The Paperclip, the Pants and My Ongoing Demise. Oh. And An Announcement.

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

Want to see my underwear?

Well, sorry - this isn't really that kind of blog. But if you had been around downtown Columbus the other day, you could have caught a peek, because thanks to a wardrobe malfunction, I walked around for several hours with my zipper down.

I wondered why I felt a draft.

I had popped a button on my pants. Thanksgiving FAIL.

But I wired them shut with a paperclip. MacGyver WIN!

Genius in the face of adversity? Or idiocy in the face of obesity? You decide.

Yes I did, I poked the sharp paperclip through the zipper and cloth, towards the soft skin of my bulging belly. I gave it my best MacGyver. But after 15 minutes of wrangling, twisting and cussing, I still saw sensible white cotton poking through the zipper.

There are times when I thank God I wear panties. This was one of those times.

While sitting there and kind of enjoying the cool breeze through the barn door, I thought about a lot of things. First off, the candied sweet potatoes that surely led to the demise of my pants.

Used to be I had two sometimes three full plates of food on Turkey Day, one for lunch, one for dinner and one for fourth meal. Also used to be I could eat two, sometimes three large bowls of sweet potatoes on Thanksgiving, and still successfully wear pants the following week.

This year, I was good. One plate of food. All day.

That's because, in recent months, I have blown up like a poisoned dog. Yes,  my metabolism has taken a plunging nose dive since late summer, and I have no idea why, and it's really pissing me off. I exercise five days a week. I lift weights.

For shit's sake, I RUN. Down the STREET. With NO ONE chasing me.

So there's really no excuse for my pants to turn on me in this manner, and the great tragedy is, these are my favorite pair, because they are made of what?

VELVET. Mmmm . . . velvet. 

We have discussed my love of velvet before. It's just like George Costanza, a.k.a. Art Vandelay, a.k.a. Lord of the Idiots always says:

I reminisced about all the good times in my velvet pants. Been together for years. Bought them at the Victoria's Secret warehouse sale. Wore them to visit New York in 2002, three months pregnant with my son, went to see Ground Zero and . . .

. . .Wait.A.Minute. Wait a gott-dang minute. 

These pants fit me . . .

. . . fit me when I WAS PREGNANT?

What the . . . W-F*CKING-TF is wrong here? 

You mean to tell me I exercise like a bobbing idiot, eat toddler portions, I'm way too old to be NOT at the present time pregnant thank you, God, and my pants are so tight they popped a button?

FML.

I kept sitting there, at work, pondering . . . wondering . . . why. You have a lot of time to think when your fly's open and you can't leave your cubicle.

And then finally, finally, FINALLY, it came to me. Clearly there is one and only one reason for this.

They shrunk.

In fact, all my clothes shrunk.I knew that new dryer was too hot.

Well, after all that very important, deep and meaningful problem-solving, you're probably wondering:

Do I still feel fat?

Yes.

Do I feel middle-aged?

Yes.

Did I take a picture of my blown-out pants?

Yes.

Can you PLEASE see my underwear?



No way, perv.

But you can see my MacGyver.

The One Where I'm Kidnapped

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

They consistently have cash. 

I consistently have none.

I consistently hold down a job. 

They consistently - do not. 

Who are they, you ask?  Crackheads? Homeless? Social Security recipients?

No - I refer to my children. It's like Weber welfare up in here.

You'd never know it - that they have any money - because when they actually need some, they purport to have none. No, their stuffed piggy-banks, full of Christmas and birthday cash, do not stop them from continually requesting funds. From my empty purse.

"Hey Mom. This weekend? Can I get a manicure?" said my daughter, the Princess.

I glanced up at her from the laundry pile I was buried in/sorting through, and thought back to the last - and only - time I had a manicure. It involved my wedding day, a different decade and the Bush administration. The first one. I know damn sure I paid for it myself.

So I asked her, "Got any money?"

Hands flew to little teenage hips.

"What? I thought you'd pay for it! I thought we could both go get one!"

Has she met me? Surely she's mistaken me for someone else.  My hands are useful - not ornamental - and though I wash them 700 times a day, I'm lucky if my nails look clean.

Anyway, have I mentioned I'm broke?

"I don't have any money. I've seen your stash. You have money. I have none."

"I thought you'd pay for it!" she said.

"Again, I say - you got any money?" 

