My First Bloggy F Bomb. Courtesy of Pinterest and . . .

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

All the cool chicks do it.

And if there's one thing I learned in high school, it's to do what the cool chicks do, because it's idiotic brilliant! And following their lead could make you drunk grounded jailed happy.

Yep, be a follower, not a leader, is my motto. Unless you're my daughter, in which case CLICK AWAY NOW YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ON MOM'S BLOG AND GO FOLD LAUNDRY LIKE I TOLD YOU!!

Ahem.

ANYwhoo...

Yeah, I tried to avoid it, because I am very busy and important, what with all my Facebooking and boxed-wine drinking parenting and working. But I caved, because succumbing to peer pressure always makes me a grounded jailed happy idiot, and I joined Pinterest.

I am pretty sure Martha Stewart is behind this devil's work online bulletin board, because I'm learning so much. Mainly the fact that I am a complete failure.

I had no idea! Thank you, Martha Pinterest.

On Pinterest, you will find pictures of beautiful rooms. Beautiful women. Beautiful crafts. Beautiful women in beautiful rooms with beautiful crafts.

And none of these beautiful things? Are yours, also you're probably pretty ugly, yourself.

Thank you, Martha Pinterest.

On Pinterest, you'll find healthy, tasty recipes.

Buffalo chicken tacos, via Pinterest and mrsregueiro.com

At my house, you'll find:

On Pinterest, you'll find beautiful and sexy hairstyles.

Via Pinterest and weheartit.com

On my head, you'll find:

Look at the husband in the background, laughing at my FAIL-do. Yuck it up cowboy.

On Pinterest, you'll find ways to organize your closet.

Via Pinterest and Google.com.br

At my house, you'll find:

But really cute shoes!

Still.

I want an organized closet! I want tasty recipes! I want a pretty hairdo!

Obviously, though, I need help with all my FAILS. So I kept examining the site, and now I am a crackhead. The Pinterest pictures...so pretty...MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES.

• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES on my cell phone while cooking dinner.
• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES on Ipad in bathroom, dripping wet  after a shower.
• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES when supposed to be blogging.
• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES with laptop, Saturday night on couch.

Saturday night, people! The hell? What is WRONG with me? Saturday night is for nightlife!

I love the nightlife! I got to boogie!

But the pictures...so lovely. And everything looks simple and doable.

"This looks easy!" is what you think.

"I could do this!" is what you say.

You're wrong. Loser.

Like a good crackhead, I study the projects, thinking maybe I can complete some of them. Then, I set my sights on a dog bed for that crazy bitch of ours, Suzie. You may remember the evil Suzie from posts such as this and this and even this.

Suzie is pretty sure she has a dog bed already, called the couch, or rather "Suzie-get-your-ass-offa-that-couch!" I've been pricing dog beds, and even cheap-o Big Lots beds in her size cost at least $20. Soon enough, I find a dog bed idea on Pinterest.

"This will be easy!" is what I think.

"I can make this!" is what I say. Ha ha ha! Oh, I crack myself up.

I head down to the basement, locate my sewing machine, bring it up, blow off all the dust and begin trying to thread the needle.

"Mom - my 'Call of Duty' game isn't working - can you clean it off and get it to work?" says my son, walking into the kitchen.

"Sure," I say.

Twenty-three minutes later,  I begin again trying to thread the sewing machine needle.

"Hey Mom. Did you wash my cheer uniform yet?" says my daughter. "You know, I have a game tonight."

Nineteen minutes later, I - what? - start trying to thread the needle once more. Nineteen minutes after that, I am sweating, cussing and STILL trying to thread the needle. I pull out the sewing machine user's manual, 13 minutes later locate the needle-threading instructions in ENGLISH, and start to...

"Honey? What's for dinner?" says the husband.

And...she's out. That's it. I fold.

Fuck you, Pinterest.

You too, Martha.

And so it goes that on the Pinterest you'll find:

Via Pinterest and Etsy.com

And at my house, you'll find:

Scoot the hell over, Suzie. It's Saturday night.

MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES.






                                                                                                                                                  

Well, I have absolutely no idea what I did to deserve the honor, but the incredible, badass Vapid Vixen over at The Ginja Ninja awarded me the Tell Me About Yourself Award. Also she said some really nice things about me, which floored me because this chick? Is uber-cool and does things like snowboard and run through mud in the Dirty Dash (which I may do now, at the Warrior Dash, thanks to her lead).  I know her first name. I won't tell you what it is, but it begins with D and ends with n and other badass chicks have the very same name. She is funny and smart and I really like her, even though she calls me an asshole sometimes.

ANY-whoo...

