'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?

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.

Mean Mommy Strikes Again

(copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

Recently, I baffled my boy - with baked goods.

He's a genius. We're so proud.

"What are those things on that plate?" he said.
"Those are cookies, bud," I said.
"Where's the box?" he said.
"There is no box," I said. "I made them, then I put them on a plate."
"Wow! You never made cookies before!" he said.
"Yes I most certainly have!" I said.
"Not since I've been born," he said.

The kid is right. Martha Stewart I ain't.

But when I do, occasionally, make cookies, we keep them in a special place, a magical place, to the right of the stove and the left of the sink. A place where salt is King and sugar, his Queen.

My son named this hallowed spot many years ago, after yet another unsuccessful attempt at feeding those two a healthy lunch, at which they picked, I nagged and nothing nutritious was consumed. I had gone into the bedroom when I heard:

"SCAR-AAPE...SCRATTCCHHH...SCOOOTTT..."

Uh-oh. Sounded like trouble. Kid-sized trouble. I listened:

"SCOOOTTT...SCAR-AAPE...SCRATTCHHH..."

Curious, I peaked into the kitchen to find a chair pushed to the cupboards. Halfway-on, halfway-off the counter, legs akimbo, was my son's diapered rear-end.

"What are you doing?" I said.

He froze, mid-sneak, and craned his wee head around.

"Going there," he said, pointing to the built-in bread-box.
"Where?" I said.
"Um, the Counter of the Junk Food?"he said.

Scooping up his 2.5-year-old Pampered behind, I took him to the other corner of the kitchen and introduced him to the refrigerator.

"This is where the 'real food' is," I told him.

I showed him the apples, the strawberries, the blueberries. I presented to him the cheese, the yogurt, the carrots and the celery.

Yeah, I know - it's hilarious. I'm naive optimistic like that.

He made faces, wriggled free and toddled away. He was having none of it.

The Counter of the Junk Food also ranks as the only approved meal location for my daughter. At work, I get phone calls like this:

"Mom! We have no food!" she says, panicked.
"What do you mean we have no food?" I tell her. "I just went to the store! There are cheese sticks, bananas, grapes..."
"Blech! That is not real food,"she says.
"I think God would disagree," I say. "What food are you talking about?"
"We need Oreos, salt n' vinegar chips, Doritos, Slim Jims..." she says.
"Okay, THAT is not 'real food,'" I say. "Anyway, keep looking - I'm sure there is some junk somewhere you'd like."
"There is not!" she says. "I've looked all through here! There's nothing to eat!"

Poor children. It's a dang travesty - it's a downright shame!

Contact the authorities. As you can see, I'm starving my kids. With produce.

The Naked Parade

I made my children very sick the other day. Didn’t mean to.

There were tantrums, sweat and tears, fits, shouts and fevers. Hands covered mouths, bodies fell to the floor and cookies were tossed.

Whatever did I do to make the little darlings so violently ill?

I accidentally let them see me in a state of, well, “underwear.”

Yes, evidently I closely resemble Jabba the Hutt. I was not aware of this! I’m so glad they pointed it out - wonderful children. This 5’2’’ vessel of flesh that lovingly carried and nurtured them, this body that writhed through torturous hours of agonizing labor to bring them into this world…the slight site of it now sends them into fits of revulsion.

For many years, I’ve tried to hide my apparent hideousness from those two. I use a complicated bathing/dressing ritual designed to keep them from seeing my, er, “assets” : First, head into bathroom. Lock door, shower, dry off, dress as much as possible. Open bathroom door, peek to make they’re not looking, and sprint to bedroom for rest of clothes.

On this particular day, though, my mission was a big “fail.” I partially dressed, opened the door, did the peek-n-run. But is was no use - they spotted me in the Hinterland of the Hallway.

“Ewww! Mom! GROSS!” said my son, 7.

“That is just….UNATTRACTIVE!” said my daughter, 12.

Can’t you just feel the love?

It’s not their fault, really. They possess the smooth, flawless, muscle-packed skin that only the young can claim - and take for granted. Gravity and time have not pummeled their perfect bodies yet. The little boogers.

So when they see this 41-year-old pillar of, um, “experienced” flesh, with its faults and foibles, they tend to go into shock.

Luckily, I came up with a way that my children will never, ever again have to gaze upon my hideousness: A major Master Bathroom/Walk-In Closet renovation!

Indeed, a $39,000, granite-countered, garden-Jacuzzi-tubbed, en-suite bathroom - connected, of course, to a large walk-in closet - will solve this whole dilemma! No more hallway peek-n-run! If we knocked out the downstairs bathroom wall, connecting it to the bedroom, there‘d be no more hallway, and…

Thank goodness for all my HGTV-viewing, or I would not be aware of such solutions.

Ah, HGTV. You complete me.

I took my genius remodeling plans to my husband.

“You want to do WHAT? You want to knock out WHAT WALL?!” he said.

I explained the situation: How my near-nakedness is sickening the kids. How the peek-n-run from the bathroom to the bedroom has become more difficult in these, my Golden Years. And how garden Jacuzzi tubs are necessary for the aged body.

Surprisingly, he was not enthusiastic.

Turns out he's a fan of the Naked Hallway. He's also a fan of my peek-n-run parade.

Most of all, he says he's a fan of keeping money in his pocket - and not putting cash into a new garden Jacuzzi tub.