*Crickets*

But it's not just the girl who pilfers, no. My son, the Hobo - he is quite the scheister, too, as hobos tend to be . . .

"Mom, can I pre-order Call of Duty 33: Mass Destruction?" 

"You already have Call of Duty!"

"That's Call of Duty - Black Ops. Call of Duty 33 Mass Destruction comes out November 10," he said.

"You got any money?" I asked him.

"Well, I thought you'd buy it . . ."

"My purse is empty. Your piggy bank is full. Why don't you buy it?"

*Crickets*

You can see a theme here.

But last Friday, things were different.

I had 35 dollars . . . of my own. 

And I had 35 minutes . . . to myself.

Normally I possess neither dollars nor minutes. Owning 35 of each was pretty exhilarating, to say the least. My days have been sold to the people of Ohio, and - as we've discussed - any cash I earn belongs to my kids. According to them.

The Princess didn't require a ride home from practice until 4:30. Not only that, a bill had fallen through - hence the money - so I was pretty much rolling in time and cash that the little Weber welfare recipients hadn't requested. Yet.

Thirty-five dollars, 35 minutes. I am a 43-year-old mother of two. This is pretty much as good as it gets.

To complete my ecstasy, Sears had a sale on coats, and I needed one. My current jackets hail from the Bush administration - again, the first one - and bring forth descriptions such as "lumberjack" and "grandma" - sometimes simultaneously.

Yes, it was a good day. A day of rainbows and unicorns and outerwear sales.

So you can imagine my dismay when the Russian man kidnapped me.

"Meass? MEASS! Come HERE, please!"

He called me from a perch near his kiosk, a cart-ish affair with products piled on top. Normally I ignore these over-priced heaps of junk. I am not paying twenty-damn-dollars for a cell phone case I can get on Amazon for $1.27. Mama didn't raise no fool.

But this guy . . .

"MEASS!"

His command stopped me cold. He jumped from his chair and marched over to me, eyes burning.

Now, maybe I've seen too many war movies. Or watched the Seinfeld “Soup Nazi” episode too many times. Or maybe I'm just a terrible, cowardly person.  But when someone says "MEASS!" and strides over to me in this manner, well, I heed their call. And also pee my pants a little.

I turned from where I'd frozen in my tracks. "Yes?"

He grabbed my hands and held them up to his face. He turned them this way and that, pushed on my palms, and then rubbed my cuticles.

And he didn't even buy me a drink first.

"Your nails. You like man-ee-cures?"

WTF, people, with the manicures? As we've discussed, my hands are not something I care about, and earlier that day I'd stood over the toilet bowl and chopped my nails off the way I do every couple of weeks.

A nail clip and 45 seconds bent over a commode: That's my manicure.

I didn't need a manicure, I needed a damn coat. But the Cart Nazi wouldn't let go.

"You like to be pampered? To have nice theengss?"

I glanced down at my body. Old, ripped Levi's. John Deere t-shirt, various food stains. The Princess's castoff cheer shoes, circa 2009.

Clearly, this man needed help targeting his market.

"Well, not really," I told him. "Anyway, I have to get going, I only have 35 minutes and I need a new coat and Sears . . ."

He shook his head.

"Come, COME! Feel theess. You weal LIKE."

Wow. What was I in for here? He didn't give me a chance to think about it, because he didn't let go of my hand , and he pulled me to his cart. All I felt was my 35 minutes ticking away, as, from the top of the heap, he reached inside a box and plucked a small blue jar. His eyes still burned as he looked at me intently.

"Your skeen . . . on face . . . eass BEAUTIFUL."

Ooh, he was good. Possibly blind, a little bit terrifying. But good.

"Um, thanks."

"What brand you use on face?" he asked.

"Well, Aveeno hand lotion usually, and then whatever sunscreen is on sale over at Walmart . . ."

"Ah, no, NO! You stop using," he said. "I have PRODUCT for you!"

Oh, here we go. He wanted my $35.

But dammit - I needed a coat.

"Theess has Minerals from the Dead SEA! Your skeen needss . . ."

"How much?"

I figured $10 might be worth it, to buy my way out. Ransom. I'd still have $25 and 25 minutes. Enough time, and I could supplement the cash with my debit card at Sears. I really needed a coat.

"No, NO! Cream not for sale separately. Comes in SET!" He pointed to the box. "All products have ingredients from DEAD SEA."

