What Would Erma Say?

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

Three days, I was away.

And while I was gone, I can guaran-damn-tee you that no one at my house ate vegetables and no one applied sunscreen. Not a one of them sat up straight.

Utter chaos, when I travel. I really don't know how they survive without my bossiness guidance.

The whole time I attended the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop last week, I worried about my family's lack of vegetable consumption, good posture and general disregard of common health practices. I worried at the conference, on the drive home, up the driveway, through the door. And then I saw them, there in the living-room.

They were breathing, but smelled of Doritos. Also, I questioned the recent hygiene habits of the little one, the boy.

I hugged him anyway. I'm brave like that.

"Hey Levi, I missed you!" I lifted his body - almost as long as mine now - swung it side-to-side like a pendulum and inhaled into his neck.

Nacho Cheese. Perhaps Cool Ranch. Or maybe, both.

Same as it ever was.

"Hi Mom. Happy Birthday," he said, rubbing and smearing his face on my shoulder, the way he has since babyhood.

Well, they were alive. That was something. Doritos aside, I guess my long-suffering husband does a good job with the kids when I travel for work or writing. And by "good job" I mean everyone has a pulse when I get home. Usually.

And these days, he's not the only one in charge while I'm gone - my teenage daughter often runs the show. She feeds herself and her sibling from their four main food groups: pizza, pizza rolls, pizza Bagel Bites and chips. I complained about all this on Facebook last week. Have you met me? Of course I complained. On Facebook. My cousin Mark replied:

"What Would Erma say?"

Hell. I don't know what she'd say. I know she'd say it much better than me. With less cussing. I am no Erma - not even close - and I can tell this when I look at my checkbook balance.

Anyway, as a young mother, before her success, Erma didn't have much chance to leave the house the way I do. Even though she held an English degree from the University of Dayton, society generally frowned upon such endeavors in the 50s and early 60s. A woman? Leave her kids for a career? What's a career?

Erma powered through anyway, starting a column for a small local paper in 1964. They paid her $3 per piece. Her hilarious, realistic essays on life as a suburban housewife grew wildly popular, and over the next few decades her success snowballed to the point of three weekly columns published by hundreds of newspapers across the U.S. and Canada. These became anthologized into a series of best-selling books.

And oh, these books, these BOOKS! There they were on the back of my grandmother's couch and sometimes, the toilet. My mother bought them and then passed them on to Grandma. And her couch. And her toilet. That's where they fell into my grubby eight-year-old hands.

At Wit's End. . . Motherhood: The Second Oldest Profession . . . If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits? The title alone of The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank had me in a giggling fit, tears rolling down my cheeks, for at least 30 minutes one evening as I hid the book under the blankets, reading before I fell asleep at my grandparent's house while Mom worked the night shift.

Grandma busted me. The undercover laughter gave it away. But once she saw what I read, I received the go-ahead, because my grandmother - a former stay-at-home mother and child of the Great Depression - loved Erma. My mother - a baby boomer, a working woman - loved Erma. And I - a tom-boy not yet in a training bra - I loved me some Erma.

So after merrily plowing through all available Erma paperbacks from the back of the couch and toilet, I began waiting for her newspaper columns to arrive. I parked myself in the front yard on a webbed lawn chair, until I heard Alice the Paper Lady's VW Beetle buzzing down Garfield Road. Jumping up, I waited for the very blonde, very bee-hived Alice at the Youngstown Vindicator box, where she handed me the paper, and I raced back to my chair.

My eyes devoured Erma's column. Then, even though I didn't much understand them, I read Art Buchwald's and Mike Royko's pieces, which sometimes gave me a bewildered chuckle. During my time there in the lawn chair - and with those eight years under my belt - I figured that someday I would write funny columns. After, of course, becoming a vet and a forest ranger.