Looks like the kids will have to deal with the occasional, accidental “mom’s underwear” sighting. Tough tooters.

After all, if it wasn’t for this Birthday Suit - and their father’s appreciation of it - their little Birthday Suits wouldn’t even exist.

Can I get an Amen?

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.

The Best Silver Anniversary EVER!

copyright 2010, Dawn Weber
Twenty-five years of the Dairy Queen Blizzard, 25 extra pounds on my gut.

Coincidence? I think not.

Yes sir, the fine folks at your local Dairy Queen introduced the Blizzard back in 1985, swirling in things like chocolate bars, cookies, candies and - apparently - crack. Because I promptly began snarfing them down and packing on pounds.

Before that, in the 70s and early 80s, Midwestern kids like me had a handful of ice cream flavors from which to choose: vanilla, chocolate, strawberry and neopolitan. Blah, blah, blah and triple-blah.

"You'll get vanilla, or you'll get nothin', kid!"

I'll take nothin'. I could care less about those lame-o choices. A vanilla cone? A dish of chocolate ice cream? Ha! I laugh at your feeble dairy offerings. Buy me a Milky Way bar and call it good.

And then...THEN...came the Blizzard.

Vanilla soft serve ice cream, yes, but blended with candy, candy, CANDY! A kid's dream! The ice cream's mellow melt offsetting the crunchy sweetness of my favorites, Heath or Butterfinger bars. Yum!

Have I mentioned the candy?

If that wasn't awesome enough, Baskin-Robbins, Ben and Jerry's, Haagen-Dazs and other store-brand ice creams jumped on the treat train. Moose tracks, peanut butter cup, fudge, cookies n' cream...

Sigh. Excuse me - I need a minute alone.

Oh, yes. Like a man or two I've known, candy-packed ice cream gives me at least sixty seconds of untamed happiness.

But too much of a good thing can make you pregnant fat.

With that in mind, as an adult I've made a point of always living at least 20 minutes from the nearest Dairy Queen and major grocery stores. That way, I am far from temptation.

Acquiring treats becomes a serious mission. One that requires planning, buying gasoline and changing out of PJs - tasks I strenuously avoid.

So you can imagine my joy-tinged angst when I saw this:

Well spank my ass and call me fatty.

Apparently DQ is celebrating their frozen treat's big 2-5 with the DQ Blizzard Maker? Now I won't even have to get off my Blizzard-bloated butt to partake. This gizmo is designed so that a child can make them, and serve me on the couch, as a child should.

I am sure I will plunk down the $29.99 for it, then rush to the store for ice cream supplies and Heath bars to crush.

Because I give up. I admit it.

My shape was just dandy till ice cream had candy.

The Tooth Fairy's Tighty-Whiteys

                                                                                                              

copyright 2010, Dawn Weber

Tooth Fairy?

Not at our place. More like the Fail Fairy.

My poor kid. Witness our conversation first thing this a.m.:

"Uh, Mommy? Something weird happened," he yelled from his room.

I braced myself. 'Weird' can make me kids cry. 'Weird' usually needs cleaned up.

'Weird' is never good, generally involves an animal and makes me late for work.

But, in all my years of parenthood, 'weird' has always waited until after breakfast.

"Okay...what's that?" I said, ever the resigned-to-my-fate brave one.
"The Tooth Fairy left me a dollar, but she didn't take my tooth!" he said, surprised and angry.
"Um...well...uh...maybe she couldn't find it," I said.
"Yeah. Or maybe she has enough teeth right now...I guess...," said my son, trying to hide the disappointment in his wee voice.

I made a mental note to kick some Tooth Fairy ass.

Didn't have to wait long. He/she called me.

"I hear the Tooth Fairy forgot to take Levi's tooth this morning?" I said.
"Yeah. I went in across his floor, it was all 'CREAK! CREAK! CREAK!'" said the Fairy. "His pillow was half off his bed, half on. I'm feeling around under it, couldn't find his tooth anywhere."
"So what'd you do?" I said.
"I put the dollar right by his face, and tried to walk out, but the floor was all 'CREAK! CREAK! CREAK!' again, and he woke up and looked right at me," he/she said.
"Well, you're lucky, you big goober," I said. "He didn't remember that, because he didn't say anything."
"I'm surprised, considering what I was wearing," he/she said.

Yes folks, apparently when my boy spotted him/her,the Fairy was in his/her men's Hanes white undershirt and tighty-whiteys of questionable cleanliness.

Niiiicccce. The kid probably blocked it out of his memory.

Guess the Easter Bunny/Santa Claus, who weighs less and won't cause as much CREAK, will have to take over tooth duty, too.

Because - on the grounds of slacking, cross-dressing and dubious underwear -  the Fail Fairy is fired.

He Has A Mean Right Hook For An Old Dude

copyright 2010, Dawn Weber

Somebody's beating me up in the middle of the night.

And I think it's Father Time.

Eyes all baggy, forehead all furrowed, cheek all sleep-wrinkled - I wake each morning to a face that looks like it's gone 19 rounds with George Foreman. And his grill.

Beauty sleep? My booty!

Coffee in hand, I head to the mirror to assess injuries.

AHHHHH! My daughter’s gone and flipped the makeup mirror around to the “magnified” side again! This is not nice to do to a young lady of, um, 25, like myself…

Eyelashes pasted to puffy, crinkly eyes. Wrinkles have sprouted in new and unique areas, seemingly overnight. Dark circles that would do the grim reaper proud. And - wouldn’t you know it - a nice zit thrown in. Just for grins n’ giggles.