He pulled a different item - a tube of lotion - from the box and squirted on my hand - the one he still gripped.

"These meanarils, they are good for skeen, take YEARSS off!"

"How much for the hand cream?"

"No, NO!" his eyes flashed again. "Not separate. Comes in SET!"

I was down to 15 minutes now. Would I ever escape from this guy? Would he ever let go of my hand?

Would I ever get to Sears to buy a f*cking coat?

On it went like this . . . me with the:

"How much?"

. . . him with the:

"Comes in SET!"

My minutes slipped away as I watched other women stroll by the cart, blissfully unaware of their freedom, probably going to Sears to buy the last $35 coat.

Bitches.

Eventually, he wore me down. I figured I would at least ask about the price of his 'SET!', and maybe yank my hand away while he was distracted . . .

"OK, OK - how much is it, how much is the set?"

With his free arm, he pulled out a laminated price sheet, and held it toward me. I squinted at the number.

$159.99.

That's One Hundred Fifty Nine Dollars and Ninety-Nine Cents. That I do not have. For lotion. Not coats.

My snort took him by surprise, but I used his shock to pull away. I spun around and headed back through the mall - towards the exit - at full speed. My 35 minutes were nearly gone.

"Meass!"

I ignored him.

"MEASS! Come BACK! There is more in SET! Come feel - you WEEL LIKE!"

Once again, he should at least offer to buy me a drink first. I have heard the phrases "come feel" and "you will like" from a man before - only with a Southern Ohio twang - and the results of "feelin'" and "lak-kin'" left me pregnant - twice - with my little welfare recipients.

As I sprinted to the car, I made a mental note to park and enter at the department store doors next time. I tell you, if it isn't the dependents after my cash, it's the Cart Nazi at the Indian Mound Mall.

Sweet Mother of Sears. Can a girl just get some outerwear?

He took my 35 minutes that day, however - he did not get my 35 dollars. Mama didn't raise no fool.

But, DAMMIT.

I really need a coat.

Adventures at Walmart. In the Restroom. Send Help.

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

This will come as a total shock, but I am not averse to a little male nudity.

No, I will not turn away from a nicely presented package - especially of the handsome young movie star variety - on the big screen or whatnot. The week "Magic Mike" premiered, I rushed to pre-order a ticket, just like many other females. Furthermore, I have been known to attend an inappropriate bachelorette party or two hundred. 

Yes, I am just your typical pervy red-blooded American woman.

But if I'm not careful, I'm going to end up as a registered sex offender.

Perhaps I should explain.

It had started out as a pretty good day. I'd just purchased some cute boots at Sears - on sale, even. Earlier that afternoon, I had achieved my dream of taking a nap. A sunny October Friday, close to 5 p.m., and I was looking forward to opening a nice box of wine.

Sunny day, cute boots, box of wine. Pretty much as good as it gets.

So yeah. I felt great, rolling into the Wally World parking lot to pick up groceries, prescriptions and said box.

Then I realized: I had to pee. Of course. I'm 43. If I am upright, I have to pee. If I am awake, I have to pee.

If I am breathing, I have to pee.

This dampened haha my happy mood a bit, because if there's one place more dubious than Walmart, it's the Walmart restrooms. The un-flushed toilets . . . the trash on the floor . . . the many women ambling their large, wide loads out the door without hand-washing . . . it's enough to send a OCD lunatic germophobe like me over the edge.

Still - my fate was sealed. I had to pee. Of course.

So I parked the car, pulled out a cart, doused it with sanitizer the way I do, and steeled myself for the seething mass of humanity I'd soon encounter. I headed through the doors and walked into the restroom.

And there they stood, in front of God and everybody and the women's room. Two men. Two sets of lowered pants.

Two super-soakers. Soaking.

I froze, the shock rendering me momentarily unable to move. My brain reeled. The hell? I couldn't figure it out, why they were urinating in the ladies' room. With a perfectly good men's room next door, for nut's sake!

As I said, I enjoy glancing at a nice six-shooter as much as the next demented gal. But first of all, I wasn't prepared. Have I mentioned this was Walmart? And also, let me tell you - these were no Magic Mikes.

More like Homeless Hanks.

In other words, your typical Walmart shoppers.

So I certainly wasn't sticking around for this particular movie. No sir. After a moment of dumbfounded stupefaction, I spun on my heel and rushed out the door.

And that's when I saw it.

