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

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

All the cool chicks do it.

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

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

Ahem.

ANYwhoo...

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

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

I had no idea! Thank you, Martha Pinterest.

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

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

Thank you, Martha Pinterest.

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

Buffalo chicken tacos, via Pinterest and mrsregueiro.com

At my house, you'll find:

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

Via Pinterest and weheartit.com

On my head, you'll find:

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

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

Via Pinterest and Google.com.br

At my house, you'll find:

But really cute shoes!

Still.

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

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

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

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

I love the nightlife! I got to boogie!

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

"This looks easy!" is what you think.

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

You're wrong. Loser.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure," I say.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck you, Pinterest.

You too, Martha.

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

Via Pinterest and Etsy.com

And at my house, you'll find:

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

MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES.






                                                                                                                                                  

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

ANY-whoo...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Check them out, they all rock.

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."

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."

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?