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.

Tell The Boss You're Off On Fridays. Because I Said So.

(post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

It's Friday. So sorry - but I'm closed.

In fact, by the power wasted on me, I hereby declare Fridays off. For everyone. From this day forward.

I can almost see your smiles, hear your sighs of relief at this wonderful news. Really, it was no bother for me to grant you a four-day workweek. I know, I know - you want to hug me. Just send cash.

My decision to give us all a reduced schedule is based on extensive research, with the following very scientific findings:

A. I am tired, and...
B. I need a nap since...
C. all I do is work and...
D. lots of folks tell me they feel the same way.

Want to know why?

For the most part - I think Americans work too much. We also work too damn hard. Do the math: Five of the seven days in a week, we use up HALF (or more) of our waking hours at jobs. HALF! Or More!

Somebody get me a Xanax.

Seriously, though - teachers spend more days with my kids than I do, and I spend much more time with my co-workers than my family.

I know that, for many decades, this is the way things have been. But please - tell me the name of the person responsible for deciding that we MUST work five days, 40 hours a week to earn benefits and a decent wage. If he's still around, send him my way - because I'd really like to kick him. Directly in the ass.

I do have some good news related to my decision to change your hours: There is some trending towards an altered schedule. Utah state employees - along with many American businesses - have adopted the four-ten hour work-week with great, money-saving results.

I found the following info on the Internet (therefore it must be true). Many four-day work-week supporters say such a schedule:

• Increases employee productivity
• Increases time spent with family
• Increases employee happiness

Yeah. But can't you just hear The Man?: "Employee happiness? Ha! Who cares about that?"

True, in this employers’ market, increasing workers’ morale doesn’t usually rank as a priority. Today's business motto? “Shut Up and Work - You're Lucky to Have a Job.”

So how about these assertions from the same site, which state that four-day work-weeks:

• Reduce labor costs for businesses
• Reduce operational costs for businesses, in the form of decreased security, energy and utility expenses
• Reduce employee absenteeism
• Increase productivity

Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Boss.

Anyway, screw him. I've decided I am your supervisor today, hence my decision to give all of us another day off. Because, simply put, if no one worked on Fridays, then no one else would have to work on Fridays. Word.

Stores could close. Offices could close. Banks could close. We could all stay home and spend more time with our loved ones. What a concept.

Imagine the savings! Imagine the reduced stress! Imagine the lack of dummies on the road traffic!

For the love of all that’s holy, people. Imagine the NAPS!

Naked Blogging

Obviously, I need to do more Naked Blogging.

Jeez-Louise, people! During my last post - concerning the very vital, very riveting topic of Nude People Dancing - I received 7 new followers and 28 comments.

I'm bad - I'm nationwide, yo! In my own mind, for two days tops...

Yep - sex still sells. Actually, I should have known the last piece would rank high - Blogger stats say that my most-read post until now was "They Are Not Hooker Shoes!"

Apparently all I have to do to gain readership, and maybe someday possibly almost make a buck from my writing, is talk about something racy or tack on the word “naked.”

This, and a recent post by my friend Audubon Ron at Ducks Mahal, reminds me of the old fortune cookie game, in which you take the little paper predictions and attach the phrase "in bed" or "between the sheets." I.E. "You will have a memorable evening...in bed."

Maybe I should really run with it. Become the Naked Blogger in bed. Although the husband's not a fan of stripped strangers, he's appreciative of my nudity, and I'm sure this would be a big hit with him. Me, sitting around, laptop-on-ample-gut, buck nude and pecking away between the sheets.

This would, of course, mean that you all have to become my Naked Followers. You’d like that, woudn’t you? Haha. That’s because ya'all are a bunch of pervs like me between the sheets. I love it! naked in bed.

But as a mom, I could never completely pimp my blog with nudity. After all, everyone knows mothers never think of sex. I have two kids who can’t stomach their parents kissing, let alone (gasp!) anything else. No, these two hope that they appeared on this earth by magic, brought here via immaculate conception. Or maybe little pink bunnies in bed.

The children would not appreciate the visuals of me as a Naked Blogger, either. They get ill when I remove a bra under my shirt - highly offended and repulsed, apparently, by the fact that women have nipples.

So don't worry. My new-found very temporary popularity will not go to my head, I promise. I will keep my clothes on, much to my children's relief, and continue to explore such vital issues as cats on cars, the tooth fairy, endlessly awful Ohio weather, and Dairy Queen Blizzards in bed.

You're welcome between the sheets.

The Winds of March? Yeah. They Blow.

(post copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)
Giving myself a little bloggy break right now. But I didn't want to let my readers, (all ten of them! I love you guys!) down. (Also I am OCD about posting once per week). This piece first appeared in my "Lighten Up" newspaper column in the Buckeye Lake Beacon last winter. Since March still sucks, I thought I'd re-publish for your pleasure. Lucky you.

 March: what a tease.

Blowing in our ears with a little warm breeze...slipping off the clouds now and then...giving us a little peek at the sun...batting the robin’s wings.

And then - BAM! More cold, more snow, more gray, more misery.

Yeah, good old month three. My buddy Rick said it best:

“March is my least favorite month of the year. I’m done with winter, but winter ain’t done with me.”

Think this winter’s finished with us? I’m afraid to look. Anyway, something’s wrong with my eyes: The only colors I can see are gray and white.

That’s because, last month alone, the skies dumped more than 30 inches of white stuff on our area, making it the snowiest February on record. Nationwide, it snowed or froze everywhere from Georgia to Florida to Texas.

Somebody get me a Snuggie.

The White Death. Snowmageddon. The Blizzard of 2010. The Worst! Weather! Ever!

Whatever you want to call it - enough already. First snow, then icy rain. Then, more snow. Thawed enough to cause a frigid, ankle-biting, bone-chilling crust. On top of this, guess what? Snow.

We can hack it, though. We’re Ohioans - our state color should be gray. We don’t expect rainbows and unicorns.

We count on crappy weather. We thrive on crappy weather. We ARE crappy weather.

Fifty-five degrees one day, five inches of snow the next? Bring it on. Sunny warm breezes one hour, tornado warning the next? Scoff. What else you got? We’re Buckeyes, baby - tough nuts!

Not only has February 2010 toughened my already thick Buckeye shell, it has proven most educational. I have learned valuable lessons, such as:

• The old college prank is true - you can lift a Volkswagen Beetle. My neighbor and I hoisted mine out of three-foot-high snowdrift. My lower back will not forget it. Ever.
• During a power outage, home furnaces can be wired to gasoline-powered generators. In a pinch, this can be done by a 40-year-old cussing mother of two. Crouched amongst spiders. Using a cell phone screen as a flashlight.
• Shoveling the roof sounds stupid and dangerous. It is! To keep a structure standing under the weight of hundreds of pounds of snow and ice, it is also sometimes necessary.
• Icicles are lovely. Icicles can also back up inside gutters, thaw inside walls and cause leakage, mold and rot. Icicles are not lovely.

Yes, it’s been an interesting February, the shortest, longest month of the year. But, sure as yellow snow, it does end. Eventually.

And the one good thing about March? It ain’t February.

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.