I Like Cheap Books and I Cannot Lie - You Other Brothers Can't Deny

(post copyright 2013, Dawn Weber)

This book stinks.

Yes, I've just read something that absolutely stinks, and sadly, it's by one of my favorite authors; an amazing humorist who could turn his crayon-written grocery list into a brilliantly funny bestseller.

I've borrowed the book from the library before, read it, and always swore I'd buy it for myself one day because it's great. But this one stinks.

When I say "stinks," I mean "odor," of course, I mean "reeks."

It smells like cigarettes and failure. To say that it smells like a homeless dude would be an insult to homeless dudes. No, this book smells like crackheads.  

Cigarettes, failure and crackheads.

Up until now, I've had great luck with a certain dubious bookstore in a certain dubious section of Columbus. My-husband-the-cop advises me not to enter this part of town.

But I make it a rule not to listen to him.

And I drive to this place, merrily, secretly and regularly, because of the fabulous, cheap books - both new and used - that I find there. I hide my car stereo faceplate, lock my doors, say a little prayer and walk in. Quickly.

Once inside, it's pretty nice and surprisingly thug-free. I can exhale, relax the grip on my purse a bit, and, giggling with glee, pick up titles by authors like Natalie Goldberg, Dave Barry and Nora Ephron for pocket change. About a year ago, on a whim and because it cost $1, I purchased what soon became my second all-time favorite book, "She Got Up Off the Couch: And Other Heroic Acts from Mooreland, Indiana," by Haven Kimmel. None of these - not a one - stunk.

I went there last week, bought several books, and - me being me - I brought them all home and wiped them down with Clorox wipes. This is just my standard, OCD, dubious bookstore procedure - I hadn't even noticed the stank yet.

Then, I picked up my prized purchase, the best of the bunch, and started reading. Suddenly, I smelled cigarettes and crackheads; I smelled trash and failure.

At first, I thought maybe it was me. There were times, in the early 90s, times of struggle and heartbreak; of draft beer and the Taco Bell Value Menu; when I could have certainly been classified as a failure.

Although I still enjoy the occasional draft beer and TB Value Menu item, I'm not a failure anymore. Neither am I a smoker, nor crackhead.

Still, it had been a long, humid, sweaty day, so I paused reading and pulled my blouse to my nose. Nothing. I raised my arms and surreptitiously sniffed the pits - a useful skill I learned as a teen. Nope. Wasn't me.

I lifted the paperback up to continue, and I smelled the stench again. My other purchases were fine - no stank - but this one - wow. I really wanted to read it, but every time I brought it near my face, I threw up a little bit. Something had to give.

So I had an idea. Three ideas, to be exact. I really should just lie down until these ideas go away, but I tried all three, in quick succession:

I sprayed it with "Kiwiberry" Febreze

(It smelled like "Kiwiberry Failure.")

I stuffed it with "Tropical Coconut" dryer sheets.

(It smelled like "Tropical Coconut Cigarettes.")

I spritzed it with "Early Morning" Lysol.

(It smelled like "Early Morning Crackheads.")

When those didn't help, I held it far away from my face - an arm's length - and I couldn't smell it, but neither could I see it. Nothing worked.

By now I'm sure you're wondering what book it is, and who wrote it, but in this age of Google Alerts, I don't want to name the author and have the poor guy pull up his morning email to find that some unknown blogger wrote a post saying his book stinks. I'm writing a book myself right now, and karma is a bitch.

A bitch who slaps.

A bitch who slaps HARD.

Even though I won't mention the author, you'll be relieved, no doubt, to know that I did it: I risked life, limb and hepatitis, and I finished the smelly crackhead book. With a "Tropical Coconut" dryer sheet held over my nose like a MacGyvered dust mask - I read all 323 pages of that whiffy thing.

This book was awesome.

This book stunk.

I closed it, flipped it over examined the price tag:

"$3.99 - Used."

