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?

Me, My Son and his Cheap-Azz Costume

(post and snapshot, copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

You're so splendid, in your ordinary costume.

You think so anyway. I guess you're supposed to be a Grim Reaper. Or a jawa. Or something. I don't know. This getup came from Walmart, of course it did.  I'm not paying any thirty-damn-dollars for the fancy, bloody costume you wanted at the "Halloween U.S.A." store. You'll only wear it twice.

Anyway, have you met me? Yeah. C'mon, son, we're going to Walmart.

"O.K., Mom," you said.

Things are always O.K. with you.

A few days later, I help you pull the thin fabric over your head, and gently place the Made In China light-up glasses over your brown eyes. I have doubts that said Made in China light-up glasses will survive the evening. I am right.

Of course I am. Have you met me? I'm always right.

And before the night ends, your Dad has to duct-tape the frames back together.

None of this concerns you. Pleased as pumpkins, you are, with this chintzy scrap of black polyester. I know this because I catch your smile, Little Reaper, when your Death Hood blows in the breeze.

"O.K. I'm all ready for the costume contest."

You're excited. I know you are, though you try not to show it much because you're practically a man now, being nine and all. You walk proudly and regally to the judging. Just the way a tiny Harbinger of Death should.

You're pretty sure you'll win.

Me? I'm not quite as certain. At the party, I look around and see scads of kids whose moms obviously either 1: shelled out thirty clams for "Halloween U.S.A." offerings or 2: made elaborate costumes for their children. Using actual sewing machines. The colors and effort put into these outfits sear my retinas, like a flashing neon sign.

A sign that says: "You suck, Mommy."

Still proud, still regal, you parade in front of the judges with the others, in a getup that was probably sewn by a little Nicaraguan girl in a sweat shop. Now I wish I'd spent the extra money, bought you the nicest, bloodiest costume "Halloween U.S.A." had to offer. Or at least busted out my dusty sewing machine.

Because you didn't win.

Walking back from the judging, we discuss it.

"Mom, do you think they let the younger kids win? You know, since they're little? Because my costume is pretty good," you say.

Right here, I am nearly pulled to my knees with the weight of my love for you, your kindness and your absolute confidence in your cheap-azz costume. Next year, Little Reaper, we shall go to "Halloween U.S.A." with a giant wad of thirty-damn-dollars in cash.

"Yeah, buddy, I'm sure that's it," I say.

"Aw. That's O.K.," you say.

Things are always O.K. with you.

Exactly When the Hell Does School Start?

(Post, copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

Ah, summertime. When a kid can be a kid. And bathing?

Is just a concept.

Me: "Son. When was the last time you took a bath?"
Son: *Crickets*
Me: "SON! WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU BATHED?"
Son (lifting head from Nintendo DS): "Well, I went swimming Tuesday."
Me: "It's Friday. And I'm not asking about swimming. I'm talking SOAP. I'm talking SHAMPOO. I'm talking WASHCLOTH in your BUTT-CRACK."
Son: *Crickets*
Me: "GET IN THE TUB NOWWWW!!!!"
Son: *Stripping streak*

This is not totally his fault. He and his sister have been very busy, you see.

It begins each morning, after 11 hours of sleep. They log onto the computer for their daily dose of online shopping: Toys Backwards R Us, Amazon, Foot Locker online, Game Stop online... Decisions are made. Items are listed. Virtual shopping carts are filled.

And every evening, after my ten-hour workday and two-hour commute, the 19-page lists and shopping carts - printed with Epson ink costing $67 per milliliter - are shoved in my hand before I can put my purse away. Then I know what I can buy for them that particular day. Isn't that thoughtful? And all accomplished with such diligence, such attention to detail!

You know, I'm really glad they're taking the initiative here and working on solutions. Because they have a dreadful, serious problem.

They're bored.

The poor darlings! I feel awful for them. 159 video games on three different systems. A puppy. A trampoline. Two computers. A four-wheeler. Three mp3 players. 213 dvds. Five bikes.

An in-ground damn swimming pool.

Tragic, no? You can see here why the little lambs find their world so very dull.

Yes, it's truly a difficult life they lead. Every summer day is a struggle.

I can tell, because obviously some kind of terrible tussle takes place at our house before I get home at night. Popcorn bags scattered, candy wrappers dangling from the dog's mouth, cereal milk souring on the kitchen table, eleventy billion effin' drinking cups on every effin' surface...

My brave children. Must get so tired of fighting off the thirsty, popcorn-scarfing marauders invading our house that they can't clean up the resulting mess. So exhausted indeed that they cannot STAND to go outside.

No - the unbearable heat has turned out to be too much for my fragile flowers, who will surely wilt in the sun.

Teen Daughter: *Complain* *Grumble* *Whine*
Me: "Go outside and play!"
Teen Daughter: "But Mom - it's too haau-uutt outsiiiiddde-duh!"
Me: "Then go swimming!"
Teen Daughter: "But I just washed my hair-er!"
Me: "GO OUTSIDE! NOOOWWW!"
Teen Daughter: *Complains, *grumbles*, *whines* out door.

*Returns 9 minutes later.*

Teen Daughter: "But Mom - it's too hauu-utt out there-uh!"

Kill me now.

You know whose fault this is besides mine? Air Conditioning that bitch.

Believe it. Back in the Groovy Day? When I was a kid in the summer? You wouldn't find me in any stuffy, damn, 80-degree house. No sir. You could find my little ass one place only.

Out-damn-side.

I biked! I nerd alert roller discoed! I skateboarded! I played catch and weirdo alert Peoples with Marshall the Neighbor Boy!

I did not know this word you call 'Bored.' And I did not return to the house until the streetlights came on.