Great balls of fire, I'd done it. Walked into the men's room at the Heath Walmart.

Again.

That's right. You read it correctly. I have done this before.

But it's not all my fault. I am not a sex-starved Alzheimer's patient yet - give it time, visiting the men's room for cheap thrills. No. 

You see, the Heath, Ohio Walmart has been remodeled at least twice in the last seven years, and the sick bastards who designed it this time flip-flopped the layout and put the men's restroom on the left, and the women's on the right.

Everyone knows the ladies' room at the Walmart goes on the LEFT, I cannot emphasize this enough.

THE LEFT!

I saw no more of the Hanks at the store. I had seen plenty of them, anyway. I quickly finished my shopping while pondering my dementia.

Later, I posted my faux pas on Facebook, and to my happy surprise, several females also admitted wandering into men's rooms. And my friend Mechelle, also not an Alzheimer's patient - or even a blonde - has walked into the Heath Walmart men's room. Twice. 

"I hate it when Walmart isn't consistent with their bathroom placement," said Mechelle, my new BFF.

After publishing this piece, I know I'll hear it again from the Target shoppers, the politically correct, the culturally elite, all about the evils of Walmart and how they NEVER go there because:

• The corporation drives American companies out of business;
• WM managers work their employees just under full-time to avoid paying benefits;
• Many Walmart shoppers are half-nude, potential crackheads with questionable hygiene.

All true.

But, as I've mentioned, I grew up a relatively poor kid, outside of Youngstown. The metaphorical steel mill could close anytime, people. Best be prudent. And though I'm not financially challenged anymore, the experience has made me a notorious cheapskate and physically incapable of paying anything other than the lowest possible prices.

Crackheads - and bad bathroom placement - be damned.

Anyway, I'm in a perpetual hurry, our Target doesn't sell alcohol, and I just want to pick up my Lysol wipes, my prescriptions and my box of wine in one place, so I can go the hell home. I'm not at the store to socialize.

Unless it's in the men's room.

Apparently.

Oh, Septic Tank. We Hardly Knew Ye

(Post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber. Image from someecards.com.)
Part 2 of the Derecho Fiasco.Go here for part 1, and I should mention this post was actually started last week, so some dates and details have changed.


There is a fine, fine line between "camping" and "homeless."

That line has a name. Want to know what it is?

Flushing.

Ah, flushing - you complete me. Literally.

Yep. Ever since the tornadoes/straight-line-winds/land hurricane/whatever-the-f*ck-it-was blew through Ohio, knocking out the power and plumbing and turning our residence into a gott-dang federal disaster area, what I have really missed is a functioning toilet and the septic tank. Also bathing.

Hahaha! What a fun weekend. The four of us, my family, like stunned, stinky homeless crackheads, hollow-eyed and shuffling between one tiny car, a half-destroyed house, a camper and sometimes a hotel room. It's been weak coffee, warm beverages, spoiled food and repeated pleas to the children: "Do you have to poop? For the love of all that's holy - poop at the HOTEL! Poop NOW while you CAN!"

And I'll tell you something else: I have never in my life been more happy to see my cubicle.

"You're really going to work today?" asked the husband.

Hellz yeah, I am.

Are you kidding me? My cubicle, my office building? It's the freakin' Taj Mahal up in here. There is air conditioning! Electricity! Basic shelter! Cell phone service! Pinterest Internet access!

And again, people - let me direct your attention to the toilets that flush.

That's right. We fancy!

You know, I live in Ohio for a reason. When I figure that reason out, I will tell you. But one thing's for certain: The Buckeye State - and its weather - are boring. We have occasional tornados, but in general, we don't have major natural disasters. We don't have large earthquakes. We don't have tsunamis. We don't have wildfires. We don't have hurricanes.

Until now.

They called it a land hurricane, a derecho, the freak of nature that cut a 700-mile swath of chaos across the Midwest and Mid-Atlantic June 29. And you would think that the storm's major destruction and damage to the roof, two ceilings, two vehicles, one swimming pool, three fences and the entire yard would be enough bad luck for us. You'd think that a week without power, in a tin can camper during 104-degree weather, would be enough misfortune for the Webers.