Yeah. You got that right. It was "used."

Possibly as toilet paper.

In a crack-house.

Some crackhead somewhere has great taste.

And I'm glad I powered through. I need antibiotics now, but hey.

Such is the power of a really good read.

_____________________________________________________

(If you're looking for a great book - or dying of curiosity - email me and I will tell you the title, on the down-low, to preserve the author's integrity. It's not his fault that some smelly derelict owned the book before me.)

Below is my latest book excerpt - 26 essays done now!
A bunch of my writer friends met another of my favorite authors, Dave Barry, (who is NOT the author of the crackhead book, btw) in Connecticut, and all I got was a lousy can of PBR. In Ohio. On a porch:

. . . Don't ask me what I'd say to Dave Barry, if I ever met him. The truth is, I have encountered a few celebrities, and I always manage to make a blithering idiot of myself by either:

A: Gaping at them in open-mouthed shock (The Aretha Franklin Elevator Incident), or;

B: Gaping at them in open-mouthed shock, and then shouting, "Holy shit!" (The Peter Gabriel Backstage Incident)

I shouldn't worry about it, because the truth is that Dave Barry and I will probably never meet. Still, I often fantasize that we'll bump into each other at some writerly event. He'll read my work, love it, set me up with his agent and we'll become best writerly buddies.

Reality: never an obstacle for me.

The more likely scenario, (the Pending Dave Berry Incident): I'd gape at him in open-mouthed shock, and then shout "Holy shit!"

I did have one chance to stalk, um, swear at, er, meet him, at the 2013 National Society of Newspaper Columnists (NSNC) conference in Hartford, Connecticut. I write a surprisingly cuss-word free humor column for the local paper, and in 2011, I managed to win an NSNC award for it. No one is sure how this happened.

I attended the 2011 conference in Detroit to pick up my award, but because of finances, I haven't been able to go for the past two years.

These kids' iPhones don't buy themselves, you know.

People, I have a tip for you: When it's Saturday night, and you're feeling really blue because you can't afford to stalk your favorite author at a conference, by all means - go ahead; turn on the computer and pull up Facebook. There, you'll find dozens of pictures of writer friends, all having tons of fun at said conference and mingling with said author, who is obviously down-to-earth and cool enough to hang out and tolerate tons of gratuitous photos . . .

Stay tuned!

Golf: I'm Doing It Wrong

(post copyright 2013, Dawn Weber)

Golf - what's not to love? You're outside, you're drinking beer, and you're around lots of happy, relaxed men - many of whom may buy more beer.

Everybody wins.

And so each spring it happens: I get the Big Idea. I really should just lie down until these ideas go away, but I never do.

No, I get it in my head that this will be The Year, the one Wherein I Learn to Play Golf.

Now, I am a middle-aged white woman with a big wide rear-end and plenty of hideous, sensible shorts. So you'd think I'd already know how to golf.

But I don't. For many decades years now, I've been engaged in the process of just learning how to hit the ball, or "drive" I guess the kids call it these days. This is much harder than it looks - for me, anyway. 

So every March, I drag out my clubs, a gift the husband bought me one year after I excitedly told him my Big Idea:

"I want to learn to play golf!"

He's heard many of my "I want to learn . . . " Big Ideas - drawing, painting, piano-playing, jewelry-making. Most of these I've taught myself - or completely forgotten about; all of these have left us light in the wallet and heavy on accumulated junk supplies.

So, being the smart, sweet cheap frugal man he is, when I said, "Golf!" he went out and bought me a set of clubs - at a garage sale.

And that's fine with me, because the red-and-white, 30-year-old Wilson golf bag looks cool and kind of retro, and also meets what - in my eyes - ranks as the Most Important Golf Requirement:

It matches my shoes.

Ah, shoes.

Where was I?

Oh yes - golf. He bought me the cool bag and a bunch of clubs, all of which had numbers - 3, 5, 9 - that signified nothing to me, although I did recognize the putter from playing Putt-Putt. I can kick some Putt-Putt ass.