I am supposed to tell you five things about myself, but I am lazy and let's go with three:

1. I am a total pansy when it comes to scary movies. Haven't watched one since the 70s, when I was 5 and "Carrie" was on our 11-inch black and white RCA, and Carrie's-bloody-hand-came-out-of-the-grave-at-the-end-OH-MY-GAWD!!! I jumped straight up from an indian style position at my Mom's feet, into her lap - I mean a sheer vertical leap - and had to sleep in her room for the next 8 months. Pretty sure if I saw a scary movie now, I'd have to drive the 3 hours to Youngstown and sleep in my Mom's room for the next 8 months. 

2. I am also a total pansy when it comes to hypodermic needles. They are the very tools of the devil. Can't even look at those sonsabitches without peeing just a little. Effin' needles.

3. I have great taste in music. Sometimes. And sometimes I have the musical taste of a 60-year-old virgin. Yep. Give me some Ambrosia or Gerry Rafferty or some "Please Come to Boston," and I'll be putty on your hands. Or, um, I would, um, if I wasn't happily married. Ahem. 

I am to pass this award on to five awesome bloggers,but I laugh at authority - Stick It to The Man, is what I always say. And so I'm giving it to three fellow bloggesses (TWSS):

1. Diminishing Gene Pool - You'll be reading this woman's book someday, mark my words. She reminds me so much of the awesome Hollis Gillespie, and she has such an amazing knack for dialogue.

2. Dawn in Austin - Another badass Dawn. All her posts are great, but her recent post about getting c*ck blocked by her newborn grandson had me doubled over. Fun-nay!

3.Muffintop Mommy - Self-effacing, dead-on accurate day-to-day accounts of her life as a SAHM. Much like me, she loves to pimp her dull existence (sorry, Twig ;), but 'tis true.) 

Check them out, they all rock.

What Would Betty White Say?

(post and memes - not photos - below, copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

Betty White turned 90 years old last week.

Still. I bet she could kick my ass - and yours. With only her words.

She's short. She's blonde. She's naughty. Sound familiar?

Oh, I love me some Betty. My mom love Betty. My 14-year-old daughter - she love Betty.

My late grandma - born one year before her - loved Betty. And I bet that somehow, someway, even Upstairs, grandma still love Betty.

Hell. Everybody love Betty, because she's keepin' it real.

Betty, you're so awesome that I'd like to take you out for your birthday. Yeah, I'd fly to L.A., come to your house, and ring your doorbell. Everybody knows - you love pets. I bet you have a bunch of them, and that when you opened the door, your dogs would go ape-shit, barking and whatnot.

I wonder, then, What Would Betty Say (W.W.B.S.)?

You and I, Betty, we'd hop in your Cadillac and hit Sunset Strip. Cruising along, a cool 20 m.p.h. in the left hand lane, folks honkin', swearing, trying to pass on the right. It would make me angry. I'd yell at those a-holes: 

"This is Betty-damn-White, and she's 90! Go the hell around us!"

But Betty, it wouldn't bother you. You'd stay cool as a cucumber, wouldn't you?

W.W.B.S.?

As we drove, Betty, you and I would discuss things, like that fact that you are - undeniably - old. So I would say:

"Betty, you're old. What's it like?"

What Would Betty Say?

I'd take you dancing, Betty, oh yes I would, at the Viper room, and I'd pull you out on the floor. Dudes would come up, ask us to dance, because yeah - we're still hot like that. 

W.W.B.S.?

Oh, I love Betty. She pimpin' what she got. 

Sure, haters gotta hate and talk over-exposure, but for the most part, everybody love Betty right now.

And isn't it about damn time? Finally, FINALLY we appreciate, honor and respect a woman who isn't a 105-lb., 23-year-old. 

There is, in every woman, a little bit of Betty. And there are Betties everywhere. Resting in the branches of your family tree. Sitting alone in the halls of your local nursing home. Coasting in the fast lane of your nearest interstate. Every-Betties.

They all deserve some Betty love.

At 40-damn-two, I am just a baby. But when I grow up, I want to be a Betty.

Because she? Is still bold. Still working. Still somewhat blonde.

Betty White is still here. And still, decidedly. . .

Badass.

This post is for my Aunt Dee, who recently passed on, and my Grandma, Laura, who were sisters.

 

Betty White, in looks and mannerisms, always reminds me of a cross between the two of them.

I love and miss you both. 

You were both - decidedly - badass.

How I wish  you were both still here.

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."

Wonder Woman? The Bionic Woman? They Got Nothin' on the Bacteria Banshee

(post copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

I have chosen a life of public service. Apparently.

I blame my boobs. I'm pretty sure they've given me superpowers.

It seems my big-girl beacons have made me an extraordinary human, because I am the ONLY one in my family capable of certain things. No one else at my place has a grown-up set of mammies, and no one else can do the things I do.

I am special. And not in a short bus, need-to-wear-a-helmet kind of way.

Now, you might think I'm not capable of being a superhero. You'd be wrong, sir, because I spent the better part of the 70s and maybe some of the 80s shut up watching "The Bionic Woman" and "Superfriends." So clearly, I am qualified.