Ah, middle age. Wrinkles AND acne. A double delight!

You know, that Father Time is one mean S.O.B. - Stealer o' Beauty - and I hope Mother Nature and the Tooth Fairy gang up and kick his ass someday. (Just sayin'...)

Damages assessed, I reach for my weapons against Mr. Time. In fact, I've an entire heaping Longaberger basket filled with lotions, serums, gels, and potions - just to keep him away.

There's your standard lotions, SPF lotions, day lotions and night lotions, your alpha hydroxies, your retinols, your self tanners and your soothing gels. Your pore reducers, your exfoliators, your tone enhancers and your anti-oxidants…

And don't get me started on the eye creams. They have their own basket.

I was discussing the Father Time fight with my good friend Marj the other day, telling her how it's taking more and more of these "chemical weapons" to fight him off. She had this to say:

"It'll only get worse."

I don't know why I expected her to say anything else. This is her standard answer for everything. Marj, a few (EIGHT!) years older than me, is the Eeyore of Aging:

Me: "Now, what was it I was going to tell you? I can't remember what I was going to say..."
Marj: "It'll only get worse."
Me: (Different day) "Can you turn the music up? I can't quite hear it..."
Marj: “It'll only get worse."

Sometimes, she doesn't even listen before spreading her Message of Doom.

Me: "Hey Marj - do you want some potato chips?"
Marj: "It'll only get worse."

Whatever would I do without Wise Marj?

Seeking more Marj-ness, recently I told her that Father Time isn’t just pummeling my face each night. Judging by painful, tender muscles in strange, new places, he’s also pounding my shoulders, legs, back and hips. Each day, I wake to aching muscles in different bodily areas, wondering what I did to deserve the misery.

Of course, Marj also has a theory on Father Time’s nightly below-the-neck smack down:

Wise Marj: “Yep, that’s your Body Bingo.”
Me: “Huh?”
Wise Marj: “You know. It's when you wake up each morning, feeling what’s sore, trying to remember what you did the day before to hurt yourself in that particular spot. That's the Body Bingo.”

I asked Wise Marj what I could do to fight Father Time's nasty board game.

Really. Why do I bother asking? I knew her answer just as soon as she shrugged and uttered the words from her wise old mouth:

“It’ll only get worse.”

It's Only Rock n' Roll But He Knows It...Better Than You!

(Post copyright 2010, Dawn Weber)

This just in!

Bon Jovi screws up their lyrics, the Beastie Boys are dead and AC/DC has a hit they know nothing about!

Thank you, Guitar Hero. You've created a Musical Monster Genius!

Yes, this popular video game has made my son, 7, a veritable rock n' roll expert. According to him.

The dude beats everyone on that game, even though he's so small that he has to hold the instrument across his lap, steel guitar-style. And this plastic-guitar virtuosity has got him thinking that he's an all-around modern-music master. I am so annoyed grateful!

He proved his brilliance the other day when we heard "Rock & Roll" by Led Zeppelin.

"Oh yeah! It's AC/DC!" he said, banging his little head.

"No, Levi, that's Led Zeppelin," I said.

"It is not! It's AC/DC!" he said.

"Sorry, bud. This song came out when I was two. I have the album. I had the cassette. I probably had the 8-track," I said to a boy who knows none of those terms. "I have it on my Ipod now - I'll show you. It's Led Zeppelin."

"Mom," he said, barely concealing his disdain for my stupidity. "I can tell - this is AC/DC."

"Ok, Levi, it's AC\DC," I said.

See there? You thought "Rock &Roll" was by Led Zeppelin, too. Obviously, you were wrong. Dummy.

Also, someone needs to call Jon Bon Jovi, stat. My boy informed me that the lyrics to "You Give Love a Bad Name" are all wrong. It's not:

"Shot through the heart/And you're to blame/Darlin' you give love/A bad name."

Oh, no. According to my kid, that particular line goes:

"Shock up your heart/And you're too late/You give love/A bad grade."

But wait, there's more! He's not only gifted in classic rock - he's also quite the rap music expert. Again, according to him. My daughter left her music blaring the other day, allowing he and I the following brilliant conversation:

"Hey Mom! It's your favorite rapper...M & M's!" he said.

"Well...Eminem is O.K.," I said, "but my favorite rapper is Kid Rock."

"Kid Rock isn't a rapper!" he said.

"Well, he used to rap, before he went country.Or rock. Or country..." I said.

"He isn't a rapper!" said the 7-year-old rap expert.

"O.K....then my favorite rapper is...the Beastie Boys," I said.

"The Beastie Boys?! They're dead!" he said.

"No, son, they're about my age. They're not dead. Yet," I said.

"Nah...they're dead," he said.

"OK, Levi. They're dead," I said.

And that? Is what happens when lame white people discuss rap music. No one wins. Least of all the poor Beastie Boys.

Somebody should call them, too - I'm sure they would like to contest their demise - but they'd quickly learn their lesson.

There's really no use arguing with the Guitar Hero.

One Million Channels...and Spongebob's On

With kids around, there's really no need for a remote control.

Five televisions, each with 1000-plus channels, and we are perpetually watching Spongebob Squarepants.

