Mediocre Mama Strikes Again

(post and snapshot copyright 2013, 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 forty-damn-dollars for the fancy, bloody costume you wanted at the "Halloween U.S.A." store. You'll only wear it once.

Anyway, have you met me? Yeah. C'mon, son, we're going to Walmart.

"OK, Mom," you said.

Things are always OK 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 forty clams for "Halloween U.S.A." offerings or 2: made elaborate costumes for their children, using actual sewing machines. The colors, money 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-ass costume.

Next year, Little Reaper, we shall go to "Halloween U.S.A." with a giant wad of forty-damn-dollars in cash.

"Yeah, buddy, I'm sure that's it," I say.

"Aw. That's OK," you say.

Things are always OK with you.

__________________________________________________________

Don't feel too sorry for that little reaper or Jawa or whatever up there and his mediocre mama, because thanks to the above post, originally written two years ago, guess who plunked down a stack of perfectly good US dollars - forty, to be exact - for a costume this year?

Yeah. You guessed it - me. He wanted a "Slenderman" (whatever THAT is) costume, from Amazon.com this year.

And so he GOT a "Slenderman" (whatever THAT is) costume from Amazon.com this year.

Though it was twice the price, it is the same crappy fabric as the Walmart costume from two years ago. Probably sewn by the same little Nicaraguan girl. In the same sweat shop.

Ah, but he wanted it - badly.

However, if I'd have said no, it would have been OK with him, and to be honest, that's the reason he got it:

Things are always OK with him.

Still.

__________________________________________________

As far as the book, listen up, party people, because I have this very important announcement: Forty essays done! Forty essays done! Do you hear me? Ten chapters to go, and I will reach my goal of 50 new essays in a year!

Thanks so much to those who've stuck with me, to read - and especially to comment - through some re-posts and the sometimes very loud crickets in here. I'm using my new material to bang this book out - like a boss, y'all!

Here is another excerpt, concerning one of the (many) times I borrowed My Buddy Al's umbrella:

"The last time I borrowed Al's umbrella, it was raining sideways. No such thing as sideways rain, you say? It's Ohio - it rains however the hell it wants, and often. On this particular evening, the wind kicked up, in a sideways fashion, and blew My Buddy Al's umbrella inside out, busting the hinges. Broke it beyond repair.

Soaking wet, I hunched my way through the rest of the trek to the car, where I climbed in and threw Al's now useless umbrella into my backseat. Then, before he arrived at work the next day, I snuck over to his file cabinet and slid its mangled, lifeless body back into the drawer.

Do not judge me. He never used the umbrella, so I didn't think he'd discover it anytime soon.

Covering your tracks: It's a Youngstown Thing.

No, I didn't feel guilty - just a bit nervous. The man is mostly a gentle giant, however, if he's in a certain mood, Al has been known to pelt me with stress balls . . ."

Stay tuned!

Dude on the Sofa

(post copyright 2013, Dawn Weber)

Some guy’s on the couch in the sunroom, watching TV. A dark-haired, flannel-shirted, fella.

As I pass through the room - several (hundred) times - with the laundry, the dog, the vacuum, Jimmy Hoffa, I glance at this vaguely familiar man. Whoever he is, I’m not too worried, because he’s transfixed by the television. Also, he’s been there, immobile, for a long time - just sitting. I am somewhat in awe of this.

I haven’t sat down during the day in my house since the Bush administration. The first one.

After a week or two, I begin to wonder if this individual is breathing. So I head over to inspect . . . and see that it is, indeed, my spouse, still alive. Only then, with the blaring ESPN, I realize:

It’s football season.

No wonder I haven’t seen him much lately. I should maybe watch some games with him.

That's right. From time to time, while the husband watches sports on a nice fall afternoon, I like to bug the hell out of spend some time with him while he enjoys his favorite sport. It’s no problem - I’m a giver.

And he LOVES this. 

So I walk on out to him in the middle of the room and stand in front of the TV.

"What quarter is it?" I ask.

He sighs. "This is Sportscenter. Not a game."

“Oh. O.K."  

I see a flash of a familiar face, then point at the screen. "Hey, look! It’s that guy!”

“What guy?” he asks.

“You know . . . c’mon. That guy!” 

 “WHAT guy?” he says, through gritted teeth.

“That kicker from Ohio State a few years ago," I tell him. "You know who I mean . . . Ted Nugent!”

 “MIKE Nugent," he rubs his temples. Hard. "Don’t you have some Facebooking to do?”

Isn’t that nice? How thoughtful of him to think of my hobbies in this manner. I can tell he really wants to spend MORE time with me and share his affection for the cow-skin.

It’s just too bad I don’t know more about football.

So later in the day when I pass him with the hamper, I decide to plop down for a minute. 

“Who’s playing?”

He closes his eyes. “Dawn. Look at the TV. It’s Ohio State.”

“Huh," I say. "But their uniforms are red. They were white last week.”

“They played away last week, so they wore white," he says. "They wear red at home, and they’re playing home this week. That’s what they do.”