But even though I eventually earned a photojournalism degree and worked at newspapers, both as a photographer and a reporter, I never became a columnist or vet or forest ranger. A few times, I pitched the idea of a humor column to my editors, but we already had someone on staff who wrote such a piece, and then I left the newspaper business anyway to find a job with a salary above poverty level.

The years flowed by like water, like a river. A husband, a couple babies, a few jobs later.

I blinked.

And then I was 40.

Cliche. I know. But I started thinking it was time to do the things I had always wanted to. At this point, I worked in a state communications department, the contacts at my former newspaper, the Newark Advocate long gone. And Lord, I was tired. Also, I was old.

One day, feeling blue, I Googled Erma Bombeck to read some of her stuff and cheer up. Amongst the links were bios, so I clicked on them and did some math. Approximate age Erma began her first real humor column?

37.

She was 37. I was 40. A little late, but not much difference.

Still, I was tired. Also, I was old.

But I had nothing to lose. I called an old acquaintance, the editor/owner of a tiny paper, the Buckeye Lake Beacon, and asked if I could write a humor column for him. He agreed, worry and uncertainty in his voice. 


Of course he worried. Have you met me?

I began writing the "Lighten Up!" humor column in April, 2009, the month I turned 40. The editor ran it occasionally, when he sold enough ads to make space - not an easy task in this economy. In June, 2011, the National Society of Newspaper Columnists (NSNC) gave me a third-place award for humor in newspapers under 50,000 circulation.

However, with ever-dwindling ad-sales, the paper barely runs my column anymore, and with similar cash problems and ever-shrinking staffs, no other newspapers have expressed interest. The state of modern journalism (and whatever it is that I write) sometimes saddens me.

But I wasn't thinking about any of this the other day when I got home. I was worried about my Doritos-scented family. And before I even unloaded my bags from the Erma conference, my husband grabbed my hand and pulled me to the bedroom.

It was clear I was not going to achieve my birthday dream of taking a solo nap.

"Oh shee-zus honey, I am tired. Also, I'm old," I said.

"Shhh. . ." he said, pulling me over to the wall. There, he showed me this:

For my gift, he had framed my NSNC award. I have been so busy working and blogging and mothering and chauffeuring and possibly peri-menopause-ing-shut-up, I forgot all about the certificate. So I said:

"Wow, thanks! I forgot all about this certificate!"

He laughed. "I squirreled it away. Got the frame at Walmart. I hope it's OK."

"Oh it's awesome. I love it," I said. He had me at 'Walmart.'

He looked intently at my face, then his eyes wandered to my shoulders and chest.

Oh boy. There goes my nap.

"What? What is it?" I asked. "I am tired, also I'm really old now."

He lifted his hand and rubbed my blouse.

"On your shirt. . .Dorito dust. . .from Levi's face," he said.

I looked down.

Nacho Cheese. Perhaps Cool Ranch. Or maybe, both.

Same as it ever was.



Thank you, Erma Bombeck, for your legacy, your laughter and the motivation you gave me in 1977, again in 2009, and ever onward.
       -Your devoted fellow Buckeye (and World's Youngest Erma Fan, 1977),
               Dawn

With Bill Bombeck, Erma's husband, and Betsy Bombeck, her daughter
at the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop. Erma's family is very involved
with the workshop, and Bill and Betsy were so sweet, as I stalked them
to get a photo. 

This One Time? Up Home? We Discovered the Underground Railroad. And the Soul Train.

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber. Image made at someecards.com)

We were just kids.

But clearly, we were going to be famous.

That's because we found the Underground Railroad, back there by Mr. Nesbitt's tree.

Word around New Springfield was the famous freedom train ran through our town in the 1800s. Some said the ancient bar down the road - the Springfield Inn - had been one of its stops.

At age seven, or maybe eight, I had this all figured out. Of course I did have you met me? In my mind, a giant black steam engine - just like the cartoon at the beginning of "Soul Train" - roared and pulsed underground hundreds of miles from down South - through a giant underground tunnel - bringing the slaves North to freedom. And the Springfield Inn.

