Thursday, June 30, 2011

Spanx You Very Much! (Winning: Part Two)

(post copyright, 2011, Dawn Weber)
Very few friends will let you into their pants.

Unless you buy them a drink first.

Lighten up, Frances. You too, Esther. Don't start writing in nasty comments about my foul mouth again. I'm saying my buddy Robin Spanxed me...all the way from Cleveland.

And I loved it.

Yep. I had quite a dilemma last week: I was up for the Humor (under 50,000 circulation) award at the National Society of Newspaper Columnists Conference in Detroit Saturday evening. I was also going on vacation the five days before this event - arguably one of the biggest nights of my life. So I needed to continue to fit into this dress, which is - amazingly enough for me - not from Walmart:

Yeah - it's all shits and giggles, rainbows and unicorns the day before vacation, when the dress still fits.
Obviously, I had two choices:
1. Eat, drink and be merry or
2. Fit into expensive, non-Walmart dress

Have you met me?

Yeah. I was merry.

Then I was worried.

What if I waddled to the podium? What if I popped a zipper on the way up? What if I burst forth from the dress like a stuffed sausage, and everyone saw my goodies?

I took my concerns to the experts - the girls on Facebook. My friend Robin, author of this hilarious blog, didn't let me down. She reminded me of Spanx.

You've heard of Spanx. Sounds modern, sounds sassy. Right?

It's a girdle. It may look a little different, but it's a girdle. As in your granny's girdle. As in sucks-in-the-gut-girdle.

As in crack-open-a-vacation-beer-because-you-have-a-girdle...girdle.

I never thought I'd wear a girdle. To do so, in my mind, admits defeat. Although people usually don't believe it, I work out like an O.C.D. idiot.

But obviously I had a situation - a vacation situation.

The good news for me? Robin owns Spanx.

Robin hates Spanx.

This worked to my benefit, because she gladly said she'd part with her Spanx and send it to me via Priority Mail so I'd have it in time for Saturday night.

People: A friend who loans you her intimate apparel? Who rushes said skivvies through the U.S. Postal System so you have it in time for the weekend? Keep this person close to your big belly heart. Forever.

Yes, a solution was on its way. Witness the following Facebook transaction:

The Girdle is in transit. I repeat. The Girdle is in transit.
June 20 at 1:47pm ·  ·  · See Friendship

  • You and Kerbi Sexton like this.

    • Marcia Camino um...
      June 20 at 1:59pm · 

    • Dawn Weber You are so awesome! ! Now I can relax! *cracks open another Landshark*
      Srsly. You're awesome

      June 20 at 2:46pm · 

    • Robin Daugherty Suttell I think Marcia is a bit concerned about the whole operation. :)
      June 20 at 2:53pm · 

    • Dawn Weber She is just jealous cuz she isn't borrowing your intimate apparel. Everybody wants to get in your pants. *knee slap*
      June 20 at 3:13pm · 

    • Marcia Camino If it's a girdle then of course I'm jealous!! You two have your secret language that sprinkles into your postings on occasion. I have to crack the code. I thought 'girdle' was code for something like a secret tech tool for a double agent or operative.
      June 20 at 3:42pm · 

    • Robin Daugherty Suttell No...we're really talking about Spanx this time. I'm apparently the official Spanx Higher Power lending library. Although I hate that thing so much, she can keep it if she wants.
      June 20 at 3:45pm ·  ·  1 person

    • Dawn Weber I'm super-thankful to borrow it, but from the looks of things, it'll be difficult to breathe. I think I can handle one night, but you're talking to a woman who regularly walks around with the top button of her pants undone for comfort.
      June 20 at 4:01pm ·  ·  2 people

    • Robin Daugherty Suttell Dude, I already told ya...the thigh zone is so tight that I put runs in it trying to put it on the only time I wore it.
      June 20 at 4:06pm ·  ·  1 person

    • Marcia Camino crack. me. up.
      June 20 at 7:35pm · 

    • Robin Daugherty Suttell I'm not kidding. Thing was so damn tight, I ripped it a bit trying to put it on. I shoulld have known better at that point and let the flab hang free.
      June 20 at 7:37pm · 

    • Dawn Weber OK. Now I'm frightened.
      June 20 at 7:57pm · 

    • Robin Daugherty Suttell Be afraid. Be very afraid. Let's just say I'm wearing a knit dress today, and even if that thing wasn't somewhere in the US Postal System, I wouldn't be wearing it.
      June 21 at 4:55pm ·  ·  1 person

The package arrived on time, but I was still kind of frightened, so I didn't open it until I was getting ready for the awards dinner. I pulled a tiny sliver of fabric from the envelope. Surely, Robin was punkin' me. It was the size and width of a snake.