Because my mother locked me out all day. Then retired to the only air-conditioned room in the house: her bedroom. And that was that.

But that's O.K. It was the 70s, man.  Everybody locked out! Everybody weirdos roller discoed! Everybody dehydrated sweaty!

Air Conditioning? Nintendo DS? Water? Basic shelter? Ha ha-flippin'-HA!

You kids these days. I laugh at your cool air, your video games, your health and safety practices.

Bunch of amateurs.

Warning: Excessive Cussing Ahead. Because Excessive Junk Is Involved.

(post copyright, 2011, Dawn Weber)

Behold my junk:

And also my feet. Made you look.

I know. It's hideous. Feel free to turn away. For I am ashamed of my junk. A massive tangle of USB, A/V and charger cords for electronics dating back to the Carter administration.

It's a mess. It's a disaster. It’s a landfill in a box. It's...

The Asshole Drawer of Shame.

And I feel bad about it.

Need a certain cord for your IPod? Your 8-track? Perhaps your Victrola? Go ahead. Dig in. Knock yourself out. More than likely, I have it, because I keep all cords.

Hey - I might need them someday.

Shame on my drawers. People think this is my allocated "Junk Drawer." No, friends, no. I have another entire Asshole Junk Drawer dedicated to other things. Paperclips. Rubber Bands. Penis Drinking Straws from my Bachelorette Party.

You know. All the important stuff.

I also have: An Asshole Closet of Shame, An Asshole Cupboard of  Shame and even an entire Asshole ROOM of Shame.

I feel bad about them, too. In fact, like most females, I feel bad about lots of things.

Guilt: the original Woman’s Work. But that’s another post. Stay tuned…

Recently, I needed an “Aux In” cord to connect my Ipod to the truck‘s stereo. I know I have one of these cords. In fact, I know I have several of these cords. And I know where they lurk.

In the Asshole Drawer of Shame.

I had to dig into the ADOS. The hands went clammy, blood pressure rose, heart raced… I wasn’t sure I could handle it, but  it had to be done.

 I used my Lamaze breathing, my cardio stamina. I meditated and chanted to Jesus and - just to be safe - Allah. (Sorry, Jesus).

And I did it - I burrowed into the embarrassing mass. I untangled. I untwisted. I wrestled. Sweating, I untangled, untwisted and wrestled again.

Then, I chugged some whiskey.

Did I find the Asshole “Aux In” cord? No sir. I did not.

I found every-flippin‘-other-thing, though. Especially things I didn’t need or want. Especially things I wasn‘t seeking.

Especially Asshole Things I’ll Probably Never Use Again.

Like the cord for the camcorder, which we haven‘t turned on in five years. Like the box for my Ipod, the warranty long expired. Like a teething ring for the baby. The baby who starts third grade in a couple weeks. The baby who can do long division.

None of  these things were the “Aux In” cord. No sir. Not one.

I could put all these Asshole Things on the Asshole Chair of Shame, also known as The Chair of Things to Donate to Goodwill. Otherwise known as the Asshole Chair That Fills Up Every Weekend.

I really hate to do that, though.

 Because hey - I might need them someday.

Crappity-Crap. New Puppy. All My Fault.

(Post and photos copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

Sh#t. My dog does.

Every two hours.

She's adorable, though. And if you're going to crap yourself, cuteness helps.

Here at the Lighten Up Center for Useless Information (LUCUI), we have a theory about this (of course we do). Baby animals are irresistible so that someone will clean up their poo. And put up with their wailing. This ensures survival of the species.

We have our own new little mess machine. Her name is Suzie. She's a two-month-old, mixed-breed mutt. As you can see, I put quite a bit of thought into the decision to adopt a dog:

Dawn: Sees Puppy.
Dawn: Sees Big Brown Eyes! Twee Furry Face! Pouchy-Pup Belly!
Dawn: *MELTS*.
Puppy: Sees Dawn *YAPS!*
Dawn decides: Puppy must live with her. Now.
Puppy: *YAPS!*
Dawn: Picks up Puppy to take home
Puppy: *YAPS!*

And that? Was that. According to the husband, this is my usual method of choosing pets.

"You see a cat, you bring it home," he says. "You see a dog, you bring it home."

You'd never know Suzie is a pet. To hear all the conversations at our place this week, you'd think we had a newborn human baby:

"Did she eat yet?"

• This is very important information. Because the timing of the food is directly related to the timing of the poo. We must enforce strict schedules - Suzie doesn't particularly care where or when she makes a deposit. But I care. I care a lot.

"Did she poop yet?"

• Again, with the schedule. The last poo is directly related to the timing of the next poo. Because sh#t happens. In Suzie's case, it happens EVERY TWO HOURS.

"My God! Get that outta her mouth!"

• What an advanced palate has our puppy! Safe to eat? Suzie says yes! Yes, please! To electrical cords, Legos, my son's underwear, flip-flops, tissues, my underwear, fingers, toes, the husband's underwear...Edible underwear? They are now.

"Uh-uh. No way. It's YOUR turn to get up with her."

• Getting a puppy was my idea.This comes up often. It comes up at 12 a.m., 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. Comes up EVERY TWO HOURS. She whimpers from her crate, the husband's foot creeps under the covers to my leg and...*KICK.*
  I've had smarter ideas.

And I should have known better. I've been through this before.

But...but...

The Big Brown Eyes! So precious! While yapping in the crate...
The Twee Little Furry Face! So adorable! While chewing holes in socks...
The Pouchy-Pup Belly! So irresistable! While producing more poo...

Yep. Babies are cute for a reason. I've said it before, I'll say it again.

God - He's no Dummy.

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.