I pictured this, but really didn't give it too much thought. It was ancient history. Marshall the Neighbor Boy and I were very busy - things to do, you know. We spent a good bit of the 1970s - and probably part of the 80s - merrily and obliviously ruining the yard of our other neighbor, Mr. Nesbitt.

After the rains, around his place, we dug into all the mud we could find. We climbed each of his trees and broke the branches. We slid barefoot in the marshy puddles of his grass until we wore it to a bog.

Mr. Nesbitt watched us from his porch chair, with a PBR and a smile, but worried eyes. He didn't say much about our havoc. At the end of each week, he scooped out great handfuls of grass seed from a bag and scattered it over our paths of destruction.

Mr. Nesbitt had to scatter a lot of grass seed.

His tormented yard was where we found the Underground Railroad one summer day in 1977 or so, industriously demolishing digging around the base of his old maple tree with our mothers' garden spades. Marshall's hole was deeper than mine. This made me mad, and I was busily trying to catch up when he pulled something from the dirt.

"Look!" he yelled. He held up a rusty nail.

"Wow!" I replied.

Fascinating! Obviously, we were perched on the edge of something fantastic.

We stepped up our mining efforts. My spade hit a rotted piece of old lumber, and I tugged it from the dirt.

"Whoa. . ." I sat back on my heels.

Marshall looked at my finding, then me, and jumped up to get his sister Shelly.

She was a few years older than us - the prettiest girl in town - and I worshipped the very flip-flops on which she flapped. I was a tiny, scrawny, raggedy little thing, but Shell never let anyone pick on me. Marshall and I consulted her on all urgent matters. Such as arguments, kickball and lunch.

On this particular day, we knew she needed to see our trash discoveries and help us figure out what trash we found. I sat holding and examining the timber and the rusty nail when she approached, with Marshall jogging up behind her.

"Look, Shell, look at this stuff," I put the garbage items in her hands. She turned the nail and the board over, held them closer to her face, and squinted at them. Then she looked at us with raised eyebrows.

"Do you guys know what this is?" she asked.

 We did not. We shrugged.

"I bet you this is part of the Underground Railroad!" she said. "If you find it, you'll be famous. Mom will call the news - they'll put you on TV and in the (Youngstown) Vindicator . . ."

Marshall and I gaped at each other, simultaneously dropping our jaws. We fell to our knees and began plowing furiously at the earth. Without speaking, we knew that we would dig until we found the railroad and the tunnel. And the Soul Train.

Shelly hung around to supervise our efforts, and even helped us dig some. We found lots more rubbage things, like old, broken blue Milk of Magnesia bottles and clear liquor containers.

"The slaves probably used this stuff on the train," she told us.

Though she didn't stick around too long, Marshall and I kept mining. Wasn't easy, burrowing through tree roots, but this did not stop us from our mission. We were going to find the tunnel. And the Soul Train.

We failed to locate it that day. Exhausted and muddy - but still excited - we each went home at dusk. I relayed our discovery to my mother.

"Hey Mom. . . Mom. We found the Underground Railroad back by Mr. Nesbitt's tree!"

She looked up from the Vindicator, and gave me a slow smile. "You did? Wow. . ."

"But we didn't get down to the tunnel yet . . ." I told her.

She held her smile, but quickly looked back to the paper. "Well, keep digging then."

Marshall called me on the phone that night, said his mom told him the same thing.

So the next day, we reported back for duty back at the tree. Marshall brought a bigger shovel, I still had Mom's little garden spade.

"Where's Shelly?" I asked.

"She said she'd come out here later," he told me. And he sliced the shovel into the mud.

We dug. And dug. And then we dug some more.

The day wore on, and we worked hard, but we weren't unearthing bottles or nails anymore.  Nothing but dirt. When Marshall walked over to the tall, weedy field to pee, I made sure he wasn't looking back towards me. I put my ear to the ground to listen for the train.

