'Twas a Night Full of Witch-mas...

(Copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

Merry Christmas Eve, everyone. Some assembly required.
Yes, gather your unassembled toys and your tools, folks. Soon will come that special night when reindeer fly, children dream, and parents assemble gifts. All. Night. Long. For such a wondrous, joyous, never-flippin’-ending occasion - and since I’ll be very busy that evening - I have written a poem. No, no, don’t thank me. Just send help. Please?

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the joint,
My blood pressure had reached its full boiling point
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
Visions of working toys danced in their heads.

And me with directions, and him with his tool,
Got me thinking "For this? I deserve some new jewels."
Down by the tree there was nothing but work,
Me yelling "Not that screw, you big, clumsy jerk!"

Then right beside me there was such a clatter,
I said "For $%* sake what the *#@$ is the matter?"
He tossed the pliers down and said "Ouch!",
Then threw himself over, kerplunk, on the couch.

The moonlight on top of his sorry sad head,
Made me feel bad for nasty mean words that I'd said.
"C'mon honey," I told him, "let's just hit the hay.
Tomorrow we'll do this. There’s hooch on the way!"

He shook his head no. “We must get this done.
If their toys aren't together, they won't have much fun!"
More rapid than arrows, my cusses then came.
I whispered them loudly and spoke names in vain.

But as parents will do, we wanted to please,
And met with directions writ all in Chinese,
We went on ahead through the night with our mission,
Me trying, but failing, to stop all my bitching.

And then, in a twinkling, we fell fast asleep.
The parts strewn around us, a crazy-quilt heap.
As I slept, I dreamt of the big man in red,
Perched at the foot of my childhood bed.

His eyes, they still twinkled, his dimples, still merry,
And I felt just like I was back in the 70s.
But as I looked down at myself in my dream,
I saw belly and hooters and wrinkles extreme.

I said "Hey Santa, it’s work, now that I'm older,
It’s crazy, I’m tired, please, rub my shoulders?
These toys, they're messed up, missing parts, bad directions...
Got the sprockets and whats-its all in the wrong sections!"

He spoke a few words, before getting his start,
“You have to stop buying these toys from Walmart!
Cheap junk made in China, we all hate it too…
Those elves end up fighting like they’re from the zoo.”

And laying his old hands on top of my head,
Right there in my dream on my little-girl bed,
He told me “I know that - at your age - it’s work,
But you gotta stop calling your old man a jerk.”

He sprang to his feet, disappeared from my sight,
And I drifted and dreamed on through the cold night,
Then came the small footsteps, and I thought “Oh crap!
Their presents, they are not finished - or wrapped!”

I nudged the old man, by my side on the floor,
As the kids’ little footsteps drew close to the door,
And what to our wondering eyes should appear,
But assembled, wrapped toys - and a six-pack of beer!

What a jolly old elf, that Santa still is!
Christmas is for all, not just for the kids.
What else did I learn, my valuable lessons?
Less Walmart, less witching - cut back on the cussin’.

Santa Has a Secret

(post copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

Santa? Yeah...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."

I Got Your 'Women's Work' Right 'Chere!

(post copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

Ah, 1950: A man could be a man and a woman could be a domestic servant.

Thank goodness it's 2010. Or at least I thought it was. Judging by the crappy economy, these kids yelling ‘Mom!’ and the spiderwebs of lines on my face, we're at least ten years into the new millennium. Plus, the Internet says it’s 2010 - it must be true.

Or is it?

If so, then why do I still sometimes hear:

“But…that’s…WOMEN'S WORK!”

Yes, folks, believe it or not, I occasionally hear this sentence from the mouths of men.

(And then I kick them in the junk.)

They say they’re joking, they’re teasing. They say it with a gleam in their eye, then laugh, hug us and wink at their buddies across the room.

But, you know what?

Sometimes they mean it.

Sometimes they mean it when the windows need cleaned.

Sometimes they mean it when the laundry needs done.

Sometimes they mean it when a football game's on.

Now, now - I don’t mean to throw ALL dudes under the proverbial sexist bus. Guys have come a long, LONG way in the last 60 years.

And my spouse, especially, has proven that real men take on what were - not so long ago - female tasks. He's changed many a diaper. He's fed many a bottle. He's laundered many dark pants with many light shirts.

Still, my guy - and some other male friends - have 'jokingly' uttered the dreaded BTWW phrase. Laughing, eyes twinkling.

(Until I kick them in the junk.)

Gents, save your junk! Don't say it - don't even joke about it. Especially around me, the junk-kicker.

Everyone knows there’s a little bit of truth in a jest, and when a guy says "BTWW," here's the general thought pattern:

“What!? She asked me to wash windows!? That’s something my Mom did while my Dad watched football. Football…there’s a GAME on…”

So he says:

“But…that’s…WOMEN‘S WORK!”

Please note that, despite his junk-pain, our windows DID get cleaned recently. And not by me. Bonus? We are still married.

While my husband washed windows outside, I loaded the dishwasher and thought: If domestic chores are still women's work, then, indeed, we have gone back in time.

And if that's the case, then...I had great news! I took it to my man:

"Hey. Since you said that's 'Women's Work,' we must have stepped back in time, to 1950 or so....," I said.
"Oh jeesh, here we go - you'll probably write a blog about this..." he said. "I told you I was kidding..."
"And if that's the case, then I can totally quit my job!" I said
"What are you talking about?" he said.
"Because working outside the home is 'Man's Work,' in 1950!" I said.
"Yeah...right," he said. "Nice try, honey. We need your paycheck, too."

And suddenly, it is 2010 once again. Convenient!

You see how that works?

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.