Crappity-Crap. New Puppy. All My Fault.

(Post and photos copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

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!

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.

(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

(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.