mentally challenged first-grader.

"It really is amazing," Mrs. Emm told me, many times. "You sure don't have the handwriting of a smart person."

But that wasn't the reason she threw a book at my head.

Ah...the 80s: when a kid could be a kid and a teacher could throw stuff at a kid.

She had every reason to hurl things at me. I'd known about the term paper for nine weeks. It was a huge, multi-paged headache chunk of our passing grade, our ticket out of high school and into college.

And when did I choose to start this important work?

The day before.

It wasn't that I didn't want to write it - I just had more important things to do. Such as drive around town in my Ford Ranger. Pursue my budding McDonald's career. Also, attend parties.

I found myself skipping school the morning before the paper's due date, to stay home and get it done. Truancy, procrastination, sloppiness, all with a Guns 'n Roses soundtrack. That's how I rolled then to the best of my recollection...

But I wasn't a very good felon, because when I sat down to scribble out my paper, I realized I'd forgotten all the needed notes in my locker. Conveniently located directly outside Mrs. Emm's door.

Delinquency: not my strong suit.

Note to 1987 self: Hey Dummy. When skipping school to catch up on homework, remember to take necessary books and papers with you the day before.

So before I could frantically write the term paper "stay home sick," I had to drive my sorry ass to the school. I parked and snuck in, past Mrs. Emm's open classroom door to my locker. Gathered the needed notes, quietly shut the metal door and...

Me: *Sneak...creep...slink...*
Mrs. Emm: "I SEE you out there!"
Me: "Oh....hi Mrs. Emm! How are you?"
Mrs. Emm: "How are YOU? I thought you were home SICK today?"
Me: "Yeah...uhhhh...but I forgot something and had to get it."
Mrs. Emm: "Dawn, do you have your term paper done?"
Me: "Yeah, um, not just yet."
Mrs. Emm: "Dawn. When did you START your term paper?"
Me: "Ummm...today?"

*cue Crazy Teacher Eyes.*

All five feet of her body tensed. She pivoted and balanced, flung her arm back, then pitched her extra-heavy! teacher's manual forward. Toward my thick teen-aged skull.

Wow. She had one hell of an arm on her. If I hadn't ducked, I'd probably now be drooling in the nursing home.

Me *tiny voice*: "Mrs. Emm?"

Mrs. Emm: "You've known about this the ENTIRE nine weeks! You just started today?"

*More Crazy Teacher Eyes.* *Walking towards me...*

Well. Clearly it was time for me to get back home to the business of truancy. Right away.

I ran out of the school and drove to the house. Ploughed through an all-nighter and finished the paper, ending up in ample trouble with my Mom and the principal for skipping school. I think I received a very generous, probably undeserved "C" for the piece.

Mrs. Emm felt terrible for her book-hurl. As I recall, she apologized to both my Mom and I.

She didn't have to, because I learned a valuable nearly fatal lesson. I never procrastinated again. My work is ALWAYS on-time, and sometimes even legible if it's typed.

To this very day, when I consider putting off a project, I see flying books.

And *Crazy Teacher Eyes.*

Note: Ms. Blase over at The Unpopular Girl in Womanhood has given me my very first award, the Versatile Blogger Award.

Thank you, Ms. Blase! Check out her awesome blog here. The rules for this award are:

- Thank the person who gave you the award
- Share 7 things about yourself
- Pass the award to up to 10 versatile bloggers
- Let those bloggers know that you gave them the awardAlrighty then! Here we go:

I am afraid of these things, all of which have already happened (in some degree) to me.

being in a car accident with a semi.
being in a car accident on a bridge, plummeting into water.
strangers breaking into my home in the middle of the night.

-Although I drive my sorry ass into the city every day, I secretly wish I was I was a farmer. Because I love animals, the outdoors, and I REALLY love tractors. Don't judge.
-I am OCD-weird about recycling, and feel terrible when I throw out something recyclable.
- I can: play piano, make stained glass windows, pencil-draw, make mosaics, make jewelry, take some pretty good photographs ;).
-I can't (but wish I could): play electric guitar, sing, paint with oils and/or acrylics, sculpt

I hereby award the Versatile Blogger Award to:

Almost But Not Quite

Life in the Land of Confusion

Heidi in Real Life

Life According to Candice

Sugar Free Thoughts

Ducks Mahal

Muffintop Mommy

Naked Blogging

2011-03-10T06:45:00.002-05:00

Obviously, I need to do more Naked Blogging.