I am the size and width of a heifer middle-aged mother-of-two. Who may or may not have some food issues. Who - as we discussed earlier - sometimes gets merry.

Obviously, I would need some assistance.

"Uh, honey?," I called to the husband. "Can you help me with this thing?"
"What thing?" he said. "I don't see anything."
"," I said, holding up the tube-snake of fabric.
"What is that? A sock?" he asked.
"'s Spanx. It's a girdle. It goes over my legs and torso," I said.

It took him a while to stop laughing. But eventually, we got to work. We sweated. We wrestled. We pulled. We rested. Don't be pervy! And then we sweated, wrestled and pulled some more. You perve.

Finally, we had success, and the thing was painted on my body. I looked at myself in the mirror. Gone were my hips, my twice-pregnant belly, my infernal thighs. Gone was most of my womanhood.

I had the shape of a 13-year-old boy. With boobs.

In other words, I fit today's beauty standard. Perfectly.

It was - sadly - awesome.

Thanks to the girdle, we were running late, so I pulled on my dress and we rushed out the door.

Walking in Spanx is like continual resistance training. It's like 39,000 rubber bands, wrapped stubbornly, and somewhat painfully, around your body.

It's like the slow, methodical strangulation of a boa constrictor.

But I'll tell you what - it worked. Despite my week of vacation partaking, I looked OK in the little black dress. And the butterflies in my stomach? Gone. Smothered and smashed, no doubt, by the boa constrictor Spanx.

Just as I predicted, the National Society of Newspaper Columnists awarded me and Robin's Spanx third place. Not bad at all - this-here girdled-gal has only written humor for two years.

I may have placed third, but I felt like a Grand Champion. Because walking - not waddling - to the stage to get my award, I did not pop a zipper. I did not burst forth from the dress like a stuffed sausage.

And no one - not even one person - saw my goodies.

That, my friends, is what I call a raging success.
I'd like to Spanx the Academy...

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Real Men of Genius: Lighten Up! Edition. The Sequel. And the Other Sequel

(copyright 2011, Dawn Weber)

So long, Sucka!

Nah. I'm not talkin' to you. I am talkin' to Ohio, Landlocked State of Misery. State of Boredom. State of Blah.

Not very nice of me, is it? Sorry. I love Ohio's people. But its steadfast refusal to offer me A: Much sunlight B: An ocean or C: Anything exciting at all makes me, well, downright postal at times.

I was born for the beach. Surfing all day, slinging cocktails and BS all night for tips.

But no one got this memo. I have somehow managed to live here all my ever-lovin' life.

I'm not going to dwell on Blow-Hio today. No sir. Because I'm outta here, folks! That's right. This here funny little white girl is headed to the beach!

I'm not telling you exactly where I'm going. Or when. Or how long I'll be gone. You could be a crackhead, for all I know. Taking a break from smokin' the rocks to read my blog, then break into my house to steal my vintage Fisher Price Little Peoples.

Oh you know you want them. Everybody wants them. *Crazy Eyes.*

Remember the rule: You toucha my Peoples, I breaka you face! And you better not try to burgle me, ya bunch of heathens. Our house is protected by a pack of...large wolves. Yeah, that's right. And gangstas.

And maybe the Devil himself.

Even though you could be a gaggle of crackheads, you are my dear readers. All nine of you! I love you guys! Also, as I mentioned a hundred times before, I am OCD about posting once a week. Hence, I give you not one but TWO! TWO! TWO! mini-posts this week.

See that? Even on vacation, I just give and give.

I've decided to write more pieces about about Folks Who Irritate My Balls. You know, if I had Balls.

Like the guy who ruins my coffee breaks at the Quicky Sack because he takes for-freakin'-ever! to buy his 23 scratch-off lottery tickets.

And, for added ball-irritation, I've also thrown in a piece on the well-documented dude with the saggy, baggy pants.

Thanks to nineteen never-ending My-God-When-Can-I-Retire!  years in communications, I know the best format for Folks Who'd Irritate My Balls If I Had Balls. We shall put it in the Real Men of Genius: Lighten Up! Edition series, inspired by the lovely Muffy. Because I've found, in life, that most things can be improved with a beer commercial.

Or just plain beer.

Read on, ya bunch of  thugs. ;) I'll be back when I'm happy and relaxed. (Have you met my Type-A ass? You may never hear from me again.)