Time Warner Cable really should offer a parental discount. Most of us never get to see ESPN, let alone ESPN2, with kids ruling the show. Lifetime, HGTV, the History Channel - I hear they exist, but I have yet to see anything but Spongebob, his famous square arse and his little network friends.

So we keep buying TVs, putting them in new places in the hopes of having a set of our own. We've tried sneaking into other rooms, looking for a television without a child planted in front.

But here they come, racing behind us, beating us to the couch. The males of the house, my husband and son, both lunge for the remote at the same time. Click! Guess what's on?

That's right, you nailed it - Nickelodeon.

This especially irks my husband, who wants to watch ALL the channels ALL the time. Like many men, he has another woman - her name is Remote Control. His faithful lover R.C. offers him hundreds of choices and hours of flicking fun.

Yet the television continually blares shows rendered in primary colors.

Couple this with today's studly program offerings - Sportscenter, Cops, anything on the Military Channel - and you can see the guy's dilemma. His colleagues often ask him what he watched the night before.

''Hey, did you see 'Rock of Love' last night? Chicks were fighting - in a Jell-O pit!'' says friend one.

''Nah. The kids were watching the TV,'' says my man.

''You been watching Shark Week on Discovery Channel?'' asks friend two.

''Couldn't watch it - iCarly marathon,'' says my husband.

''Dude - you watch the Buckeyes Saturday?'' says friend three. ''Double overtime!''

''Nope. Five brand-new episodes of Spongebob, all this week,'' he says.

Way back in the day when we were kids, if the sky was clear, the planets aligned and the foil-covered antenna aimed just so, we had three choices: ABC, CBS and NBC. That little plastic RCA only showed children’s programs on Saturday mornings. Pop Tarts in hand, we sat bundled in our footie pajamas watching Superfriends, Speed Buggy, Schoolhouse Rock and Grape Ape, their vibrant colors reduced to shades of gray on the black and white sets.

Our moms and dads slept in while we were glued to the TV all morning, and no doubt some of our parents can thank Scooby Doo and his crew for the chance to conceive our younger siblings.

The rest of the time, we got stuck watching whatever the grownups watched - the news, Kojak, Chico and the Man, All in the Family. If we complained, we were told - in profane terms - to take our plaid-polyester-panted behinds elsewhere. If we kept griping, we had a good chance of a swift parental smack.

Ah, the good old days. A kid could be a kid, and a parent could be abusive

Fast forward the VCR, and here we’ve landed in 2009 with all these color televisions, and thousands of channels. But not much has changed for us: we still have no TV rights.

So guys? We are old and tired, and we quit. Here’s your remote. Your Dad and I will be in the bathroom, hanging the new flat-screen.

Ma'am This

Someone at work is trying to kill me.

Or, I may kill him. I’m not sure.

How’s this happening? Death by ma‘am.

"Morning, ma'am."
“Afternoon, ma‘am.”
"Have a nice lunch, ma'am."

He works there in the lobby, sees me several times a day, ma‘ams me constantly. I’m ready to blow, it’s getting to that point. Here’s what I’m going to tell that little man:

“Stop the ma’am-ness. Now. I’ve got a good ten years, 20 pounds and two inches on you. I think I can take you. Keep it up, and you’re goin’ down.”

Because with every ma’am he lobs my way, I grow older, I grow angrier. First ma’am of the day? Blood pressure rises, right eye begins to twitch. Next one? Wrinkles spread, collagen breaks down. Lunchtime ma’am? Osteoporosis. After that, the effects are cumulative, spiraling out of control.

By 5 p.m., I’m a goner.

He can’t seem to stop himself. I’ve tried to hide, tried all the best evasion tactics - the duck and run, the no eye-contact, the fake cell phone conversation, Ipod earbuds.

But it never fails. He hits me with those ma’ams anyway. Bullets to my youth.

I’ve told him, in a reasonable fashion, of my deep disdain for the word.

“Please don’t call me that. It makes me feel old. My name‘s Dawn,” I said.

“It’s a sign of respect,” he said.

Respect? How about truth - you want the truth? Ma’am is a verdict. The ma’am-user has made an age-judgment based on appearance. And this conclusion is generally not welcomed by the ma’am at hand.

It’s a downright four-letter word.

Four out of five of my girlfriends surveyed also hate being called ma'am. We miss ‘Miss.’ Sunny, happy days those were, not so long ago, when waitresses, store clerks, little lobby dudes looked at our then wrinkle-free skin and saw a ‘Miss’ and not a ‘Ma’am.’

But somehow, someway, despite our best exercise and SPF 45 efforts, we went over Ma'am Mountain anyway. That is, according to little lobby dudes, the guys at the BP station and most other minimum wage employees. Geniuses all.

Since I fear for the safety of these folks, I’m calling for a national m-word re-education policy. According to all the guys behind the counters, I am quite the expert. I’ll be glad to help. Here are some occasions when it's OK to call a woman 'ma'am':

-When checking her into the nursing home
-When helping her shop for a walker
-When giving her directions to her great-granddaughter’s baptism
-When she's unconscious
-When assisting her in finding just the right dress for her 65th wedding anniversary
-While changing the tire on her Buick, which flattened on the way to her weekly hair appointment

And the very best time to call a woman ma’am?

The day she’s forgotten her hearing aids.

Welcome to the Diner

Hello! My name is Mommy, and I'll be your server this evening.

I will also be this eatery's chef, hostess, manager and busboy.

Yeah, Mommy is talented like that. That's how Mommy rolls.