He put a tee and ball down in the grass, and began showing me how to hit the ball, or "drive" as the kids call it these days. He taught me how to grip the club, and he demonstrated the swing, the "all in the hips," then he set me up and came up behind me to lead my body through a swing, whereupon he faux-humped me and I punched him in the nuts. Lesson over.

His obssessive faux-humping is a chapter unto itself . . .

(Stay tuned! This is an excerpt from my upcoming book, and you'll want to read the rest because it contains boobs. 

No, not PICTURES of boobs, you perv. 

Just boobs. 

No, not pictures!)

Winston Churchill: Naked Napper

(post copyright 2013, Dawn Weber)

Like so many folks, I am a fan of things that can be done without pants.

I refer, of course, to napping. What did you think I meant?

I'm certainly not alone - even the great Sir Winston Churchill was a strong believer in the art of the apparently naked midday rest:

"You must sleep some time between lunch and dinner, and no half-way measures. Take off your clothes and get into bed. That's what I always do. Don't think you will be doing less work because you sleep during the day. That's a foolish notion held by people who have no imagination . . ."

I ran across Sir Churchill's quote on the computer the other night, surfing the web, after realizing that I'd overlooked an Important National Holiday of Great Significance:

National Napping Day, March 11.

Hey - you snooze you lose. Ba-dum-bump. Thank you! I'm here all week. Tip your servers!

It doesn't really surprise me that I missed such a notable event; I have been engaged in an increasingly futile attempt to nap since 1997, when my first child was born.

All forms of sleep, in general, elude me these days - my brain never shuts off - and the older I grow, the less I sleep, to the point where I don't think I will ever lay down long enough to die. I'll just stagger around for centuries - the planet's first certified zombie - a wild-eyed, hideous, rotten old woman, begging strangers for Ambien.

Still, I wish I'd known about this National Napping Day, created in 1999 by presidents of The Napping Company - Boston University (BU) Professor, William Anthony, Ph.D., and his wife, Camille - to promote the health benefits of napping.

In a 2005 Napping Day press release from Boston University, the couple listed several significant advantages of napping. Here at Lighten Up! I am all about pilfering that press release and investigative reporting, so I have backed up some of the Anthony's claims with Scientific Facts from Me - The Expert - on account of the fact that I never successfully nap:

- Napping improves mood - makes you feel better
- Scientific Fact: I am a crabby bitch. Just ask my family.

- Napping improves performance - makes you more productive
- Scientific Fact: I am perpetually tired, therefore, lazy.

- Napping is no sweat - no shower needed
- Scientific Fact: Showering sounds like work. See sentence re: productivity, above.

- Napping is non-fattening - you cannot eat while napping
-Scientific Fact: I'm fat, and getting fatter all the time. Did I mention I cannot nap?

- Napping is no cost - no expensive clothes or equipment needed 
- Scientific Fact: As we've discussed, Winston Churchill and I support activities that don't require pants.

- Napping has no dangerous side effects - unless you are driving
-Scientific Fact: I have not, personally, napped while driving, nor have I heard back from anyone who has done so.

Well, thanks to those bits of hard-hitting journalistic research, we can see that naked mid-day siestas can benefit everyone. The Anthonys summed it up in a mission statement:

“Our goal is to encourage folks to take a nap wherever they may be, at home, at the workplace, or on vacation, and to make it a regular part of their healthy lifestyle,” said William Anthony, who, with Camille, is a co-author of "The Art of Napping at Work."

Yes, I think I speak for many when I say that sleeping in the workplace is a concept most people could support.

Of course, there are those who insist that napping - pants-free - on the job is a bad idea.

But that is a foolish notion held by people with no imagination.

Freaking Geniuses. They Walk Among Us. With Weeping Feet

(post copyright 2013, Dawn Weber)

So many of my readers have touched me - deep inside. 