You'd think that, but you, sir, would be wrong:

• Five days after the storm, still homeless and powerless, our one remaining car - my pussycat bealeaguered Beetle - was hit, badly damaged and rendered useless at a convenience store as I waited in line to buy oil for the camper generator. Witnesses said the driver tried to leave before I ran outside. Thankfully, someone blocked him in before he got away.
• Like any good homeless crackhead, I begged a friend for a ride home from the accident only to discover that the oil I'd purchased would be of no use - the generator was completely and permanently blown. Did I mention that it powered the camper A/C?
• Did I mention the 104-degree weather?
• Ten minutes into the first day of tree removal, on the Fourth of July, the husband lopped off the tip of his finger with a chainsaw, and we had to go to the emergency room. The ER? On the Fourth of July? 'Nuff said.
• Did I mention the 104-degree weather?
• So we went to a Holiday Inn that night, where I promptly slipped in the shower and slammed my head on the porcelain. I received a huge egg-bump on my head and became slightly dizzy and nauseous, but figured one trip to the ER that day was enough, and I went the f*ck to bed. I am still slightly nauseous, dizzy and egg-headed but you already knew that.
• The next day, the dog and I waited alone in the camper for my husband to return from his finger-checkup when the generator (a different, borrowed one) suddenly stopped. I had been in my underwear - changing clothes - and nearly went outside that way to re-set the breaker. But I decided at the last minute to pull on my shorts before I stepped out the door. This is a good thing, because the dog - who we'll call Suzie Dumbass - jumped up after I left and hit the door latch, locking me outside and herself in the camper. It took me more than an hour in the searing, blazing sun to get back inside, and I was a sweating, panting, hot mess. Suzie Dumbass was fine. Of course she was.
• I'm not sure if I told you this, but it was 104 degrees.

Hahaha! Good times, all. *Crazy eyes*

And really, I don't miss the roof too much. Or the ceilings in the sunroom and garage. Or the driveway. Or the Honda or Ford. Or the fences. Or the yard. Or my money.

You know what I miss?

Flushing.

But it's all good! Homelessness Camping That which doesn't doesn't kill you makes you stronger! Never, ever give up! And all of that happy horse-shit!

Yes, fellow homeless crackhead campers, in hard times like these, I've learned many things in 104-degree weather. I have much wisdom to pass on to you and your children, and I've pondered several of life's difficult questions, such as:


"Do you have to poop? For the love of all that's holy - poop at the HOTEL! Poop NOW while you CAN!"

Magic Mike, a Derecho and Last Weekend. A Tragedy in Two, Maybe Three Parts

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)
Part 1
All I wanted from last Friday night was to see naked young male movie stars in the premiere of  Magic Mike.

Yeah, I felt good, stepping into the elevator at 5 p.m. for a girls' night out to watch naked young male movie stars with a big group of mom friends. Prettied up, looking fancy. I mean - I wore clean shorts . . . lotion on my legs . . . lip gloss. I fixed my hair, for shit's sake. As if naked young male movie star Channing Tatum could see me from the theater screen.

When I walked outside, I realized I had made a huge mistake with the preening and the application of any kind of petroleum product. The sky was dark, and angry winds blew down High Street, churning up dirt, debris and homeless crackhead germs, all of which immediately glommed onto my lip-glossed lips and lotioned legs. Rain pelted me hard and sideways as I hustled up the street, causing the dust/debris/homeless crackhead germs to streak down my skin. 


We will not speak of the consequences to my hair.


Grooming: This is why I normally don't bother.

That's what I thought while I high-tailed it to the parking lot in a record four minutes. Before starting the ignition, I looked at the weather on my phone: severe thunderstorm warnings with possible high winds. Nothing too worrisome - no mention of tornados. Just a typical shitty Ohio summer storm forecast.

Still - something felt wrong - something seemed off. But I figured maybe I had just angered the gods in my quest to see naked young male movie stars.

So I started up the car and merged onto I-70 with all the other eastbound rush-hour dummies, racing through the driving rain. I tried to ignore my foreboding and concentrate on the prospect of  Magic Mike.

As I traveled, the weather grew more and more menacing. Hail. Punishing rains. Unbelievable wind.

Forty-five minutes into my commute, a few miles from home, the clouds turned pitch black. Branches and utility lines blew one way and another and the storm picked up, pounding until I could barely see the white lines - stopping, starting and stopping again. I kept going, though. Seemed like I didn't have a choice.

It grew still.