This is the kind of genius I was.

Shelly didn't show up. But Marshall and I kept digging, like our moms told us to, and met up again the following day with our archeological tools, the garden spade and the coal shovel. We gave up on our deeper holes, moving all around the tree, plowing up smaller cavities.

Mr. Nesbitt was running out of grass. Fast.

We kept at it. On the third or fourth day, while Marshall and I sweated in the sun, I looked up and across the yards to see Shelly languidly hanging out on her front porch.

"Hey Shell!" I yelled. "We aren't finding much anymore - just a bunch of dirt and worms and sticks. How far down do you think this underground railroad is?"

She turned her head to me.  "Just keep digging!" she hollered back.

Huh. She wore the same slow smile as my mother did a few days before. Odd.

But one does not have time to ponder facial expressions when one is making history.

So we did as we were told. We kept digging. Missed "Happy Days," AND "Laverne and Shirley" on the TV that week. Missed the "Lawrence Welk Show," which was fine by me, but we missed Saturday morning cartoons too.

That was a shame.

We dug in the dewy morning, in the afternoon hot sun. We dug until the streetlights came on.

We dug all damn week.

But we never did find the tunnel. Or the Underground Railroad. Or the Soul Train.

Saturday night's streetlights popped on, and finally - sweaty, muddy and defeated - Marshall the Neighbor Boy and I gave up. We stood from the ground, brushed off our dirty knees and began dragging the shovels home.

Old Mr. Nesbitt, with worried eyes and a smile, put down a PBR, rose from the porch chair, picked up his bag and walked out to the maple tree.

There, he scattered great handfuls of grass seed.

Marshall the Neighbor Boy and I, 30-plus years later. Not Famous. We tried.

Picking Up the Feathers

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

I could always tell when he was thinking about the war. It hung in his blue eyes. Faraway, like clouds. Wet, like rain.

Some were born to fly. And some are forced to pick up the feathers. So it was with my grandfather, who served in the Army Air Force during World War II. He loved planes, loved flying, and had hoped to take the skies, to lead missions. He wanted to be a hero, like in the movies.

Life is not a movie.

He served in the Army Air Force, but he was not a pilot. His main job was to sail out and recover airmen - or what was left of them - after their planes were shot down over the Pacific.

He found very few survivors. Some. But very few. I never could fathom the horrors he'd seen. I don't - I can't - call what he did picking up the pieces. I call it picking up the feathers.

I wonder how many he helped send home. How many families have closure because of what he found. I hope he knew that this was important work.

Of course, he didn't talk much about it to me, anyway - the little blonde granddaughter. He spoke only of good things: the stunning beauty of Hawaii, the unforgettable friendships, the unwavering patriotism.

The Army Air Force had told him he was too "uncoordinated" to fly, too clumsy to wield the controls of an airplane. I have always been suspicious of their judgment: He was a good driver, an experienced farmer. He was used to machines and engines.

Sometimes I wonder if the USAAF, when faced with hundreds of thousands of wannabe-pilots, didn't deem many unsuspecting men "uncoordinated." And sent them on to other, less glamorous, still necessary tasks.

Like picking up the feathers.

But that's just my hunch. What do I know? And of course, it never, ever occurred to him to question his superiors. No one said such dishonorable things. Back then.

So he did his job. He didn't complain. A farm boy knows much of life and death and blood and guts - that's what they did. Back then.

On a three-day pass, with my grandmother, he made my mother. A good thing, too, because he promptly caught a severe case of measles in the service. No more babies would be possible after that.

And, eventually, he came home. Unlike so many others.

In the end, maybe the USAAF was right. It's good he didn't fly, that he didn't end up as feathers in the ocean. He lived a relatively long, happy life, married 50 years to my grandmother. He helped raise me in a wonderful small town in Ohio. In 1998, he got to meet my daughter, his great-granddaughter - who is named after his wife, Laura.

He died six months later.

Much to his great dismay, he never flew a plane.