Jeez-Louise, people! During my last post - concerning the very vital, very riveting topic of Nude People Dancing - I received 7 new followers and 28 comments.

I'm bad - I'm nationwide, yo! In my own mind, for two days tops...

Yep - sex still sells. Actually, I should have known the last piece would rank high - Blogger stats say that my most-read post until now was "They Are Not Hooker Shoes!"

Apparently all I have to do to gain readership, and maybe someday possibly almost make a buck from my writing, is talk about something racy or tack on the word “naked.”

This, and a recent post by my friend Audubon Ron at Ducks Mahal, reminds me of the old fortune cookie game, in which you take the little paper predictions and attach the phrase "in bed" or "between the sheets." I.E. "You will have a memorable evening...in bed."

Maybe I should really run with it. Become the Naked Blogger in bed. Although the husband's not a fan of stripped strangers, he's appreciative of my nudity, and I'm sure this would be a big hit with him. Me, sitting around, laptop-on-ample-gut, buck nude and pecking away between the sheets.

This would, of course, mean that you all have to become my Naked Followers. You’d like that, woudn’t you? Haha. That’s because ya'all are a bunch of pervs like me between the sheets. I love it! naked in bed.

But as a mom, I could never completely pimp my blog with nudity. After all, everyone knows mothers never think of sex. I have two kids who can’t stomach their parents kissing, let alone (gasp!) anything else. No, these two hope that they appeared on this earth by magic, brought here via immaculate conception. Or maybe little pink bunnies in bed.

The children would not appreciate the visuals of me as a Naked Blogger, either. They get ill when I remove a bra under my shirt - highly offended and repulsed, apparently, by the fact that women have nipples.

So don't worry. My new-found very temporary popularity will not go to my head, I promise. I will keep my clothes on, much to my children's relief, and continue to explore such vital issues as cats on cars, the tooth fairy, endlessly awful Ohio weather, and Dairy Queen Blizzards in bed.

You're welcome between the sheets.

The Winds of March? Yeah. They Blow.

2011-02-28T06:30:00.001-05:00

(post copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)
Giving myself a little bloggy break right now. But I didn't want to let my readers, (all ten of them! I love you guys!) down. (Also I am OCD about posting once per week). This piece first appeared in my "Lighten Up" newspaper column in the Buckeye Lake Beacon last winter. Since March still sucks, I thought I'd re-publish for your pleasure. Lucky you.

March: what a tease.

Blowing in our ears with a little warm breeze...slipping off the clouds now and then...giving us a little peek at the sun...batting the robin’s wings.

And then - BAM! More cold, more snow, more gray, more misery.

Yeah, good old month three. My buddy Rick said it best:

“March is my least favorite month of the year. I’m done with winter, but winter ain’t done with me.”

Think this winter’s finished with us? I’m afraid to look. Anyway, something’s wrong with my eyes: The only colors I can see are gray and white.

That’s because, last month alone, the skies dumped more than 30 inches of white stuff on our area, making it the snowiest February on record. Nationwide, it snowed or froze everywhere from Georgia to Florida to Texas.

Somebody get me a Snuggie.

The White Death. Snowmageddon. The Blizzard of 2010. The Worst! Weather! Ever!

Whatever you want to call it - enough already. First snow, then icy rain. Then, more snow. Thawed enough to cause a frigid, ankle-biting, bone-chilling crust. On top of this, guess what? Snow.

We can hack it, though. We’re Ohioans - our state color should be gray. We don’t expect rainbows and unicorns.

We count on crappy weather. We thrive on crappy weather. We ARE crappy weather.

Fifty-five degrees one day, five inches of snow the next? Bring it on. Sunny warm breezes one hour, tornado warning the next? Scoff. What else you got? We’re Buckeyes, baby - tough nuts!