Tonight we'll be serving chicken nuggets, pizza and some sort of dead animal for your Dad. Oh - and a dinky-dang-diet-meal for me.

That's right. Chef Mommy here will prepare FOUR different meals for FOUR different people! Just as she has for the last SEVEN years...

Mommy is amazing like that. That's how Mommy rolls.

I won't bother you with The Chef's Special. It's irrelevant. I haven't prepared a recipe since you were born. Recipes, in general, don't come from a box. And we all know, if it doesn't come out of a box, it isn't going into your mouth.

You say you'd like chocolate milk, and not the plain variety I've set before you? So sorry, sir! Here - let me fix that. No, really. Don't get up. Serving you is one of life's great pleasures.

Again - that's how Mommy rolls.

What's that, young miss? You say you don't like the service here? Not enjoying Mommy's mood tonight? You say you want to go to Grandma's house?

I tell you what: Let's go to Grandma's house. Only, not the cookie-baking, junk-making granny you know today.

Let's have some fun. Let's go back...way back to the 70s and see what Granny's making for dinner, when she was a mom like me. Close your eyes, now...

Hmm...what's this? Why, it's pork chops - with (gasp!) bones in-tact, fried in a skillet. And - (yikes!) - lima beans. Rounding it all out, we have (horrors!) baked potatoes, with salt, pepper and a little butter. No sour cream in sight.

Still four people. But guess what, kids? ONE meal. Mmm-hmmm. Don't like it? That's fine with Grandma.

Don't worry. She does offer choices. You can:

1. Eat the pork chops, beans and potatoes, or
2. Go right to bed.

Because that? Is how 70s Mommies rolled.

Well...look who's returned! Welcome back to 2010, kids.

Enjoy your meals.

Boys And Their Toys

I shower with Superman.

I've slept with Spiderman, Batman and Ironman and, occasionally - a Camaro. So has my husband. (Shh...don't tell him I told you!) Been doing it for years.

Now, now, don't be pervy - we're not some kind of an alternative couple (not that there's anything wrong with that). I'm talking about our son's toys in the tub, in the bed, on the floor, on the couch, on the steps, and sometimes - the fridge. Poking and prodding us in our feet and our whatnots with their little plastic weapons. (That's what she said!)

The cast of characters has changed over the years, but, like many little guys, my son, 7, has always hauled various tiny playthings around the house. That boy has been clutching a toy since the very moment he could do so. I'm pretty sure one of his sonogram pictures features a Matchbox Car clutched in his little nubbin-hands.

(Hmmm...this explains that metallic-tasting heartburn.)

All this toy togetherness has given me quite an affection for the characters and what they meant to my son's different stages of life.

As a young toddler, he took a liking to Dora the Explorer. He even had a Dora doll. Ask him these days about "Dor-Dor!," as he used to call her, and he'll likely take a swing at you.

Then he will deny this.

Next came a Thomas the Train Engine phase. Sticky little preschool hands pulled me onto the carpet each day, and together my son and I built endless (ENDLESS!) wooden tracks for Thomas and Friends.

These days? He will deny this.

And of course, we had a lengthy "Toy Story" phase, with Buzz, Woody, Jessie, Rex and the rest of the gang scattered hither and yon. The boy carried Woody and especially Buzz dolls, er, action figures everywhere. His favorite outfit for a couple years was a Buzz Lightyear costume, with the words "Danger! Jet Exhaust" printed right on the tush. So appropriate.

Of course, he will deny this.

He's much too cool for any of that now. These days, it's all superheroes, all the time. And I could handle giving away the Dora doll. I'll be able to pack away the now-ignored Thomas Trains for his children. But the "Toy Story" movies hold a special place in Mama Weber's heart, here, because of their sentimental message, and because my daughter loved them, too.

So you can imagine my shock upon seeing this sight on top of our boy's Goodwill give-away pile recently:

That's right. He tried to kick Buzz and Woody, our dear old friends, right to the charity-bag curb.

Oh no he did-n't! Can you believe this?

Listen here, Little Man. I may shower with your Superman, and I might sleep with your Batman and Ironman. But Buzz and Woody still hold my heart, understand? Didn't "Toy Story" 1 and 2 teach you anything? Plastic has feelings too, you know!

Don't you worry, fellow Mommies. I plucked our old friends right out of there.

After all, a girl never leaves a good Woody behind. Even if she also has a Buzz.

Don't Do It, Kid

For the most part, adulthood sucks.

This is what I keep telling my daughter. She, age 13, disagrees with her mother. Oddly enough.

To her, grown-ups live in a land of pocket money, complete freedom and unlimited cell phone minutes. A happy place where shiny new gadgets magically and regularly appear for no reason at all.

A job? Where she'll spend 80 percent of her waking hours and young, healthy years to earn said money, minutes and gadgets? Just a petty detail.

She has so much to look forward to. I mean, the bills, the taxes - exciting stuff. The daily snarl of morning traffic, demanding bosses and impossible deadlines - ah, good times.

Enjoy the wrinkles that criss-cross your face like a broken mirror, and sags and pooches that make bikinis a distant memory. Aches and pains that appear each morning for no apparent reason. And embrace those ten pounds that materialize each year - they're not going anywhere.

But wait, there's more! Don't forget the endless chores and housework. After a ten-hour workday, mounds of laundry, dusty furniture and dirty dishes await. Weekends -what weekends? The grass needs cut, the gutters need cleaned and the toilet needs fixed. Whee!