That's fine with me. He was here. He came home.

And he was still, very much, a hero.

(This one's for him)

(a re-post on the eve of what would have been my grandfather's 92nd birthday, and my grandparent's 70th wedding anniversary.)

My First Bloggy F Bomb. Courtesy of Pinterest and . . .

(post copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

All the cool chicks do it.

And if there's one thing I learned in high school, it's to do what the cool chicks do, because it's idiotic brilliant! And following their lead could make you drunk grounded jailed happy.

Yep, be a follower, not a leader, is my motto. Unless you're my daughter, in which case CLICK AWAY NOW YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ON MOM'S BLOG AND GO FOLD LAUNDRY LIKE I TOLD YOU!!

Ahem.

ANYwhoo...

Yeah, I tried to avoid it, because I am very busy and important, what with all my Facebooking and boxed-wine drinking parenting and working. But I caved, because succumbing to peer pressure always makes me a grounded jailed happy idiot, and I joined Pinterest.

I am pretty sure Martha Stewart is behind this devil's work online bulletin board, because I'm learning so much. Mainly the fact that I am a complete failure.

I had no idea! Thank you, Martha Pinterest.

On Pinterest, you will find pictures of beautiful rooms. Beautiful women. Beautiful crafts. Beautiful women in beautiful rooms with beautiful crafts.

And none of these beautiful things? Are yours, also you're probably pretty ugly, yourself.

Thank you, Martha Pinterest.

On Pinterest, you'll find healthy, tasty recipes.

Buffalo chicken tacos, via Pinterest and mrsregueiro.com

At my house, you'll find:

On Pinterest, you'll find beautiful and sexy hairstyles.

Via Pinterest and weheartit.com

On my head, you'll find:

Look at the husband in the background, laughing at my FAIL-do. Yuck it up cowboy.

On Pinterest, you'll find ways to organize your closet.

Via Pinterest and Google.com.br

At my house, you'll find:

But really cute shoes!

Still.

I want an organized closet! I want tasty recipes! I want a pretty hairdo!

Obviously, though, I need help with all my FAILS. So I kept examining the site, and now I am a crackhead. The Pinterest pictures...so pretty...MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES.

• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES on my cell phone while cooking dinner.
• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES on Ipad in bathroom, dripping wet  after a shower.
• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES when supposed to be blogging.
• MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES with laptop, Saturday night on couch.

Saturday night, people! The hell? What is WRONG with me? Saturday night is for nightlife!

I love the nightlife! I got to boogie!

But the pictures...so lovely. And everything looks simple and doable.

"This looks easy!" is what you think.

"I could do this!" is what you say.

You're wrong. Loser.

Like a good crackhead, I study the projects, thinking maybe I can complete some of them. Then, I set my sights on a dog bed for that crazy bitch of ours, Suzie. You may remember the evil Suzie from posts such as this and this and even this.

Suzie is pretty sure she has a dog bed already, called the couch, or rather "Suzie-get-your-ass-offa-that-couch!" I've been pricing dog beds, and even cheap-o Big Lots beds in her size cost at least $20. Soon enough, I find a dog bed idea on Pinterest.

"This will be easy!" is what I think.

"I can make this!" is what I say. Ha ha ha! Oh, I crack myself up.

I head down to the basement, locate my sewing machine, bring it up, blow off all the dust and begin trying to thread the needle.

"Mom - my 'Call of Duty' game isn't working - can you clean it off and get it to work?" says my son, walking into the kitchen.

"Sure," I say.

Twenty-three minutes later,  I begin again trying to thread the sewing machine needle.

"Hey Mom. Did you wash my cheer uniform yet?" says my daughter. "You know, I have a game tonight."

Nineteen minutes later, I - what? - start trying to thread the needle once more. Nineteen minutes after that, I am sweating, cussing and STILL trying to thread the needle. I pull out the sewing machine user's manual, 13 minutes later locate the needle-threading instructions in ENGLISH, and start to...

