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.