She and her friends have noticed none of the above, though. To my daughter and most teen girls, growing up equals money, makeup and boys.

I've noticed smeared cosmetics over her freckles, wiped off hastily on the bus ride home. Boys call now, squeaky and nervous and asking for my little girl, who still doesn't legally weigh enough to get out of her car booster seat.

Sweetie? You want to grow up to get the cash, cosmetics and guys. I would, however, enjoy some time in your world. So here's my plan. It's not Take Your Child To Work Day, it's Give Your Child Your Work Day.

Tomorrow, dear, you get up at the butt-crack of dawn. Hop in the car and speed all the way into the city during rush hour. Work ten hours for a paycheck that's already spent at a job you're darn lucky to have.

Scoot back into the car for the evening traffic fray, and arrive home to cook for three people who won't like anything you fix. Supervise homework and baths, fall into bed. Repeat 20-plus years, or until death, whichever comes first.

Meanwhile, I'll live your life. So make sure my breakfast is ready, and don't wake me up too early. Take me to school, where I'll hobnob with my friends until the bell rings, and be sure to pick me up at the bus stop in a warm car.

Fire up the computer so I can instant message my friends all evening, while simultaneously talking on the phone and painting my toenails. Cook only pepperoni pizza or chicken nuggets for dinner, and remember - I tolerate nothing green.

Ha ha, just kidding, kid. You be you for a while longer, I'll be me.. I'll keep my job, belly, wrinkles and cell phone minutes. Keep your booster seat, your innocence and your sweet freckles.

Heck, just yesterday I was changing your diapers. And before you know it, you'll be changing mine.

The Guys At Work

Jesus had his disciples, the president has his advisers and my husband has The Guys at Work.

For him, there are no wiser men, no sager-sages than these workplace whizzes. Aristotle? Ha! Socrates? Scoff. Michelangelo? Come on! We don't need them. Not when we have the astute counsel of Jim, Gary, Bob and Other Bob.

Need to know where to get cheap tires? The Guys at Work say to go to Mr. Tire. Wonder what movie to see this weekend? The Guys at Work have seen them all. Curious which RV to buy? No doubt TGAWs have the answer.

Yes, we are brushed by greatness to know these wonders of worldliness, these wizards of wisdom. They've offered my man advice on everything from child rearing to Christmas
gifts to beef steak.

The phrase ''The Guys at Work said...'' gets an automatic wifely eye roll from me. Not because I disagree with them. In fact, my answers usually match theirs. But the truth isn't the truth until we have the Guys' blessing.

Let's illustrate this scenario with a little dialogue, if you will:

Him: “What movie do you want to see this weekend?”

Me: “Well, I hear “Avatar” is good.”

Silence. Crickets chirp, air molecules stand still.

Fade in, two days later:

Him: “Say, I know - let's see “Avatar” Saturday. The Guys at Work say it's great!”

(Cue the wifely eye-roll.)

If nothing else, at least my agreement with the TGAWs guidance proves that I’m right. I love being right. Don't you? I used to dream of being rich or famous, thin or gorgeous. But I’m old. I’ve given up on those dreams.

And occasionally - just sometimes - I know what I'm talking about. This is because I’ve spent years living single and dirt poor.

You too can become a rocket scientist. All you need is - nothing and no one. With good old-fashioned poverty, you’ll quickly learn the art of creative scrounging. You’ll also learn to do things yourself, because no one else is around to help. Years of lonely financial struggle have given me solid knowledge of 1040 tax forms, toilet plumbing and your basic Ford engine. Far be it from me to withhold all this valuable knowledge from my husband. That would be selfish. I have to share.

Case in point: a while back, we hopped in the Taurus to go out to eat. He turned the key.

Car: Click, click click.
Me: “Sounds like the starter.”
Him (cussing under his breath as we switched cars): “Humph. Maybe.”

Fade in, a few days later.

Me: “Hey, did you find out what’s wrong with the Taurus?”
Him: “The Guys at Work said it's the starter.”

(Cue the wifely eye-roll.)
Me: “Huh. How about that.”

Silence. Crickets chirp, air molecules stand still (again).

And then my husband begrudgingly said Those Words. The Three Little Words every woman longs for:
''You were right.''

The Perpetual Diet - FAIL!

That's it. I quit.

I'm going to go ahead and get fat. Who's with me?

It's time. I've been dieting since puberty, and you know what?

Getting fat anyway.

Eat/don't eat. Diet/don't diet. Junk food/healthy food... doesn't matter.

Getting fat anyway.

The Cabbage Soup diet. The Grapefruit Diet. The Liquid Diet. The Vegetarian Diet. The Atkins Diet. The South Beach Diet. The Alli Pill Diet. The Drive-An-Hour-To-The-Doctor-Who-Prescribes-Questionable-Diet-Pills-Diet.

Guess what?

Getting fat anyway.

Aerobics. Weight training. Yoga. Pilates. Yoga-lates. Walking. Spinning. Running. Swimming.

Come on - all together now...

Getting fat anyway.

Like many folks, I've put up quite a battle of the bulge. I've followed all the advice, all the rules. The scale needle goes nowhere - except up. And the older I get, the fatter I get, and the harder it is to do the things I'm supposed to do. Like move.

I am tired. I am hungry. I am...

Getting fat anyway.