Not only has February 2010 toughened my already thick Buckeye shell, it has proven most educational. I have learned valuable lessons, such as:

The old college prank is true - you can lift a Volkswagen Beetle. My neighbor and I hoisted mine out of three-foot-high snowdrift. My lower back will not forget it. Ever.
During a power outage, home furnaces can be wired to gasoline-powered generators. In a pinch, this can be done by a 40-year-old cussing mother of two. Crouched amongst spiders. Using a cell phone screen as a flashlight.
Shoveling the roof sounds stupid and dangerous. It is! To keep a structure standing under the weight of hundreds of pounds of snow and ice, it is also sometimes necessary.
Icicles are lovely. Icicles can also back up inside gutters, thaw inside walls and cause leakage, mold and rot. Icicles are not lovely.

Yes, it’s been an interesting February, the shortest, longest month of the year. But, sure as yellow snow, it does end. Eventually.

And the one good thing about March? It ain’t February.

And The Winner Is...

2011-02-13T17:09:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm sure none of you could sleep this week, wondering who won the Wade Rouse book “It’s All Relative: Two Families, Three Dogs, 34 Holidays, and 50 Boxes of Wine." Me either! Those were seven sleepless nights.

I was going to use one of those fancy Internet number randomizers for the drawing, but then I saw a cute kid hanging around, and I am all about child labor. So Mr. Monkey here took a break from an uber-important Mario Kart game, complaining all the while, to draw this number for my readers (all 10 of them! I love you guys!) That's authentic chocolate milk on those lips, people. You can't buy this kind of quality entertainment.

So without further adieu, the winner is...

Yep! Number Eight! Numero Ocho! Which, by my count, are my bloggy/Twitter friends 2 Girls On a bench! Check out their awesome, hilarious blog here! Two Girls - e-mail me your address. You have one incredible book on the way. You'll have to take turns...now, now girls...don't fight over Wade!

I'm Giving Away Wade Rouse! Hope He's OK With That! (Also? My First Book Review Since High School)

2011-02-07T06:40:00.002-05:00

(Post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

I’ve spent the past couple days walking into doors, tripping over my feet and neglecting my children.

Nothing new, but I'm more oblivious than usual. I blame author Wade Rouse. I’ve just finished his newest memoir: “It’s All Relative: Two Families, Three Dogs, 34 Holidays, and 50 Boxes of Wine" and couldn't put the damn thing down. Read the 288-page book between Tuesday and Wednesday, walking around the house glued to my e-reader like a teen girl to a cell phone.

As regular LightenUp! readers all ten of them - I love you guys! can imagine, of course I'm a huge fan of any book that begins with a prologue called “Jingle Balls," which details Rouse’s great-uncle parading around in a stuffy, crappy Santa Claus suit, complaining to his wife of too-hot testicles. What's not to love?

With that, Rouse kicks off a memoir filled with wacky, offbeat, loving craziness. He throws his front door wide open, inviting us in for his family's bungling celebrations, from childhood to present day with his partner Gary.

Have you ever dismembered a Barbie and glued her to your Valentine box ? Given your beloved a three-pack of Hanes briefs as a romantic gift? Have you ever celebrated "Swedish Day?" No?

Wade has.

Have you ever trick-or-treated in a rural Ozark neighborhood - skin painted black - dressed as an African tribesman? Imagined that Pez dispensers were your "little friends?" Dropped a game-winning baseball while trying to hug (and possibly kiss) your teammate? No?

Wade has.

And it's really no wonder, with a madcap family like his: a dad who buries Easter eggs to make the hunt "more challenging," a mom who "levitates" her son's bed to get him to sleep.

Many other authors have pimped their family foibles for humor's sake: Augusten Burroughs, Laurie Notaro and David Sedaris, *cough* Dawn Weber *cough* to name a few. What makes Rouse different?

Love.

You can almost physically feel Rouse's devotion to his family. He's sprinkled serious pieces about his partner, Gary, their dogs, and especially his (now deceased) mom, a central, grounding figure all through the work. These essays give the collection a depth and flavor not found with other authors, and I finished “It’s All Relative...” wishing I knew Rouse better - that he was in my family or circle of friends.

In fact, I met Rouse once, at the Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop last April. Wade walked around, hugging and talking with us, the attendees. When I thanked him for stopping and taking a picture with me, he hugged me again and said:

“Oh, come on - I am just one of you! I am just like you.”

I wish, Wade. I wish.

