New Year's Fails. Er...Resolutions

(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

(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!

Santa and His Bra

(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."

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

(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.

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.

Our House Is Haunted...By a Trucker

(copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

I cuss at dead people.

Not all of them, mind you - one in particular. A guy called Buck. That's not his real name. I changed it to protect the asshat guilty.

A former owner of our house, Buck was the type of guy who liked to "do it himself." This has been most unfortunate for us.

He was not a carpenter, a plumber, an electrician or a contractor. He thought he was.

In reality, he was a truck driver. We can tell.

I spend a lot of time yelling:

"Buck? You suck!"
and...
"Buck - WTF?"

For 17 years, he's haunted our house with cluster-Bucks: jacked-up plumbing, makeshift carpentry, fire-hazard wiring. Nails where there should be screws, screws where there should be nails, and nothing where there should be something. His actions have caved in ceilings, caused small electrical fires and  flooded our hardwood floors. Twice.

He's left our Allstate agent in tears.

Luckily, I'm a tough cookie. And I watch a lot of HGTV. So of course, I know everything about home repair and remodeling. (Just ask me.)

Lately I've been using my mad television skillz to remodel the downstairs bathroom, and I was especially excited to get rid of the heinous, late 80s, Garth Brooks-era medicine cabinet and light fixture. Both are epic in their fugliness. I blame Buck.

Simple things, replacing a medicine cabinet and light fixture, right?

(Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!)

You hear that? That's him, beyond the grave, laughing his ass off.

Because when I unscrewed the two screws holding the medicine cabinet onto the wall and gave it a tug, I got exactly...nothin'.

No movement. Not even close. Stubborn and stock-still, the Garth Brooks cabinet didn't move. I examined it all the way around, thinking I'd missed a screw, a stupid nail. Nope. I tugged again. Nothin'. The box remained, a monument to blue wooden geese and bad country music.

This reeked of Buck. Buck plus construction adhesive.

Instead of just screwing the cabinet into the wall's studs like a sane person, the village idiot our boy had chosen to slop industrial strength glue on the wall and permanently affix the Garth Brooks medicine cabinet in place for all time. Just to be evil.

Buck - WTF?!

I immediately knew two things:

1. If I ever did get it down, the drywall beneath the cabinet was probably jacked-up beyond repair.
2. It was time to drink my lunch.

I pondered my situation on break, and decided to save cabinet Cluster Buck for later and move on to the revolting light fixture.

Breaker off, I began unscrewing it, wondering what would happen next. Didn't have to wait long.

The lazy redneck had drilled a huge, jagged electrical hole on the SIDE of the fixture instead of the middle. Didn't matter to him: In 1989, his fugly light wouldn't show the hole.

Well, guess what dead dude? It's 2010, and my new, awesome light will totally show this gash. Now I have a huge hole to patch, and wiring to drag to a new location. My TV skillz will be taxed.

Who DOES this? Who puts huge electrical wiring holes on the SIDE of a fixture?

(Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!)

Ladies and Gents, here he is again: the Jack of No Trades, Mr. Mediocrity, the King of Half-Assery.

Buck? You suck.