"Honey? What's for dinner?" says the husband.

And...she's out. That's it. I fold.

Fuck you, Pinterest.

You too, Martha.

And so it goes that on the Pinterest you'll find:

Via Pinterest and Etsy.com

And at my house, you'll find:

Scoot the hell over, Suzie. It's Saturday night.

MUST LOOK AT PRETTY PICTURES.






                                                                                                                                                  

Well, I have absolutely no idea what I did to deserve the honor, but the incredible, badass Vapid Vixen over at The Ginja Ninja awarded me the Tell Me About Yourself Award. Also she said some really nice things about me, which floored me because this chick? Is uber-cool and does things like snowboard and run through mud in the Dirty Dash (which I may do now, at the Warrior Dash, thanks to her lead).  I know her first name. I won't tell you what it is, but it begins with D and ends with n and other badass chicks have the very same name. She is funny and smart and I really like her, even though she calls me an asshole sometimes.

ANY-whoo...

I am supposed to tell you five things about myself, but I am lazy and let's go with three:

1. I am a total pansy when it comes to scary movies. Haven't watched one since the 70s, when I was 5 and "Carrie" was on our 11-inch black and white RCA, and Carrie's-bloody-hand-came-out-of-the-grave-at-the-end-OH-MY-GAWD!!! I jumped straight up from an indian style position at my Mom's feet, into her lap - I mean a sheer vertical leap - and had to sleep in her room for the next 8 months. Pretty sure if I saw a scary movie now, I'd have to drive the 3 hours to Youngstown and sleep in my Mom's room for the next 8 months. 

2. I am also a total pansy when it comes to hypodermic needles. They are the very tools of the devil. Can't even look at those sonsabitches without peeing just a little. Effin' needles.

3. I have great taste in music. Sometimes. And sometimes I have the musical taste of a 60-year-old virgin. Yep. Give me some Ambrosia or Gerry Rafferty or some "Please Come to Boston," and I'll be putty on your hands. Or, um, I would, um, if I wasn't happily married. Ahem. 

I am to pass this award on to five awesome bloggers,but I laugh at authority - Stick It to The Man, is what I always say. And so I'm giving it to three fellow bloggesses (TWSS):

1. Diminishing Gene Pool - You'll be reading this woman's book someday, mark my words. She reminds me so much of the awesome Hollis Gillespie, and she has such an amazing knack for dialogue.

2. Dawn in Austin - Another badass Dawn. All her posts are great, but her recent post about getting c*ck blocked by her newborn grandson had me doubled over. Fun-nay!

3.Muffintop Mommy - Self-effacing, dead-on accurate day-to-day accounts of her life as a SAHM. Much like me, she loves to pimp her dull existence (sorry, Twig ;), but 'tis true.) 

Check them out, they all rock.

What Would Betty White Say?

(post and memes - not photos - below, copyright 2012, Dawn Weber)

Betty White turned 90 years old last week.

Still. I bet she could kick my ass - and yours. With only her words.

She's short. She's blonde. She's naughty. Sound familiar?

Oh, I love me some Betty. My mom love Betty. My 14-year-old daughter - she love Betty.

My late grandma - born one year before her - loved Betty. And I bet that somehow, someway, even Upstairs, grandma still love Betty.

Hell. Everybody love Betty, because she's keepin' it real.

Betty, you're so awesome that I'd like to take you out for your birthday. Yeah, I'd fly to L.A., come to your house, and ring your doorbell. Everybody knows - you love pets. I bet you have a bunch of them, and that when you opened the door, your dogs would go ape-shit, barking and whatnot.

I wonder, then, What Would Betty Say (W.W.B.S.)?

You and I, Betty, we'd hop in your Cadillac and hit Sunset Strip. Cruising along, a cool 20 m.p.h. in the left hand lane, folks honkin', swearing, trying to pass on the right. It would make me angry. I'd yell at those a-holes: 

"This is Betty-damn-White, and she's 90! Go the hell around us!"