Wade Rouse is the author of three other memoirs (which I now have to get, because I loved this one so much. Thanks a lot, Rouse.) Fellow writers, don't miss your chance to attend Rouse's upcoming writing workshop, May 12-15 Check it out: http://www.wadeswriters.com/index.html

Be sure to leave a comment below to win a brand-new copy of “It’s All Relative: Two Families, Three Dogs, 34 Holidays, and 50 Boxes of Wine." On Sunday, Feb. 13, a winner will be randomly chosen from this post’s commenters. Please ensure I have your e-mail address so I can contact you if you win. The best way to do this is to be sure you're one of my blog followers hint-hint.

Family Jewels

2011-02-01T06:54:00.003-05:00

(post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

In third grade, I got my very own set of family jewels.

I am referring to earrings and necklaces here - of course I am. Don’t be pervy.

Age 9, I normally never dated younger men, because, c’mon - eight-year-olds? Not cool.

But I made an exception for Ty. Incredibly cute and sweet, he had just moved to town. Also, he had the longest, darkest, curliest eyelashes I had ever seen.

I had serious, elaborate plans of pulling them out and gluing them on my eyes, like the false eyelashes I’d seen at the drugstore.

He’d asked me to date him in customary way, via note:

“Will you go with me? Circle one. Yes or no.”

Thinking how nice I’d look in his eyelashes, I circled “yes.”

And so began our romance. He attempted to talk to me, and I chased him around the schoolyard, trying to kick him in the shins. This was the usual way I expressed my affection for a boy. And I figured if I kicked Ty until he fell, I could maybe get my hands on those eyelashes.

One sunny day, I had taken a break from the kick-fest to play in the sandbox.

And there in the questionable dirt, as I squatted in my Sears Toughskins, it happened: Ty walked up and gave me his Family Jewels. In a baggie.

My grubby hands contained the most beautiful jewelry I had ever seen. Blue gems, hoop earrings, rhinestones, gold chains, rubies - Ty’s bag was just stuffed with goodies. My Mom’s jewelry box didn’t have half of this stuff. I asked him where he bought it.

“I got it for you,” he said, shrugging.

I had an inkling that those things belonged to someone else. But I didn't care, because immediately the other kids flocked around, and I quite enjoyed the attention of showing off Ty’s Family Jewels. All the girls wanted his bag. However, only I was the proud recipient. This was the best day ever!

So I merrily continued flashing Ty’s jewels around. In the classroom, at second recess, on the bus. The only people I didn’t show? The teachers. I had a sneaking suspicion they might take my stash away.

I also wondered if I’d have to give the jewels back after I plucked Ty’s eyelashes out, as this was sure to cause pain and make him cry. It was a risk I was willing to take. Those were some serious eyelashes.

Home from school that evening, I had forgotten about the baggie. (It was, after all, a “Happy Days” night.) While I watched TV, Mom went through my school work - as always - and of course she found it.

“Dawn Lynn, WHAT is THIS?” she asked.

Uh-oh. The middle name. Trouble. I spilled the story, playing innocent, like I had no suspicions of anything but Ty spending his own hard-earned allowance to buy the jewelry. But even though I was young, I was still a female - I knew good pieces when I saw them. I also knew the average 1978 allowance could not purchase rubies and gold chains.

My Mom quickly looked up Ty’s phone number, called, and told his mother what she had found.

His mom was relieved. You see, her jewelry box had mysteriously emptied that week, with no signs of a burglar anywhere else in the house, and no one admitting anything.

The next day at school, I gave him back his Family Jewels - in his bag.

Then, knowing me, I probably kicked him in the shins, and went for his eyelashes.

I never could grab them - he was a fast little jewel thief.

Ty grew up and became a phenomenal guy with still phenomenal eyelashes. He's a husband, a father, a coach and businessman extraordinaire, who owns his own insurance agency. Contact him for all your insurance needs.

Do not see him for your jewelry needs. His days as a family felon are over.

To finish this story, I had to e-mail my buddy Ty and ask him some questions about the incident, and he sent his side of it back to me. Adorable:

1. Totally fine to use the story. 2. graduated 88. 3. Yes right after I moved there and I was in 2nd grade so 8? 4. Yes your mom was the B word that screwed my whole plan of gettin naked with you in the sandbox. 5. U were going with me and that’s why I gave the jewels. 6. I am sick individual to remember like it was yesterday or maybe you are the only one that got away LOL I threw the rest of the woman away on my own terms. 7. Yes she went into her jewelry box to get some earrings and I cleaned the whole damn box out LOL. She then interviewed everyone in the house and of course I denied everything and then your lovely mother made a call. Don’t like her very much to this day. 8. I went into her room and threw everything in a ziploc baggie like I was robbing the place LOL. 10 I put it in my lunch box and then brought it out when I got on the bus. You should have seen your face you were so happy LOL.

