The Naked Parade

I made my children very sick the other day. Didn’t mean to.

There were tantrums, sweat and tears, fits, shouts and fevers. Hands covered mouths, bodies fell to the floor and cookies were tossed.

Whatever did I do to make the little darlings so violently ill?

I accidentally let them see me in a state of, well, “underwear.”

Yes, evidently I closely resemble Jabba the Hutt. I was not aware of this! I’m so glad they pointed it out - wonderful children. This 5’2’’ vessel of flesh that lovingly carried and nurtured them, this body that writhed through torturous hours of agonizing labor to bring them into this world…the slight site of it now sends them into fits of revulsion.

For many years, I’ve tried to hide my apparent hideousness from those two. I use a complicated bathing/dressing ritual designed to keep them from seeing my, er, “assets” : First, head into bathroom. Lock door, shower, dry off, dress as much as possible. Open bathroom door, peek to make they’re not looking, and sprint to bedroom for rest of clothes.

On this particular day, though, my mission was a big “fail.” I partially dressed, opened the door, did the peek-n-run. But is was no use - they spotted me in the Hinterland of the Hallway.

“Ewww! Mom! GROSS!” said my son, 7.

“That is just….UNATTRACTIVE!” said my daughter, 12.

Can’t you just feel the love?

It’s not their fault, really. They possess the smooth, flawless, muscle-packed skin that only the young can claim - and take for granted. Gravity and time have not pummeled their perfect bodies yet. The little boogers.

So when they see this 41-year-old pillar of, um, “experienced” flesh, with its faults and foibles, they tend to go into shock.

Luckily, I came up with a way that my children will never, ever again have to gaze upon my hideousness: A major Master Bathroom/Walk-In Closet renovation!

Indeed, a $39,000, granite-countered, garden-Jacuzzi-tubbed, en-suite bathroom - connected, of course, to a large walk-in closet - will solve this whole dilemma! No more hallway peek-n-run! If we knocked out the downstairs bathroom wall, connecting it to the bedroom, there‘d be no more hallway, and…

Thank goodness for all my HGTV-viewing, or I would not be aware of such solutions.

Ah, HGTV. You complete me.

I took my genius remodeling plans to my husband.

“You want to do WHAT? You want to knock out WHAT WALL?!” he said.

I explained the situation: How my near-nakedness is sickening the kids. How the peek-n-run from the bathroom to the bedroom has become more difficult in these, my Golden Years. And how garden Jacuzzi tubs are necessary for the aged body.

Surprisingly, he was not enthusiastic.

Turns out he's a fan of the Naked Hallway. He's also a fan of my peek-n-run parade.

Most of all, he says he's a fan of keeping money in his pocket - and not putting cash into a new garden Jacuzzi tub.

Looks like the kids will have to deal with the occasional, accidental “mom’s underwear” sighting. Tough tooters.

After all, if it wasn’t for this Birthday Suit - and their father’s appreciation of it - their little Birthday Suits wouldn’t even exist.

Can I get an Amen?

There's No Place Like Florida

(copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

Life is too short to live in Ohio.

Oh yes, I did - I went there, I said it. That's my quote, and I'm stickin' to it. You can use it, if you feel the same way. Just please send me some coin each time you do, so that I can save up and eventually move my frozen, landlocked, saggy-senior-citizen-ass out of here.

I love my fellow Buckeyes. Sorry for the cussing. I'm just a little crabby, you see, because God has thrown me down in the wrong state. Also, the other man in my life went and did it again: My husband made me come back from Florida. He always does. I try to run, to hide, to get away - but it's no use. That guy always finds me.

This last time, he spotted me on the rented condo's screened porch under a patio table, crouched amongst the little lizards.

"I don't want to go home...I don't want to go home...you can't make me!" I chanted, rocking myself.

To get me out of there, he used words like "unemployed," "destitute" and "childless." The big meaner. He's just concerned because he knows he's fighting a losing battle with me and my other love, Florida.

"Honey," he says, "I don't worry about losing you to another man. I worry about losing you to another state."

He better worry. Have you seen this place?

The sound of the waves. The smell of flowers. The touch of soft sand. Each evening, while body-surfing, heart-stopping sunsets. Dolphins cresting in the distance. Most nights, a rainbow opposite the setting sun.

It was a freakin' Disney movie. I am pretty sure we found Nemo.

Now. Let's contrast these Pixar visuals with Ohio's scenery, which can be seen any given day on an I-71 drive from Columbus to Cincinnati.

A barn...some cows...a field. And look! Over there! A field...a barn...some cows. Repeat. Ad infinitum.

(You know, statistics rank Ohio as the ninth most populated state. I have no idea why. They must be  counting the cows.)

But wait! There's much more to us than barns and bovines. For at least six months, we also have either clouds, or snow, or both! Accompanying those, we have ice! Slush! Sleet! Freezing rain, hail, bone-chilling winds and blizzards!

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Miami!

Okay, I know. I'm not fooling anyone. You can see what this all boils down to - I am done with Ohio's winters. Done. After 41 years here, I'm absolutely finished with snow.