And just like a nightmare, through slapping windshield wipers I watched a Chevy sedan from the other side of the freeway spin around furiously three times, then crash through the thick cement barrier separating I-70 east and west. When the car came to a halt, no one was visible at the wheel.

But I couldn't stop. I couldn't help the driver, because that's when my husband called.

"Where you at? Be careful! A tornado just hit the house. But we are O.K. . . . we're O.K."

I mashed the pedal down and flew the last few miles home, suffering only a mild panic attack/infarction/stroke, past the wrecked cars and dangling power lines.

And there they were, up on the hill, just beyond 15 large downed trees in the yard and driveway. They stood under other trees buckling the porch roof. The three of them wide-eyed and trembling and shell-shocked. My family. They had gone to the basement. 

Thank God, they were O.K.

They were O.K.


The house? That's another story. Tune in next week for chaos . . . destruction . . . bad luck . . . but, sadly, no naked young male movie stars.

Get Me Out of Here! I Am Not an Animal! Or a Felon! Or Dead! Yet!

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

They come from the Dark Side.

They kill the mind and steal the spirit. Metal box, fabric walls, suspicious smells, inches from the neighbor - just the place to spend eternity. And there is no escape from...

Pig pens? Prison cells? Caskets?

Hell to the no.

We're talking about All-American, life-blood-draining, soul-sucking cubicles.

That's right, folks. Tired of sunlight, warm air and plant life? Bored of basic human respect? Grown weary of visual stimulation? Feel like dying a little inside, every day?

Well, then. Your local place of employment has just the square for you. And you and you and you...

It's true. You've sat in the cube. Probably, you're sitting there now, doin' your time. Workin' for The Man. Checkin' the Facebook.

Because almost everyone works in the cubicle, The Box these days.

• Customer service representative? Box with phone.
• Architect? Box with slanty table.
• Writer? Box with coffee and empty wallet.
• Car salesman? Box with lies.

It doesn't matter what you do for a living. The Box experience is the same.

Watch as precious minutes, hours, days of your life tick slowly, slowly, SLOWLY away. Look longingly out the window at the beautiful day. You'll never see it.

Steal glances at photos of your children. Those little cash-mongers. They're the reason you're there, stuck in The Box.

Know way more than you ever wanted to about people you don't like, and spend far more time with these jokers than your own family.

Listen as your neighbor Richard loudly discusses his colonoscopy over the phone with his wife - in great detail. Listen again as Dick discusses it with his mom. In great detail.

Smell the lunch of your other neighbor, Mary McFishbreath. She's having  reheated cod and stuffed cabbage. Again. No need to pack your own food. Simply open your mouth to taste Mary's. It's Cubicle Cuisine!

Overhear Mary and Dick's loud conversation:

Mary: "Hey, can I borrow your crank?"
Dick: "Yeah. Are you sure mine is the right size?"
Mary: "Well, it looks too big for the hole, but it might work..."

Blush beet red. Then realize the only "tool" they're discussing is the one that adjusts desk height.

Sigh. Whatever happened to offices? I watched The Mary Tyler Moore Show. I thought that if I got an education, gained experience and worked hard, by now I'd have my own office like Lou Grant  - with real wooden walls and liquor in my desk drawer.

A nice, private room, where one could nap, check personal e-mails and Facebook in peace, without pesky bosses walking in unannounced. A room with an actual door that slammed loudly, in case of anger. Or termination for e-mailing, Facebooking and napping.

But here I am, with all the other dummies, stuffed into a Box like an egg in a carton, a pig in a pen, a corpse in a casket.

Please. If I'm going to spend my days in a Box, make mine a jail cell. Much roomier. And at least I'd get meals, a bed and some free time.

Not to mention that handy toilet.


(One from the archives. I am still over here, trying to think of something funny. Send help. Or boxed wine.)

The 80s: Decade of Unfortunate Hair. And So Much More!

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber. Image from epic fail.com)

Nothing shouts "Possible Porn Star!" like a man’s mullet.

In fact, this hairstyle says many things, such as:

-"Dude. Where's my car?"
-"You ordered two large pizzas, ma'am?"
-"Hey, babe. I won you this bitchin' Motley Crue mirror over at the street fair."
-"How many kegs?"
-"Yeah, I'm here to clean your pool with my long . . . vacuum."
-"Aw, man! Give me a hit of that!"
-"So. What time will your mom be home?"
-"Don't tell my heart. My achy-breaky heart."