Real Men of Genius Presents: Mr. Scratch-Off Lottery Ticket Addict
Today we salute you, Mr. Scratch-Off Lottery Ticket Addict. 
Mr. Scratch-Off Lottery Ticket Addict!
Some men spend cash on food for the family, you spend cash on colored pieces of paper.
I could be a winner!
Tying up the line, oblivious to 16 glaring eyes searing your back, you slowly ponder your many choices.
All those shiny tickets!
What'll it be today, Scratchie? "Pot O Gold?" "Bonus Bingo?" "Christmas Cash?" 
Give them all to meeeee!
Bills to pay? They can wait. For your big "Lucky Sevens win. You know it's coming.
Can you say 'bankruptcy?'
The odds - 30,000 to one. Totally in your favor.
I won five bucks one time!
So crack open an ice cold Bud Light, O Genius Guy Gambler. You may have spent Friday's paycheck. But hey - there's always next week. 
Mr. Scratch-Off Lottery Ticket Addict!

Real Men of Genius Presents: Mr. Low-Down Baggy Pants Wearer
Today we salute you, Mr. Low-Down Baggy Pants Wearer.
Mr. Low-Down Baggy Pants Wearer!
Sure, proper-fitting jeans are more socially acceptable, but you're the type of guy who does your own thang.
I don't see no dress code!
Never mind slacks that fit. The ladies wanna see your sh*t.
Take that literally! 
Are you a plumber? Are you a gangsta? The world will never know.
Crack Kills!
So crack open an Ice Cold Bud Light, Prince Pants on the Ground. Because we see Paris. We see France. We sho' as hell see your underpants. 
Mr. Low-Down Baggy Pants Wearer!

One more epic awesome video from the original Bud Light Series:

Monday, June 6, 2011

Discount Stores...Because Poor Kids Need Pants Too.

(copyright 2011, Dawn Weber. Thanks to my old-school friends Mike McAndrew and Sarah Lowrey for giving me the idea to write about this oh-so-important topic!)

You may not know this from my current high-falutin', Applebee's eatin' lifestyle, but I was born a poor kid.

Yeah, I said it. I'm putting it out there in front of God, Google and everybody: We were broke.

And I'm talking poor, as in, during non-pay weeks? Boiled hot dogs for dinner. All week long.

I'm talking poor, as in, when the ONE black and white TV broke during the Blizzard of '78, well, we had no TV. During the Blizzard of '78.

I'm talking poor as in Hill's, Murphy's Mart, Bargain Port and Fisher's Big Wheel discount stores - for my school clothes.

Let me repeat that, so it sinks in: DISCOUNT STORES FOR MY SCHOOL CLOTHES.

The horror. My face turns red just thinking about it.

I know, I know. I was lucky to have clothes. Kids, probably without clothes, were starving in Africa.

But I wasn't worried about them. My great and urgent concern was that my little ass didn't sport a "Levi's" tag, like so many of my classmates.

You see, Hill's, Murphy's, KMart, Fisher's Big Wheel, etc.? They didn't carry Levi's, Gloria Vanderbilt, Sasson, Jordache, or any other horribly overpriced very essential brand. They were only available at the mall.

And my mother was emphatically NOT going to the mall.

"I'm NOT going to that MALL! Too damn expensive," she said.

Hell. I couldn't even score a pair of Sears Toughskins. Had to get those at the mall.

Obviously, pants were crucial.

So I walked around cracking jokes at school, hoping no one would notice my heinously economical "Togs" and "New Friends" jeans.

"New Friends"? WTF kind of jeans are those? More like "No Friends."

Although I hated the clothes they sold, I secretly loved the discount stores. Loved wandering up and down every aisle with my mother and grandmother, avid tight-fisted K-Mart shoppers, both.

And in northeast Ohio, during the 70s and 80s, a girl of reasonable age could shop by herself in such a store, without too much fear of abduction by a pervy stranger. I'd ask permission to go on my own, then prance over to the Record Department, drunk with the freedom of it all.

Oh yeah - there's the good stuff! Fleetwood Mac, Boston, the "Saturday Night Fever" soundtrack...had to make sure to peep at the ones with the racy covers before I got caught. I'd be in deep weeds if she saw me glancing at the R.E.O. Speedwagon "Hi Infidelity" or Loverboy "Get Lucky" cover.

After a thorough ogling of the smutty albums and new-release 45s, I'd wander alone into all the other vital departments. Toys, candy, plastic swimming pools - all the junkiest junk finest money could buy.

Most stores had their own best sections. Murphy's had the choicest toy department, Woolco sold the most excellent records. For passable "Togs," I could tolerate Fisher's Big Wheel.

Those stores are all gone now, leveled or replaced by today's two measly choices : Target or Walmart.

At least you can, occasionally, buy Levi's at either place. Not that my daughter likes them - she only wants Abercrombie, Aeropostale or American Eagle jeans.

She's dreaming.

Because I am NOT going to that MALL! Too damn expensive!