Without even buying me a drink first. 

There's Pearl, who calls me her "weirdo," and Vixen, who's affectionately dubbed me "asshole." Twice.

Thank you, thank you, ladies. Truly, I am "flattered."

However, of all my commenters and readers, I have to admit that there's one who's captured my attentions these days with his shrewd, insightful counsel. He's a genius; and like so many of your garden-variety geniuses - Aristotle, Ghandi, Fabio; Socrates, Plato, Snooki - he goes by one name.

He is the one they call "Anonymous."

Yes folks, I am pleased to announce we have been blessed by Anonymous himself here at Lighten Up! That's right. This wise, wise sensei reads and comments on my blog, and he has graced us with his wisdom, clairvoyance and podiatric advice. After all, he was the first to point it out: 

My feet. They weep within my sneakers.

It's so true! After a long day of sightseeing or a few miles on the treadmill, my feet DO weep within my sneakers. How did he know? Read on - a direct quote from Anonymous himself:

"When the feet are weeping within the sneakers as a result of distress, it truly is far more probable which you can't give your really best general functionality on that day."

You see? Remember, you read it here first, courtesy of Lighten Up! and our boy Anonymous. When YOUR feet weep within the sneakers, you can't give your really best general functionality on that day.

Yes, Anonymous has really made a difference in my life - and sneakers - with his shrewd, insightful counsel on my blog posts.

But I'm going to have to have a talk with Blogger - they're automatically redirecting his brilliant musings to my junk folder. You can imagine my surprise and dismay at opening up my spam tab to find such genius comment-nuggets as:

"What's up friends, how is all, and what you want to say concerning this article, in my view its genuinely remarkable in favor of me . . ."

It's all about YOU, Anonymous. No doubt!

"Hi, all the time і used to chеck blog postѕ here in the early hours in the break of day, because і loνe to learn more and more . . ."

So happy to help you, your Highness! We're all about the education here at Lighten Up! Especially in the early hours in the break of day.

"Now I am going awaу to do my breakfast, when having my breаkfast coming ovеr аgain to reaԁ other nеwѕ . . . "

Don't let us keep you from your breakfast, Anonymous, or from breakfast coming over to read news. Again.

"Thus, as a way to earn within sports activities, apart from the demonstrating off talent and abilities, each and every ingrained in addition to made, it can be essential to use the best footwear. Learn about how a best footwear might be cherished from the foot . . ."

You know what my feet cherish? Free, Anonymous footwear expertise, that's what.

"You manаged to hit the nail upοn the toр anԁ dеfined out the whole thing withοut having side-effеcts, peoρle coulԁ take a signаl."

People COULD and SHOULD take a signal from me - that's what I always say. Anyway, that is certainly what I tell the husband and kids, because I do, occasionally - just sometimes - manage to hit the nail upon the top.

"I do not even know how I ended up here, but I thought this post was good. I do not know who you are but certainly you are going to a famous blogger if you are not already . . ."

Don't know how you ended up here? You're drunk, Anonymous. But I'll forgive you because you said I'm going to be famous.

"What i don't realize is actually how you are not actually much more smartly-favored than you may be right now. You're so intelligent. You already know therefore considerably in the case of this subject, produced me personally consider it from so many various angles. Your personal stuffs nice. All the time care for it up!"

You're right again. I am intelligent! And my personal stuffs ARE nice: Over the years, a couple of other men have also said so.

Remarkable things here. I'm very happy to peer your post. Will you kindly drop me a e-mail? Thank you a lot and I'm taking a look ahead to touch you. 

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Easy there, big boy. I appreciate all your wisdom, Anonymous, but I’m not letting you at my personal stuffs. Or my sneakers. Or even my weeping feet.

There’ll be no touching, wise guy.

Not without buying me a drink first.

