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.