Doris the Die-Hard Waitress

2011-01-28T06:36:00.000-05:00

(post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

I consider myself a likable gal...a decent worker...an OK chick.

Not everyone agrees.

Especially the one I'll call "Doris." Because that was her name. I think. If her name wasn't Doris, it should have been. Big, blowsy, platinum blond bee-hive-haired bee-yotch Die-Hard Waitress that she was.

Of course, at the time I was waitressing also Gawd help me. Had to. It was post-college, and I had engaged in the proud American tradition of maxing out the credit cards they gave like candy to university students. I'd spent the money on important things. Such as film, cameras and pitchers of beer.

While trying to begin my chosen career, I had three jobs. One for the Visa, one for the Discover and one for another Discover that had my name spelled wrong. (I used it anyway.)

Job number two, for Discover card one, entailed serving at the crappy restaurant where I worked with Doris. Someone with a sick sense of humor asked her to train me.

Red wrinkled lips pursed, gum snapping, hands on polyester-clad hips, she was the epitome of Flo from Mel's Diner - only evil. She sized me up.

"So, you want to be a waitress, huh?" she asked.
"No. I want to pay off my credit cards so I can stay out of jail," I said.

Wrong answer, college girl.

Doris the Die-Hard Career Waitress was pissed. Her crepey, over-Maybellined eyes snapped with fire. She could tell I loathed the idea of working in that dump, and that I wouldn't be sticking around for long.

This made me Doris's bitch.

So she began torturing training me by teaching me important waitressing skills: how to make coffee, fill salt shakers, take orders and sweep floors kill me now, all the while juggling a diner full of grungy customers eager for questionable meatloaf.

I tried hard not to shoot myself.

Because no matter how diligently I swept, how carefully I poured, how quickly I flung the questionable meatloaf...

Doris the Die-Hard Career Waitress was pissed.

"Not like that! You're spilling salt on the counter!"
"Why haven't you given booth three their food yet? It's been up for 25 seconds!"
"Why haven't you made coffee? Jesus, what have you been doing? You have to keep up with the COFFEE!"

Hands on hips again, shooting me the Maybelline-crepey-evil-eyes, she'd then whisper my failings to the other waitresses.

I felt like Hester Prynne.

Often I'd go back to the stockroom, ostensibly for ketchup, to contemplate her murder collapse amongst the condiments and cry. Here I was, after ~~five~~ four years, having clawed my way through school, only to work in a greasy spoon. Earning 50-cent tips from crabby old men and serving as Doris's whipping post.

And that was just one of my jobs.

Every afternoon, defeated and reeking of grease, I'd gather my meager tips and purchase a money order to mail to Discover Card those bastards, and occasionally, I'd make enough to send out a photography portfolio in my apparent losing battle to use my degree. Then I'd hop in my old Ford, the Flaming Fairmont of Death that's another story, and head to one of my other workplaces.

Again I tried hard not to shoot myself.

A wise choice. Because one day, after many, many endless! months, I got the call. The call I'd been waiting for. The call that meant I'd begin my real career, and could maybe, perhaps, possibly - quit one or more of my low-paying jobs!

Guess which one I chose first? Go ahead, guess!

That's right. So long, suckas! Buh-bye, waitress-bitches!

Doris the Die-Hard Waitress was pissed.

And I couldn't have cared less.

Don't Be a Dummy!

2011-01-22T09:42:00.002-05:00

(Post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

My buddy Al: He has theories.

Theories about life, about clothing and "The Dummies."

Al and I have worked together for more than five years now, inside a high-rise in downtown Columbus. But we're both originally from Youngstown, Ohio which, of course, makes us mobsters smarter than most folks.

We have decided that we are wise and cool. According to us. Of course, Al has a theory about this:

“It’s a Youngstown Thing, a Youngstown Thing,” says Al, nodding his head.

I also have the great good fortune of receiving my Buddy Al's theories on just about everything else, up to and including my wardrobe. He's thoughtful like that.