____________________________________________

And speaking of geniuses . . . here's a little something about a fella I met a while back, on a flight from Atlanta to Columbus:

. . . There are seven billion people on the planet. Of these, I enjoy actually physically talking with . . . maybe . . . oh . . . nine.

I'm not sure why, but I seem to have the opposite effect on others. I think people see my short stature and light hair-color and assume I have a friendly, bubbly personality.

This couldn't be further from the truth. I am quiet and actually kind of a bitch. Just ask my family.

Here on the plane, my seat-mate's glassy eyes stare me down as he leans close to me, his saggy pants offering up a plunging rear view, a scandalous posterior eyeful I neither expect nor desire. Before my attempt to nap, I had noted that he carried no luggage, and this - along with his bloodshot eyes and visible crack - make him seem kind of gangsta.

Then again, I'm pretty gangsta myself, what with my polo shirt, mom jeans and sensible shoes.

Still, he seems a friendly fellow, an amiable hoodlum, intent on talking to me no matter how much I'd rather sleep. He chatters on and on until I'm good and awake.

"So. What you do for a living?" he asks.

"I work in communications," I reply. I've learned that it's best to be vague in these situations.

"Really? Where you work?"

"Oh, it's downtown," I dismiss it with a wave - again with the vague. "How about you? Where do you work?"

He pauses, rubs his chin, smiles to himself and sits back.

I have a sudden feeling things could get intriguing.

"Well, you know, there's this medicine - these pills - you see . . . "

"Uh-huh . . ." Oh, we're going to have fun here, I can tell.

"They're cracking down on them in Columbus, big time," he says.

"Really . . ." This conversation might be better than a nap. Maybe.

"The people . . . they're addicted to them - bad. You know, they're pills for pain, pills for pain," He looks at me, waiting for my reaction, his expression dancing a thin line between warning and sales pitch.

"Yeah . .  . you're talking Percocet and Vicodin, things like that, right?" I ask.

He's relieved that I'm familiar with such "pills for pain," I can tell because his shoulders relax. 

He leans toward me, and I smell nachos. Again.

"See, they're cracking down in them in Columbus . . . so what I do, I get on a plane . . . "

His voice a whisper, he leans even closer to me . . .

_________________________________________

Stay tuned for the rest in my upcoming book! Someday!

Hey - I am working on my tenth chapter/essay now. Not bad, right? That's almost 1/4 of the way done. Right? Please tell me that's right . . .

And then I have to get someone to actually publish it! HaHaHa!

*Sob*

Every single essay/chapter has been a struggle, a battle of "I can't do this! But I did it before - how did I do that? Ugh. I can't do this!"

But I powered through somehow. And I said I'd reward myself when I reached little milestones. 

What should I get for myself? Some Percocet? Vicodin? A new pair of sneakers?

Nah. I'll settle for a pony. 

Or - perhaps - a unicorn.

And a rainbow. Definitely a rainbow.

How a Hobo Breaks a Heart

(post and photos, copyright 2013, Dawn Weber)

I've bought a wee Spiderman backpack and filled it with only bare necessities - a lunch box, a blanket, a light jacket. 

Everything you need is in your pack; I made sure. The thing only weighs two pounds, tops, but even as small as it is, its size and heft threaten to topple you. You carry it like a tiny, wobbly homeless man - like a little hobo failure. But you don't complain. 

You seldom do.

I've been looking forward to this for a while now; I'm going back to work, you're starting pre-school. We have been home together for two and a half years. It was mostly wonderful - and sometimes awful - and the fact that I feel this way makes me horribly, heart-wrenchingly, gut-clenchingly guilty.


Time at home hadn't been my idea. I was part of a mass corporate layoff shortly after your birth, and my fast-paced, jet-setting world quickly became Barney, burp cloths, the couch.

I should have been grateful - and partly, I was. The rest of me missed my career -  the adult companionship, the paychecks, the capability to buy new shoes. 

But there wasn't a choice.


