Walk Like a Man. Talk Like a Man. Pee Like...a Man?

(post copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

Well spank my ass and call me 'Don.'

Yep. Dawn - is gone. Because now I really can do anything a man can do. Like pee while standing up, with a Female Urination Device (F.U.D.) such as the GoGirl.

Ladies! Lucky, lucky us. What's next? Equal pay for equal work?

No more of that tiresome knee-bending, that sitting down to urinate. Such exertion!

When nature calls, with an F.U.D., a woman can simply stand and place the funnel over her, um, naughty bits and, um, urinate, aiming the, um, stream wherever.

She can make some yellow snow. See a man about a horse. Drain the main vein. Piss up a rope. Drown the ants. Siphon the python. Water George's bush.

I know, girls, I know. It's very exciting, and it was all news to me. But F.U.D.-type devices have been around a long time, and the GoGirl ranks as one of several, er, female funnels. There's the also the pStyle, the Urifemme and the P-Mate, to name a few.

They say it keeps our fragile female flesh from the festering toilet seat. Now we can stand, whip out the GoGirl and shake the snake all over the stall. Just like a man! Hygienic - for us. For everyone else? Not so much.

As heavenly as all this sounds, I have to say that ways to wee-wee have never ranked highly on my list of concerns. I am from the School of the Squat. The House of Hover. My arse hasn't touched a nasty public toilet seat in 30 years, and it won't. Ever.

We country girls learn this skill early. Accomplished masterfully, ye olde Drop and Squat Tactic lets us avoid pesky indoor restroom breaks during important events... such as fishing, camping and keg parties.

It's a useful trick that I recommend. Anyway - from what I've seen - the Average American Ass could use several hundred a few squats.

Now don't get me wrong - there are enviable things about men. They can lift heavy furniture. They age well the bastards. They've elevated farting to an art form.

However - long restroom lines aside - I've never been jealous of a man's ability to, er, wave the wand.

Still, F.U.D.-pushers insist upright peeing is fun! Freeing! Downright empowering! Why, female world domination is just a piss away!

And, according to the GoGirl website:

"The World Is Your Toilet!"

That? Right there? Is Klassy with a K, people. Where's my credit card?

Secrets of My Lack of Success!

(post copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)
People never, ever  sometimes ask me about my writing process.

"Lighten Up! Lady," they don't say, ever. "How do you do it? How do you, week after week, come up with such mediocre brilliant blog posts?"

Well folks, I am not here for you. Far be it from me to withhold worthless valuable literary advice. You have the power, people! Right at your fingertips.

You too can earn zero dollars from your writing! That's right. Publications have eliminated thousands of positions across the U.S. and/or closed their doors forever!

This makes editors ever-so- unhappy to hear from writers. You'll call and e-mail, annoy and pester...they'll ignore, lie and avoid you. When you finally do make contact with them, they'll cantankerously reject your work because they are rude, ignorant assholes. Good times!

And! Have fun competing with all the award-winning, out-of-work journalists for sparse space in the Sunday Times. Hell - for that matter, have fun competing with the laid-off sports reporter, who can't spell, for space in the neighborhood shopper that rag. Good luck!

I know all of this great news has really got you itching to shoot yourself get going. But wait! I have so much more advice. Turn off the computer and run away NOW.

To hinder help you along, I've decided to give a weekly rundown of my writing process:

Monday - Thursday - Wake at 5:30 a.m. Scratch self, Grab laptop and coffee. Realize you only have one hour of writing time.

Open computer, stare at blinking cursor. Nothing.

Check Facebook. Way to stay focused! Begin "liking" and commenting on friends' statuses. Everyone's hates entitled to your valuable opinion!

Sixty minutes - and sixty Facebook comments - later, get ready for work. No sweat - there's still not much time to post!

Friday - Commence crapping pants. No ideas, nothing written, and the obsessive/compulsive in you likes to post once a week you weirdo.

Open laptop, stare at blinking cursor. Nothing.

But it's O.K. There's always the weekend, and Saturdays and Sundays are not ever known as productive work days...

Weekends -  Grab laptop and creep into kitchen, trying not wake anyone so you can have valuable solo writing time. This immediately triggers apparent sonic bat hearing of 8-year-old, who thump-thump-thumps down stairs. You really should have slipped him that Benadryl last night.

Sigh, and close laptop. Pour cereal for the Thumper. Pretend to Listen to his in-depth review of latest Pokemon/Mario Bros. video game.

Kindly suggest to Thumper that he play new Pokemon/Mario Bros. game. Plant him in front of television, and try to write again.

Open laptop, stare at blinking cursor. Nothing.

Glance over at dirty clothes pile - huge. Sigh. Close laptop, dive into effin' laundry duties. Whee! Kill me now, please.

Well, I hope I have been of no help whatsoever to your writing career. You can see for yourself here why I am so wildly un successful. Just don't follow my example, and you too will not make anywhere close to millions from your musings!

No, don't thank me, really. It was a huge pain in the ass no bother. I'm a giver.

Rock 'n Roll Therapy

(post copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

I am not above buying a little love.

Don't be pervy. I'm referring to my recent epiphany: Peace, love and harmony can be purchased. For $7.99.

Bet you didn't know that. But at the Lighten Up Center for Useless Information, we're here for you! And we have determined that "AC\DC Rock Band Track Pack" video game will unite parents, children - and possibly the Middle East.

I figured this out recently when, on a whim, I decided to pick up a used copy off the rack. Under eight bucks? Songs I actually knew? Paint me "Back in Black." I'm in.

The game is better living through Bon Scott, and includes wholesome, family-oriented numbers. Like "Hells Bells," "Shoot to Thrill" and "Shook Me All Night Long."

I figured the kids might like it. Our son, my 9 or so regular readers may recall, fancies himself quite the Rock Expert.

And our daughter, the Teen Expert, has some of my impeccable musical taste. Nickelback, Kid Rock, some Skynyrd.

Yeah, we're a classy bunch.

Still, I didn't expect much when I fired up the ol' PS2, and asked her to play. She picked the drums, I took lead guitar.

But I'll tell you - we started shredding. Jammin'. Or whatever you kids say nowadays.

And that's when it happened. Right during the drum solo of "T.N.T."

Clouds parted. Angels sang. Lions and lambs laid down together. Democrats and Republicans shook hands.

Because she smiled. At me. Her mother. Oh yes she did!

I have not seen a smile like that since the Disney World trip. I have not seen a smile like that since the Jonas Brothers concert. I have not seen a smile like that since Christmas Day - 2004.

That smile used to be a constant. As continual as the Barney VHS tapes playing...then rewinding...then playing again. And again.

That smile was the first thing I saw every night at daycare pickup. Back when she knocked over everyone in her path, shouting "mommy-mommy-mommy!" before launching into my arms.

That smile was the one on the little face, bent over me, as I laid in the grass. Waving her "fairy wands" of dandelion seeds. You know...making magic and wishes and sneezes.



Ah, the fairy game. Good times. And yes, she has two arms...


Now? Not so much.

She is a teenager. I am her mother. We - surprise! - don't agree ever sometimes. We disagree about household chores. We disagree about clothing choices.

We disagree about the color of the sky.

Sigh.

People say not to worry - it happens to most mothers and daughters. She'll be back. She'll like me again. The happy girl I knew will return. Someday.

But maybe they meant Sunday. Because - although it was fleeting - I saw her then, banging away on cheap toy drums.

So watch out, people. We be jammin'...on the "Highway to Hell" and whatnot.

Yep. Heavy Metal: official bonding music of the American family.