Yes, the mullet: Bad enough on a man.

A freak of nature on a woman.

That's right. If you think this hairstyle was just for guys, you didn't live through the Reagan administration. Case in point:

That's my mulleted senior picture up there, 25 years and 25 lbs. ago. I'd kill for that chin - although I have several chins now, so really, I'd kill for just one chin. But that hair? Was totally for sure business-in-the-front, party-in-the-back.

You youngsters out there, laughing at the mullet. "Ha Ha Ha!" say you.

Shut up. It was the 80s - everybody mullet. Pretty much a federal law. And some of us had more success than others. Just like, this, um, girl:

Trust me. This is a female.

Epic chick-mullet. I bet she's glad someone saved her mullet mug-shot. I sure am happy my mother saved mine. She really treasured it, too, I can tell because for the past couple of decades, she's had it stored on the top of a dusty open box in her garage.

Nice. I am feelin' the love, there, Mom.

She pulled it from the pile at Christmas, swept off most of the dirt, slapped on some gift-wrap and gave it to my husband. That's the general gift-giving procedure of a 68-year-old woman on Social Security: Dust something off, wrap it up.

And now this thing hangs in our house, where everyone can admire my mullet, and I have to see it all the damn time.

I don't look much like the mullet-girl in my senior picture anymore, but I remember her. She majored in flammable, piece-of-shit cars, classic rock and minor acts of spray-paint vandalism. She worked at McDonald's and lived for Saturday night. She was probably supposed to work AT McDonald's ON Saturday night. But if there was a party somewhere, that did not happen.

There are things I'd like to tell this girl, things she should know. Such as purple and blue work great in crayons, but eyeliner and mascara? Not so much. Also, the main food groups are dairy, meat, grains and fruits and vegetables. Not sugar, grease, salt and cheap beer.

That boy you like? The one who never calls or asks you out? Yeah - that's a sign! He isn't interested at all. But admiring him keeps you mostly out of trouble with the boys who do like you. So carry on with that. Additionally, you should know that red traffic lights are not just a suggestion, and rainy roads can be slicker than snot. Remember this in 1988. And 1989. Also shut up 1991.

Sit down and talk to your grandparents more often. Pretty soon, they'll be gone, and then you'll only see them in dreams.

Start your AP English senior term paper. Start it now. Do not wait until the day before it's due. It's 1987. Teachers can (and will) throw heavy objects at you.

You were warned.

Yes sir, judging by my poor choices, hairstyle and purple eyeliner, I was a teen of the 80s. Were you?

Here at Lighten Up!, we are all about the BS hard-hitting, investigative journalism, so let's find out:

You were a kid of the 80s if you remember:

-Growing concerned about your palm-sweat output during the Couples' Skate.
-Spending Saturday morning hunched in front of a boom-box for the countdown, fingers poised on 'record' and 'play.'
-"Oh, Mickey you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind! Hey, Mickey! Hey, Mickey!" (Kill me, please. Kill me now.)
-Wishing you had Jessie's Girl.
-Wishing you WERE Jessie's Girl.
-Furtively disassembling and reassembling your Rubik's cube, then showing your mom, because you "solved" it.
-"Look for the purple banana 'til they put us in the truck . . . " (Prince. WTF were you smoking?)
-Never watching the 'Very Special' episode of "Family Ties" or any of your other favorite sitcoms. 'Very Special' was code for pregnancy, drugs and/or alcohol. Parental discretion was advised.
-Singing along to "Rock Me, Amadeus." Smacking the shit out of yourself for doing so, but still - singing along.
-Stabbing a Stretch Armstrong to see what's inside.
-"I only wanted to see you bathing in the Purple Rain . . ." (Again, I say - Prince: What the purple f*ck were you smoking?)
-Rocking the middle-school fashion world in your sweet new "Members Only" jacket.
-"We don't have to take our clothes off . . . to have a good time" (No, but it sure helps.)
-Calling 867-5309, hoping Jenny would answer. She never did. Dammit.

Well, I hope I have provided some vital insight into your past. As you can see, I am full of bullshit valuable information.

Really. Who needs Google when you got me?

And with that, from the decade that brought you such important contributions as the single glove, the Tammy Faye Bakker, and the almighty mullet, I leave you with one epic, final, definitive thought:

"Oh, Mickey, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind. Hey, Mickey! Hey, Mickey!"

You're welcome.