I am sanitizer-toting. I am virus-seeking. I am a Bacteria Banshee!

Able to leap steaming puppy puddles in a single bound! More Powerful than any super-virus! Look! There with the Clorox wipes! It’s a maid! It’s Mrs. Clean! No - it’s Bacteria Banshee!

I first became aware of my Bacteria Banshee powers when I found that I am the sole family member with the ability to see the crumbs, food, dried milk, festering germs and sometimes dog hair shut up all over our counters and kitchen table.

Tuesday through Friday, I work late and arrive home long after dinnertime. Thus, my family members are lazy and go about their meals eating amongst – and creating more – debris, oblivious to the seething Petri dish on the kitchen surfaces. They are just too freakin' lazy weak to wipe. Apparently.

Lucky for them, come Saturday morning, I arise from bed, gather my Bacteria Banshee strength and hoist the Clorox wipe container. I whip out towelettes and commence cleaning, thereby saving my family, my neighbors and probably you from the pulsating pandemic that is our kitchen table.

My Banshee powers also give me the ability to be the only one who sees the dirty dishes piled in the sink. Though my family knows their dirty plates should go in the dishwasher, they are still freakin' lazy and choose to place them in the sink, where. . .poof! They disappear. It's downright magical! To their eyes anyway. No one can see the dirty dishes anymore!

Except for me!

And Saturday morning, after the kitchen sanitizing, I turn my attention to the crumb-, food-, dried milk-, festering germ- and sometimes dog hair-covered shut up dirty dishes. I load each piece into the dishwasher, a task too taxing for mere freakin' lazy mortals. Apparently.

I also provide Bacteria Banshee public service announcements in this calm and supportive manner:

"Use a *&$%# tissue!"
"Wash your #@%^ hands!"
"For f*#x sake, don't let the dog eat off your plate!"

Wacky commands like these perplex my crew. But they do what I ask, lest they suffer my Lysol wrath.

These are just the awesome superpowers I use at home. I am even more psycho impressive out and about:

Watch as Bacteria Banshee contorts body in effort to push elevator buttons without using fingers! See her recover money from ATM using sanitized pen and no hands! Marvel at Bacteria Banshee’s skill as she pumps gas with feet!

I bet you're wishing you had a Bacteria Banshee in your household. We all know that when germs are left un-checked, bad things happen in this country, such as pandemics and swine flus and George Bushes.

Fear not. Crazy bitch Women like me, with breasts, abound. And we are ready, willing and armed with chemical weapons to protect freakin' lazy families everywhere.

You're welcome.

Knowledge and Wisdom. As Seen on T.V.

I am full of bullshit valuable information.

Yes, this is a blog filled with hard-hitting journalism. Sometimes, I wonder why people don't ask for my opinion more often. I mean, look at me:

Clearly, I am loaded. With knowledge. And stuff.

Far be it from me to withhold this wisdom from you. No sir -- I'm a giver. So here at Lighten Up!, I have written three tons of posts on very vital, useful, As Seen On T.V. topics.

Such as the Dairy Queen Blizzard Maker:

Well spank me sideways and call me 'fatty'! Where's my debit card?

And sugar free, generic Walmart margarita mix:

Spank me sideways and call me 'Maria'! Add El Toro tequila (red plastic sombrero included) for the world's skinniest, cheapest-azz margarita.

And, how can we forget the GoGirl! female urination device:

Spank me sideways and call me 'Don.' Because sitting down to pee was KILLING me! Where's my debit card?

I don't just keep readers informed about the latest, greatest products, no - I pass out nuggets of knowledge, too. I am so full of this type of shit intelligence that a couple of my fellow bloggers, Robyn and Iris I pimped you gals! Pimpin' ain't easy! have given a name to my pearls of wisdom. Ladies and gents, I present to you --  "Dawn-isms:"

• Motherhood: the end of a perfectly good body.
• Smartphones: because no one should be bored on the toilet.
• Football season: a damn fine reason to go shopping. Every Sunday. For four months.
• Dishwashers: proof of God's existence.
• Broken Dishwashers: proof of Satan's existence.
• Prozac: It's what's for breakfast.
• Ohio: Just keep flying over - you ain't missing anything.
• Mike Rowe: Come here, handsome. I've got a Dirty Job for you, Mike Rowe.
• Adulthood: the end of a perfectly good time.
• Life: far too short to live in Ohio.
• Cheap beer: causing Dawn's dubious dancing since 1987 or 1986, maybe '85...shut up.
• Reality: always a buzzkill.
• Staff Meetings: Yes. You CAN sleep with your eyes open!
• Pedestrians: the other white meat.
• Breastfeeding: the end of perfectly good boobies.
• Merlot: keeping Mommy sane since 1997.

I got a million of 'em. And really -- you don't have to thank me for all these insights. Just send money -- lots and lots of money -- then spank me sideways and call me 'Rich.'

Where's your debit card?