I Have Lipstick on My Teeth - And I Don't Care

(post copyright 2013, Dawn Weber)

You're damn right, I have lipstick on my teeth - probably lunch and dinner on my teeth, too.

Hey. It's 7 p.m. as I write this. I brush at 5 a.m. and 9 p.m. Lots of things end up on my choppers and in my mouth (TWSS) in those 16 hours in between: lipstick, food, boxed wine, bitchy-mean words . . .

And speaking of words!

Spank me sideways and call me published - again! For behold: An essay of mine was chosen for the new book, "You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth - And Other Things You'll Only Hear From Your Friends in the Powder Room." As of right now, it's number 3 on Amazon's Hot New Releases in Humor.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangsta.

Thanks to the hard work of Leslie Marinelli of The Bearded Iris fame and Di and my friends over at In the Powder Room, I was one of the 39 authors whose stories were picked for this book. I'm among some amazing, talented company - contributors include big-time bloggers, playwrights, television writers, gorgeous, skinny women . . . the list goes on and on. I'm not sure what I'm doing with them, but you can be damn sure I'll be at my soul-killing 9 to 5 job in Ohio - typing up employee of the month stories, and grinning from ear to ear.

I'll tell you what: I'm just a girl from the cubicle - and never, ever would I have imagined in all my fluorescent filled, fabric-walled days that I'd end up in an actual book with actual paper pages. And not to toot my own lipstick-stained teeth here, but this is actually the third time I've been published in an anthology. Yeah - I'm workin' it, I'm pimpin' it, alright.

Have I mentioned that it feels good to be a gangsta?

I suppose I should tell you the topic of my "You Have Lipstick on Your Teeth" piece. Well, it may or may not be about a certain type of, um, "personal massager," a how-you-say, whaddya-call-'em . . . 

. . . a vibrator. 

Yeah. You know you want to read it now, because you're a perv. 

And I love you for that.

So please - hop on over and pick us all up. We're available on Kindle for $4.99 and paperback for $8.99. Under $10 for 39 sassy women? What a deal!

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And I'm still working on my own book of humor essays. I'm workin' on it - hard! As promised, here's an excerpt from my 29th story, when the family and I went with dear high school friends on a little trip I like to call "Stupid Camping":

". . . Ninety-eight percent humidity. Several children, including two toddlers. One woman - my BFF, Amber - pregnant and very nauseous. These sound like reasons not to camp, but lo, they were the circumstances. There were 11 of us - and one on the way.

This was going to be just a peck of rustic entertainment, I could tell.

Nonetheless, we set up stupid camp. We unpacked our sleeping bags, inadequate shelter and warm bottled water. We sweated, we grunted, we groaned - and not in any kind of fun way. It was 96 degrees in the shade.

Have I mentioned there was no shade?

We began two days of "rustic camping" - not sleeping in beds, sweating, not flushing, sweating, drinking tepid bottled water, sweating, and trying to entertain several cranky children - who were sweating. The Hobo, age three at the time, soon developed a heat stroke, and tossed and turned with fever on the mattress of our 104-degree Dutch-oven tent.

"I want to go home," he moaned.

Clearly, it was time to do something. The 11 of us - and one on the way - piled into our respective vehicles, blasted the air conditioning and drove across the campground to the lodge. Here, we sat drooling in the parking lot, because lowly rustic campers like us were not permitted to use the fancy-pants resort facilities.

But we solved that problem with a little creative storytelling, a.k.a. lying.

"We're with the Bob Walsh party! Room 209!"

And we hustled the children past lodge staff and lifeguards into the air conditioning, the indoor pool, the restroom. We swam. We relaxed in AC.

We flushed.

We spent an entire afternoon amongst such luxuries as roofs, ice cubes and functioning plumbing. Life was all rainbows and unicorns and running water when you were among the Bob Walsh party - room 209 . . ."

Stay tuned!