“Well how do people keep up with all these outfit changes?”

He rubs his temples so hard that I fear for the safety of his brain. 

“Don’t you have some blogging to do?”

Again, so considerate! Can you feel the love tonight? I take this as my sign to stick around, keep him company . . . because clearly, he LOVES this. It’s just too bad I don’t know more about football.

“Who are they playing today?” I ask.

He's still rubbing his temples. “Florida A & M.”

“Florida A & M? That’s a lot smaller than OSU. I thought Ohio State was supposed to be good? Why are they playing these small schools?”

*Crickets* 

*Temple-rubbing* 

*Teeth-gritting*

“You know," I say. "I was supposed to go to the winery with Marjie, but I don’t have any money. That’s O.K., though, I’d rather stay here with you and talk the football . . .”

“Here!” he says, jumping to his feet. 

He rummages around in his pocket and pulls out a handful of cash. 

"Go ahead!" he says. "Have fun! You never get to go out!”

Yes. 

It’s really too bad I don’t know more about football.

The Guys at Work

(post copyright 2013, Dawn Weber)

Jesus had his disciples, the President consults the Cabinet, and my husband has The Guys At Work.

For him, there are no wiser men, no sager sages than these workplace whizzes. Aristotle? Ha! Socrates? Scoff. Michelangelo? Come on! We don't need them.

Not when we have the astute counsel of Jim, Gary, Bob and Other Bob.

Need to know where to get cheap tires? The Guys At Work say to go to Mr. Tire. Wonder what movie to see this weekend? The Guys At Work have seen them all. Curious which car to buy? No doubt the GAWs can tell you.

Yes, we are brushed by greatness to know these wonders of worldliness, these wizards of wisdom. They've offered my man advice on everything from child rearing to Christmas gifts to beef steak.

The phrase ''The Guys At Work said . . . '' elicits an automatic wifely eye roll from me. Not because I disagree with them. In fact, my answers usually match theirs. But the truth isn't the truth until we have the Guys' blessing.

Let's illustrate this scenario with a little dialogue, if you will:

Him: “What movie do you want to see this weekend?”

Me: “Well, I hear “We're the Millers” is good.”

*Silence*

*Crickets chirp*

*Air molecules stand still*

Fade in, two days later:

Him: “Hey - I know. Let's see “We're the Millers” Saturday. The Guys At Work say it's great!”

(Cue the wifely eye-roll.)

If nothing else, at least my agreement with the GAWs proves - at least to me - that I’m right. I love being right. Don't you? I used to dream of being rich or famous, thin or gorgeous.

But I am old. I’ve given up on all that.

And occasionally - just sometimes - I know what I'm talking about. This is because I spent years living single and dirt poor.

Folks - you too can become a rocket scientist. All you need is - nothing and no one! 

That's right. With good old-fashioned poverty, you’ll quickly learn the art of creative scrounging. You’ll also learn to do things yourself, because no one else is around to help. Years of lonely financial struggle have given me solid knowledge of 1040 tax forms, toilet plumbing and your basic Ford engine. Far be it from me to withhold all this valuable knowledge from my husband.

That would be selfish. I have to share.

Case in point: a while back, we hopped in the car to go out to eat. He turned the key.

Car: Click-click-click.

Me: “Sounds like the starter.”

Him (cussing under his breath as we switched cars): “Yeah - maybe.”

Fade in, a few days later.

Me: “Hey. Did you find out what’s wrong with the Taurus?”

Him: “The Guys At Work said it's the starter.”

(Cue the wifely eye-roll.)

Me: “Huh. How about that.”

*Silence*

*Crickets chirp*

*Air molecules stand still* (again).

But just then, the strangest thing happened.

Indeed, the angels sang and the clouds parted.

My husband said Those Words.

Three words.

Three words that every woman dreams of.

Three words that every wife wants to hear.

Wait for it . . . wait for it . . .

''You were right.''

____________________________________________________________

Still working on the book - chapter 34 now, to be exact. Thank you SO much to those of you who've stuck around to read and especially - to comment.

Here's an excerpt from a chapter tentatively title "The Shoulds."

". . . What is it, you ask?

A case of The Shoulds.

It begins every morning, when my eyes - in direct opposition to all good reasoning and the rest of my body - pop open at 4:21 a.m.

I should get up.

This is a lie. I really don’t have to get up until 5 a.m., but The Shoulds . . . they say - you guessed it - that I should.

I remain in bed, but my possibly peri-menopausal (shut up) monkey-mind jumps from tree to metaphorical tree, swinging from branches of Shoulds:

I should change these sheets.

I should clean this bedroom.

I should be a better housekeeper/wife/mother/daughter.

I should be a better person.

The clock now reads 4:22.

Four-plus Shoulds.

One minute.

*Sigh*

I should get a shower.

This? I can manage. So I roll out of bed and into the bathroom, stripping off my PJs. Then, I look in the mirror.

Big mistake."

. . .

Stay tuned!

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.