So I plucked you from the crib each morning, hugged, changed and fed you. Then, we plopped down Indian-style, and I pulled you into the space between my knees and began searching the paper in vain for something it would take me 2.5 years to find - a job that paid enough to cover child care.


A job that paid enough for me to leave you again.


Towards the end of our stint, you lost the diapers and began talking, and those were the best of times, the days you leaned your head back on my t-shirt, heaved a contented sigh and said things like:


"Ahh, boobies. I like boobies!"


You are your father's son.


And we made the best of things, you and me.


All of this runs through my head as I walk you through the hallways to your room. I look down at you, you look up at me, and I know we're both thinking the same thing: Let's turn around. Let's go to McDonald's. 

Let's go home.


I might do it. I might pick you up and carry you to the car. Because all those times I'd wished for one hour, one nano-second, one new pair of shoes for myself - I take them back.

I don't want you to go.

Stay tuned! This piece is an abridged excerpt of an essay from my upcoming book. It was inspired by the pictures shown here, taken that day, as we walked into the school and down the hallway.

He's 10 now. But he's still a good little Hobo.

The Toilet Paper Chronicles

(post copyright 2013, Dawn Weber)

Tell me: Is it too much to ask?



Yes. Yes, apparently, it is.


Lord knows, I've tried. I've requested. I've instructed. I've coached. I've begged, pleaded and cajoled.


I've cried.


It's a metaphor for parenting, really. Just as in life, children use it all up, and leave you with none. They take and take and give you nothing, bleed you dry.


Or wet as the case may be.


But you hope and you pray and you think that maybe, someday, things will be different - they'll give back to you all that you've given to them. So you go back in, you sit down, you say a little prayer, and you turn your head and look.

What do you see? You see this:




As you can tell by the pictures, I even went out and bought a gadget that's simple - a veritable TP Holder for Dummies and Children. You can imagine my excitement when I found this particular device. It's designed with an easy on/off spindle. You simply A: Slide cardboard off; and B: Slide new roll on. There's nothing complicated here, no removal of spring-loaded rods, no messing around with various parts. Off . . . on.


I called to the kids. I pulled them into the bathroom and demonstrated the procedure.


"Look, you guys, how easy!" I said, sliding the spool back and forth. "You can do this now - you can replace the toilet paper! Off . . . on! Off . . . on! Easy!"


I trembled with joy.


They yawned and went back to their iPods.

What did I get, on the next empty roll? I got this:

And people wonder why I drink.


Still, some headway was made here. I was left with a new roll, though I didn't see it until I'd already reached under the counter, refilled the holder, wiped, flushed and cussed out those two rugrats.


But in my heart, a small flicker of hope ignited, because as a wise, wise woman named Whitney Houston once said:

"I believe that children are our future

Teach them well and let them lead the way . . ."

So I waited for the future. I had, I believed, taught them well. I let them lead the way.

Then, one day, a day like any other, I walked in, I sat down, I took a deep breath, and looked to the left, and I saw this:

You? You'd probably call that a TP FAIL.


But I? I call it progress.


Half-assed progress.

And, sure as shit, I'll take it.

________________________________________________________________________

So inspired was I by the TP chronicles that I wrote a chapter for my upcoming book about it. Here is an excerpt, the . . .

Toilet Paper Replacement Super-Procedure:

1. Make sure that you're settled in, half naked and releasing bodily fluids before checking TP situation. Turn head and see: cardboard.

2. Cuss. Like a f*cking sailor.


3. Rise from the toilet. Ensure pants are wrapped around the ankles, and whatever you were excreting drips swiftly down your legs.


4. Shuffle awkwardly to bathroom cupboard, open, and peer in: Drano, Tampax, Comet cleanser. But no toilet paper. Not even a box of tissues.


5. Cuss. Like a f*cking sailor.


6. Yell loudly, "Can someone bring me a roll of mother-&*^($%**# TOILET PAPER!" Repeat several times. Then remember that you're the only one home. . . "

Stay tuned!