I've also had it with snow scrapers, snow shovels, snow days, snowballs, snow squalls, snow tires, snow plows, snow drifts, snow emergencies...

For all I care, even the snowmen can melt in hell.

Yes, I can imagine what all my dear, much-loved, soon-to-be freezing fellow Buckeyes are probably thinking right about now:

"If you don't like it, Weber, then get the EFF outta here!"

I am working on it. There's a few things stopping me. Like pension plans. The kids' school. Affordable healthcare. Also reality, in conjunction with that meddling husband.

Someday, though, our youngest child will graduate, and we'll both retire. Pack up our Buick and head to the Sunshine State like the rest of the Blue Hairs.

Because after all, blue hair? Not so bad. Much better than blue lips.

The Best Silver Anniversary EVER!

copyright 2010, Dawn Weber
Twenty-five years of the Dairy Queen Blizzard, 25 extra pounds on my gut.

Coincidence? I think not.

Yes sir, the fine folks at your local Dairy Queen introduced the Blizzard back in 1985, swirling in things like chocolate bars, cookies, candies and - apparently - crack. Because I promptly began snarfing them down and packing on pounds.

Before that, in the 70s and early 80s, Midwestern kids like me had a handful of ice cream flavors from which to choose: vanilla, chocolate, strawberry and neopolitan. Blah, blah, blah and triple-blah.

"You'll get vanilla, or you'll get nothin', kid!"

I'll take nothin'. I could care less about those lame-o choices. A vanilla cone? A dish of chocolate ice cream? Ha! I laugh at your feeble dairy offerings. Buy me a Milky Way bar and call it good.

And then...THEN...came the Blizzard.

Vanilla soft serve ice cream, yes, but blended with candy, candy, CANDY! A kid's dream! The ice cream's mellow melt offsetting the crunchy sweetness of my favorites, Heath or Butterfinger bars. Yum!

Have I mentioned the candy?

If that wasn't awesome enough, Baskin-Robbins, Ben and Jerry's, Haagen-Dazs and other store-brand ice creams jumped on the treat train. Moose tracks, peanut butter cup, fudge, cookies n' cream...

Sigh. Excuse me - I need a minute alone.

Oh, yes. Like a man or two I've known, candy-packed ice cream gives me at least sixty seconds of untamed happiness.

But too much of a good thing can make you pregnant fat.

With that in mind, as an adult I've made a point of always living at least 20 minutes from the nearest Dairy Queen and major grocery stores. That way, I am far from temptation.

Acquiring treats becomes a serious mission. One that requires planning, buying gasoline and changing out of PJs - tasks I strenuously avoid.

So you can imagine my joy-tinged angst when I saw this:

Well spank my ass and call me fatty.

Apparently DQ is celebrating their frozen treat's big 2-5 with the DQ Blizzard Maker? Now I won't even have to get off my Blizzard-bloated butt to partake. This gizmo is designed so that a child can make them, and serve me on the couch, as a child should.

I am sure I will plunk down the $29.99 for it, then rush to the store for ice cream supplies and Heath bars to crush.

Because I give up. I admit it.

My shape was just dandy till ice cream had candy.

The Tooth Fairy's Tighty-Whiteys

                                                                                                              

copyright 2010, Dawn Weber

Tooth Fairy?

Not at our place. More like the Fail Fairy.

My poor kid. Witness our conversation first thing this a.m.:

"Uh, Mommy? Something weird happened," he yelled from his room.

I braced myself. 'Weird' can make me kids cry. 'Weird' usually needs cleaned up.

'Weird' is never good, generally involves an animal and makes me late for work.

But, in all my years of parenthood, 'weird' has always waited until after breakfast.

"Okay...what's that?" I said, ever the resigned-to-my-fate brave one.
"The Tooth Fairy left me a dollar, but she didn't take my tooth!" he said, surprised and angry.
"Um...well...uh...maybe she couldn't find it," I said.
"Yeah. Or maybe she has enough teeth right now...I guess...," said my son, trying to hide the disappointment in his wee voice.

I made a mental note to kick some Tooth Fairy ass.

Didn't have to wait long. He/she called me.

"I hear the Tooth Fairy forgot to take Levi's tooth this morning?" I said.
"Yeah. I went in across his floor, it was all 'CREAK! CREAK! CREAK!'" said the Fairy. "His pillow was half off his bed, half on. I'm feeling around under it, couldn't find his tooth anywhere."
"So what'd you do?" I said.
"I put the dollar right by his face, and tried to walk out, but the floor was all 'CREAK! CREAK! CREAK!' again, and he woke up and looked right at me," he/she said.
"Well, you're lucky, you big goober," I said. "He didn't remember that, because he didn't say anything."
"I'm surprised, considering what I was wearing," he/she said.

Yes folks, apparently when my boy spotted him/her,the Fairy was in his/her men's Hanes white undershirt and tighty-whiteys of questionable cleanliness.

Niiiicccce. The kid probably blocked it out of his memory.

Guess the Easter Bunny/Santa Claus, who weighs less and won't cause as much CREAK, will have to take over tooth duty, too.

Because - on the grounds of slacking, cross-dressing and dubious underwear -  the Fail Fairy is fired.