Where Are the Ohioans?

(Post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)
Although I keep trying to forget, it's winter. Still. So lately I've been plopped on the couch like a proper Midwesterner. Watching the boob-tube.

Now that I said "boob," and I have your attention, I ask you: Where are the regular people? Where are the Ohioans?

All this diversity in entertainment, all these faces in all these different skin tones, yet one thing stays the same - everyone is achingly beautiful and disgustingly fit.

I want to punch them.

As a Buckeye, (State Motto: Eat Your Food - There's Nothing Else To Do) I'm feeling, well, under-represented. Where are the wrinkles, the paunches, the bellies, the double chins? Where are the split ends, the receding hairlines, the mutts, the American cars, the crappy jobs. Hell, where are any jobs? Do these people work?

Holy Toledo, where are the old people? What have they done to the old people?

Just look at the “Desperate Housewives.” Why so desperate, skinny bitches ladies? Someone take your botox docs? Gorgeous little minxes, all of you. Chiseled cheeks, perfect hair, long legs, flat tummies, jutting hipbones...

Hipbones. I remember them from such decades as the 80s.

Want to see a Desperate Housewife? Come visit me in January. Add bored, complaining, housebound kids and 11 piles of laundry. Toss in an elderly parent requiring attention, a rag-tag collection of needy pets and a good 20-lb. stress-induced muffintop. For added desperation, drain my last Miller Lite.

But it's not just the nighttime soaps. No, even the reality shows are in on it - "Jersey Shore," "Dancing With the Stars," "Big Brother." For the most part, the participants in these programs look like they stepped out of fashion magazines...or at least out of high-end brothels.

There are a couple exceptions - for one, ABC's "The Middle." Although located in a fictional Indiana, it's pretty accurate in Mid-America interpretation, with freakishly short Frankie, freakishly tall Mike and their wonderfully weird kids. In a messy, badly decorated, Midwestern house, schlumping through life like the rest of us.

And there's TVLand's "Hot In Cleveland," featuring the usual skinny bitches supermodel types poking fun at Ohioans. But we can take a joke. Especially since the sitcom also stars a glorious, riotously funny yay for old people! Betty White. The cast may have a laugh at our expense. But they soon find themselves appreciating Midwestern living, just as the Victoria Chase character said in the pilot episode:

"Cleveland: Where everyone is eating. And no one is ashamed!"

Damn straight, Victoria. We are not ashamed, and we won't be ignored. We are Buckeyes - we have big nuts.

Heartland homeys, it's time to take back the tube and tell Holly-weird: Listen up! We want to see some more "average!" We want hard-working folks living in two-story, mill-worker row-houses, with beat-up Fords and a crabby mom who needs her roots done. Kids with messy hair, glued to electronic boxes! A dad scratching himself in front of the Ohio State game! A dog who pees on the floor! Sometimes!

Now THAT'S my house some quality, reality television.

Spring's Almost Here! Because I Said So!

Well, Happy New Year! January 1, 2011! And all that happy horse-crap.

You know what that means: back to our regularly scheduled drudgery.

Positive thinking: You're at the wrong blog.

Yep. Pack up the Christmas lights, the ornaments, the presents, the serotonin, the smiles. Throw away the stale cookies, and by all means, drink up the last of the gifted wine. You’ll need it. Go ahead and stick your head in the oven.

Because the party's over, kids. The Visa bill is on its way. Calories count again. Winter's just begun. Work weeks last five ridiculous days. Hardly any paid holidays - until May.

Slashed your wrists yet?

Thank God for the holidays. They're really the only thing that makes winter tolerable, and I'm pretty sure He planned it so that we'd have a little joy during the darkest, most depressing time of year. This ensures human survival. Otherwise, many of us would throw ourselves off the nearest bridge.

God: He's no Dummy.

Here in the Midwest, we mostly use winter as a chance to pursue our passion: new ways to ingest cream cheese. This helps with the soul-crushing depression. So we eat more cream cheese, which makes us fat, and leads to more depression.

We? Are geniuses!

I exercise to control the inevitable cream cheese weight gain, and it was on one of these jaunts where I encountered this lovely site:

I know. You're saying "What an incredible picture!"  You can see here why I am an award-winning photographer, can't you?

Shut up.

What is it, you ask? A dog turd? Melting snow? A dog turd in melting snow?

Folks, believe it or not, it's a robin. Spring's own lovely messenger. Bearer of better weather and whatnot. Sure, it was eight days after winter solstice when I shot the photo, the temperature hovered around 15 degrees and Christmas was, like, yesterday. But I know, without a doubt, that the sight of this particular bird means spring is almost here.

Why? Because Mama told me so.

Shut up.

I can hear your whispers. Some of you are saying that robins aren't harbingers of spring because not all of them fly south for the winter. You’re basing this theory on stupid things - such as science. You state that if food is plentiful, many robins will stick around and tough out the cold weather like the rest of the dummies.

Blah blah blah, whatever. Haters.

I bet you don't believe in Santa Claus, either.

But I believe. I believe that our little orange feathered friends bring the spring: Daffodils! Color! Life! Anything but brown and white!

God is in Heaven, Santa’s resting at the North Pole, and all will be right with the world.

Why? Mama told me so.

Shut up.

And pass the cream cheese.

'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’.

It's the Most Wonderful Time...For a Beer

(post copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

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?
Sh*t - 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 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."

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.

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?