But Betty, it wouldn't bother you. You'd stay cool as a cucumber, wouldn't you?

W.W.B.S.?

As we drove, Betty, you and I would discuss things, like that fact that you are - undeniably - old. So I would say:

"Betty, you're old. What's it like?"

What Would Betty Say?

I'd take you dancing, Betty, oh yes I would, at the Viper room, and I'd pull you out on the floor. Dudes would come up, ask us to dance, because yeah - we're still hot like that. 

W.W.B.S.?

Oh, I love Betty. She pimpin' what she got. 

Sure, haters gotta hate and talk over-exposure, but for the most part, everybody love Betty right now.

And isn't it about damn time? Finally, FINALLY we appreciate, honor and respect a woman who isn't a 105-lb., 23-year-old. 

There is, in every woman, a little bit of Betty. And there are Betties everywhere. Resting in the branches of your family tree. Sitting alone in the halls of your local nursing home. Coasting in the fast lane of your nearest interstate. Every-Betties.

They all deserve some Betty love.

At 40-damn-two, I am just a baby. But when I grow up, I want to be a Betty.

Because she? Is still bold. Still working. Still somewhat blonde.

Betty White is still here. And still, decidedly. . .

Badass.

This post is for my Aunt Dee, who recently passed on, and my Grandma, Laura, who were sisters.

 

Betty White, in looks and mannerisms, always reminds me of a cross between the two of them.

I love and miss you both. 

You were both - decidedly - badass.

How I wish  you were both still here.

New Year's Fails. Er...Resolutions

(Post copyright 2012 - WTFFFFF!!!??? Where's my Hover-Car?, Dawn Weber)

Well, it's the New Year. I can tell because my pants are once again choking my ovaries.

They're also strangling my kidneys, intestines, and spleen. My liver? Has its own battles to fight.

My pants are assholes.

I bet yours are, too.

No wonder. The main damn four food groups these past few weeks have been cookies, fudge, candy and cookie dough. Strangers have asked me when the baby is due.

And then I punch them in the throat.

My healthy and wholesome recent lifestyle - and profoundly tight pants - signal that it's time to lie to myself make some New Year's fails resolutions. Again. For some reason, my fails resolutions are the same each year.

I bet yours are, too.

We will...

Lose weight!
Spend more time with family!
Stop punching strangers in the throat!

Yeah, right. Fail, fail and fail some more.

I have good intentions. But somehow, throughout the year, I get sidetracked with more important things. Such as working, sleeping and Googling pictures of Mike Rowe. I have a Dirty Job for you, Mike Rowe...

No more. I've decided that it's time to get real. Be honest. Ask yourself: What can I truly accomplish in one year's time?

Here at the Lighten Up! Self Help Center (Motto: Better Living Through Chemistry), I have put together some practical, do-able goals for all of us.

No thanks is necessary. Just send cash.

Or a nice box of wine.

Repeat after me, party people:

-I resolve to eat healthier potato chips.
-I resolve to go to church bi-annually.
-I resolve to help my fellow man be less idiotic.
-I resolve to get more sleep -ing pills
-I resolve to learn new things in the bedroom.
-I resolve to be a nicer person to animals.
-I resolve to pray for more money.
-I resolve to be a better role model for crackheads.
-I resolve to volunteer to punch idiots in the throat.
-I resolve to give more money to the Walmart and Target corporations.
-I resolve to quit drinking non-alcoholic beverages.
-I resolve to control my road rage when asleep in the passenger seat.
-I resolve to be happier about my humdrum existence.
-I resolve to cuss less at church. Bi-annually.
-I resolve to read more erotica.
-I resolve to quit smoking crack.
-I resolve to eat less vegetables.

These we can do, folks. No more New Year's fails. Yes sir, I am feeling really good about it.

And that ain't just the crack-pipe talkin'.

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!