For instance, my green snow boots:

"What are those? Some kind of...some kind of Leprechaun Ass-Kickers? Hahaha!" said Al.

…And my red gingham shirt.

"What is that? Some kind of...some kind of picnic blanket? Hahaha! Here - made you this…":

Get Off My Shirt

A generous guy, my Buddy Al. He especially likes to share his knowledge of "The Dummies."

"The Dummies" lurk everywhere: near elevators, the grocery store, the interstate. 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!"

Yes, my Buddy Al has taught me how to stealthily, skillfully avoid "The Dummies." I'll share these skills with you, though you may be a Dummy yourself. You're welcome.

Involving oneself with Dummies - especially in traffic - means waiting, elevated blood pressure and wasted time, he says. Why hang with Dummies when you can be cruising away from Dummies?

Exhibit A: Dummies in Gridlock

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

When faced with gridlock, my Buddy Al recommends quickly finding alleys. One can then zip down these side streets, avoiding Dummy traffic.

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

And, when approaching a traffic jam near an exit, get in the far right-hand lane and go around all The Dummies.

Next, look for a semi-truck on your left, and then merge in front of the semi. Al advises leaving plenty of space, not cutting the trucker off and also saying thank you with a wave or flick of taillights.

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

Of course, this tactic will not score you points with the others in line behind you. My Buddy Al is not concerned.

"Who cares? They're Dummies," says Al.

Not Dummies!

Where Are the Ohioans?

2011-01-15T08:00:00.003-05:00

(Post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)
Although I keep trying to forget, it's winter. Still. So lately I've been plopped on the couch like a proper Midwesterner. Watching the boob-tube.

Now that I said "boob," and I have your attention, I ask you: Where are the regular people? Where are the Ohioans?

All this diversity in entertainment, all these faces in all these different skin tones, yet one thing stays the same - everyone is achingly beautiful and disgustingly fit.

I want to punch them.

As a Buckeye, (State Motto: Eat Your Food - There's Nothing Else To Do) I'm feeling, well, under-represented. Where are the wrinkles, the paunches, the bellies, the double chins? Where are the split ends, the receding hairlines, the mutts, the American cars, the crappy jobs. Hell, where are any jobs? Do these people work?

Holy Toledo, where are the old people? What have they done to the old people?

Just look at the “Desperate Housewives.” Why so desperate, skinny bitches ladies? Someone take your botox docs? Gorgeous little minxes, all of you. Chiseled cheeks, perfect hair, long legs, flat tummies, jutting hipbones...

Hipbones. I remember them from such decades as the 80s.

Want to see a Desperate Housewife? Come visit me in January. Add bored, complaining, housebound kids and 11 piles of laundry. Toss in an elderly parent requiring attention, a rag-tag collection of needy pets and a good 20-lb. stress-induced muffintop. For added desperation, drain my last Miller Lite.

But it's not just the nighttime soaps. No, even the reality shows are in on it - "Jersey Shore," "Dancing With the Stars," "Big Brother." For the most part, the participants in these programs look like they stepped out of fashion magazines...or at least out of high-end brothels.

There are a couple exceptions - for one, ABC's "The Middle." Although located in a fictional Indiana, it's pretty accurate in Mid-America interpretation, with freakishly short Frankie, freakishly tall Mike and their wonderfully weird kids. In a messy, badly decorated, Midwestern house, schlumping through life like the rest of us.

And there's TVLand's "Hot In Cleveland," featuring the usual skinny bitches supermodel types poking fun at Ohioans. But we can take a joke. Especially since the sitcom also stars a glorious, riotously funny yay for old people! Betty White. The cast may have a laugh at our expense. But they soon find themselves appreciating Midwestern living, just as the Victoria Chase character said in the pilot episode:

"Cleveland: Where everyone is eating. And no one is ashamed!"

Damn straight, Victoria. We are not ashamed, and we won't be ignored. We are Buckeyes - we have big nuts.

Heartland homeys, it's time to take back the tube and tell Holly-weird: Listen up! We want to see some more "average!" We want hard-working folks living in two-story, mill-worker row-houses, with beat-up Fords and a crabby mom who needs her roots done. Kids with messy hair, glued to electronic boxes! A dad scratching himself in front of the Ohio State game! A dog who pees on the floor! Sometimes!

Now THAT'S ~~my house~~ some quality, reality television.