I have a theory about all this (of course I do). My Petrified Bones/Ed Asner theory: We're all slowly turning to stone. Just like Mr. Asner - have you seen or heard that guy lately? Great man, great actor. Looks and sounds like a bag of rocks.

So it goes for all of us. We all morph into rock. Rocks are heavy, and eventually, we are, too.

Our bones turn to stone.

Looking for research to support my genius Ed Asner theory, I came across recent statistics from the CDC stating that 34 percent of adult Americans are obese. The CDC also says that's more than double the percentage of obese adults there were 30 years ago.

The hell? Thirty years ago, nobody - including Ed Asner - gave a flying fart what they ate. We ate bread 30 years ago. We ate pork 30 years ago. We put butter on EVERYTHING 30 years ago.

And, according to the CDC, we were thin...30 years ago.

Well, screw this starving bullcrap! I'll have what they were having.

So, Mr. Asner? Pass the butter. Because I'm...

...getting fat anyway.

Captain George and Technical Support

Here's something you don't want to hear on an airplane:

"Uh, sorry folks. It appears our right engine isn't working."

I had a feeling something like this would happen when our flight attendant introduced our pilot as "Captain George."

Captain George had a distinct hillbilly accent and an overly-friendly attitude. He chatted us up over the intercom as if he were about to buy us a bucket of beer.

Hillbilly, pilot, George, beer - not exactly words that encourage confidence.

So his broken-right-engine intercom announcement didn't surprise me. Luckily, the plane broke down on the runway.

We were supposed to have jetted off for a cruise. Instead, we began our special vacation with this little omen. I turned to my husband.

"Happy Anniversary, honey!" I said.

Good ol' Captain George popped on the intercom again.

"Well, folks, we're on the phone with our mechanics in Florida to see if we can fix the problem, get ya off the ground here as soon as possible..." he said.

The pilot...on the phone...with technical support. In Florida. Nice.

I pictured Captain George, heading out to the engine, his tool in hand, his cell phone to ear, asking the "fellas in Florida" which screw to tighten.

Uh, George? Never mind the tech support.We'd like another plane, thank-you-very-much.

Sigh. Why couldn't it have been the right windshield wiper that had malfunctioned? Maybe a tire? Perhaps a tail-light? We could have dealt with that. No. Had to be the right ENGINE, didn't it.

But we were resigned to our fate, as air travelers are. Because the flight was paid for, and whatnot.

We waited, and waited. And waited some more. Finally, our buddy Captain George told us what would happen next.

"We're gonna get ya off the plane, gonna fly our mechanics from Florida up here, have 'em work on the plane, get ya outta here as soon as possible..." he said.

Apparently Ohio airplane mechanics can't fix airplanes? Yes - much more financially prudent to fly aircraft professionals all the way from Florida than to find one locally...

Still, I knew not to question the wise counsel of Captain George.

We left the plane and returned to the airport. At least it was time to eat. It was damn sure time to drink.

After lunch, the gate attendants told us the plane would "hopefully" be repaired by 6:30 p.m.

"They must have to go to NAPA to get the part," said my husband.

We spent the next six hours - and our 15th wedding anniversary - people-watching the fellow passengers of Flight 007. They were beginning to feel like old friends: a Gretchen Wilson look-alike, Mr. Better-Than-Thou First Class, "Gilley's Bar" ball-cap Grandpa, who smiled a lot when his wife wasn't around.

Even good ol' Captain George eventually joined us at the gate, flipping through a magazine, chill-axin'. This seemed a positive sign that actual mechanics - and not Georges with screwdrivers - were fixing the plane.

Finally, around 6 p.m., the gatekeeper announced that we could re-board the plane. I wasn't thrilled about flying on this jacked-up jet.

But I was happy to go somewhere, anywhere, besides the airport restroom.

I grabbed my carry-on. I admit it - I was still a little nervous, so I crossed my fingers. I wanted to spend eternity with my husband. Not Flight 007 and Captain George.

Grunge Garage: Do Not Judge Me!

He has a dream.

He dreams of a manly place where no kids bug him, no wives nag him and no one needs anything from him. A tidy place where he can keep his tools and possibly park his car.

So it goes, on sporadic Saturdays here in beautiful downtown Brownsville, that my husband heads out to clean ‘his garage.’ He makes a great show of it. Banging and clanging and using the occasional *&%!-word.

That’s because our garage is full of it. Crap, that is. Old bicycles, hobby horses, tires and toys, used stereos, magazines, pop cans and sporting goods. Not to mention three stray cats and their litter-box. If it's smelly, dusty or homeless, I can guaran-dang-tee you it lives in our garage.

On such a Saturday, he generally comes inside to ask questions like this:
Him: Hey. Do you want this (fill-in-the-blank-with-plastic-from-Nixon-administration)?
Me: Yes I want that! I might use it someday!
Him: But Honey, it’s broken. Also, you’re old. You'll hurt yourself.
Me: Well, the kids might want to play with it!
Him: But it’s broken. And the spiders…
Me: Anyway, the memories! And it could be valuable. Keep it till I check Ebay.

Defeated, head down, he slinks away. Closes the garage door, gives up and heads to 'his office' (the bed). Flips on the Military Channel.

He says it's my fault, the mess in the garage.

But here at the Weber Center for Completely Uninformed Social Research (WCCUSR), we have determined that this is indeed not my fault, because I have the female pack rat gene.

This gene causes pack rat women like me to think about, nay, ponder the sadness that will befall the household if Really Important and Necessary Stuff - like baby shoes, Hot Wheels or Veterinarian Barbies end up in the Goodwill bag.

Several of my girlfriends also carry this gene. There's Brenda, who moved three truckloads of antiques and furniture from California to Ohio - all for two people. Marlene regularly fills her garage with unwanted stuff from other folks' garage sales. Another woman I know saved the crayons her son used - 30 years ago.

Perhaps the Queen of my pack rat friends, Sonia has kept the shirt her husband was wearing when she met him, a banana from her honeymoon breakfast (in a baggie) and her babies' belly button stumps (more baggies).

And, true to form, all over the Midwest, our husbands dream of orderly tools and parked cars. Then they scratch their heads, lower the garage door and retire to 'their offices.' Flip on the Military Channel.

Why do pack rat women save this stuff? I mean, besides the fact that it could become valuable on Ebay?

I think it's because time flies by faster than a Walmart bag in the wind. I can't remember what happened last week, let alone ten and 20 years ago, so I need this moldy old crap to remind me. Also, some stuff is just too precious to throw away. It’s just like that old Jim Croce song, the one that goes ''If I could save time in a baggie...''

But it is true: the garage is a mess. A maze of storage boxes, broken bikes and overflowing recycling bins. Even I can't ignore it anymore. It's getting so bad that the three stray cats have reconsidered homelessness.

O.K., O.K., I hear you. One of these days, I'll let my husband have his dream of an organized garage. I will fight my pack rat genes and he can toss some stuff. Yes sir, I'll let him do that. Just as soon as I check it all out on Ebay.

Bum Vacation

I yearned for it.

Walked slowly past, looked longingly, touched lovingly, eyed the price tag, sighed and kept walking.

“You don’t need it,” said the voices in my head. “The one you have is just fine. It looks OK. It will serve you for years to come.”

But still, I lusted, year after year after year. The look of it, the feel of it, the downright luxe of it…

The Padded Toilet Seat.

“Psssst,” it says. “Have a sit-down! Relaaaxxxx…..”

Ahhhh. Nothing like it. It’s a bum-break, a pooper-pamper, a wee (-wee) vacation for the tired tush.

(Not that I would know. I never utilize these things. For I am a Pretty Flower, who never, ever has to use, um, facilities. No, I am only thinking of the family.)

But, like I said, here at the Weber house, we were already the proud owners of a toilet seat. Yeah, we’re wealthy like that.

It was here when we bought the house. From the late 1980s, heavy, dark, oak - purchased in the days of stenciled walls, country-blue geese and Randy Travis.

So I waited. I waited and waited and waited for that ugly oak Randy Travis Toilet Seat to break. Or die. Whatever. The practical Youngstown girl (Another steel mill could close! Or I could lose my job! Again!) in me just couldn’t see replacing a perfectly good, structurally sound shitter-seat with a new one.

Oh, we, er, they gave Randy Travis their best shots over the years - in sickness and in health. Little and big men in the house, lots of slamming up and down, lots of sideways spillage.

I waited 16 years. SIXTEEN YEARS. I gave him the best years of my life, and still, the ugly oak Randy Travis Toilet Seat WOULD NOT BREAK.

This year, I said the hell with it. I simply could not wait anymore. We received our tax return check, and I got crazy.

I went to Walmart, plunked down my $19.41 and walked out with It: a Deluxe, Lovely, Soft, Vinyl, Padded Toilet Seat. Color: Vanilla.

I rushed home, tore out my toolbox and set to work. A simple thing, toilet seat replacement, right?

You'd think so. You'd be wrong. The Randy Travis Toilet Seat wouldn't let go. The corroded bolts had seemingly melted into the very porcelain of the crapper bowl.

I hated to admit it, but I needed some man power. I called my husband.

He grunted, sweated, cussed. Then he got up from his chair to come work on the toilet seat. Grunted, sweated and cussed some more. Randy Travis did not budge.

Oh, I was so close. So close to my dream of pampered poopers for all. (Except for me, of course. Again, Pretty Flower…) What to do?

Then it hit me out of the Tidy Bowl Blue - we’d call our buddy Greg. Dude's a complete genius when it comes to home repair, car repair, any-dang-thing-repair.

Best part? Will work for beer.

It wasn’t long before Greg pulled up, in his magical truck o' tools. I knew now that I was THIS CLOSE to my dream of cushy-seat-softness (Well, the family was close. I’ll never know…)

Greg whipped out his equipment, and tackled Randy Travis, who was really having trouble letting go of the Webers. Seemed he planned on hanging around “Forever and Ever, Amen.”

But he was no match for Greg and his large tool.

And, after a couple of hours of blood, sweat and toilet water, my dream finally came true.

Randy Travis was trashed.

And in his place, in all its comfy, soft, dreamy glory, was the vanilla Padded Toilet Seat. I was in heaven. Think of the peaceful pees! (For the family, I mean, I think only of them...)

We all stood around to admire his work, while Greg mopped Weber sewer water from his brow.
I felt bad for the guy. He was certainly due many, many cases of beer for this odious task.

But, he remained unruffled. He simply shrugged, packed up his toolbox and said:

"You know, I never have liked these things, these soft seats like this. It's like taking a crap on the couch."

Yeah. Thanks, Greg. Thanks a lot.

No beer for YOU!