December 21, 2009
I'm not a singer by any stretch of the imagination, but for some reason, probably because of the holidays, I've got choirs on the mind. We've been listening to a lot of Mormon Tabernacle Choir lately, or MoTab, as my people like to call it--kind of like JayZ, but a lot more wholesome.
Last night, as Jared and I were hucking dirty laundry at each other, saying things like, "Get your skanky underoos off my side of the bed!" he suddenly changed the subject and said, "I bet your church had an awesome choir when you were growing up."
That's when I froze, dropped the underpants on the hardwood, and said, "I'm sorry, but we can't stay married for another moment, Jared. You know nothing about my childhood. It's like I'm sleeping with a stranger."
In other words, St. Brigid's choir was horrendous.
Actually, it was beyond horrendous.
Every single Sunday, I'd quietly pray for a miracle. More specifically, I'd pray that Jesus would show his face to the choir and say, "Please, my brothers and sisters, please stop singing. Sing no more. I command ye to stoppeth your singing. Fill your mouths with these loaves and fishes so that ye may stoppest your voices."
And when that never worked, I prayed for an invisible walkman.
And when that never worked, I thought about bagels.
See, my church was tricky. It had a huge vaulted ceiling, dark wood, red carpets, super intricate stained-glass. There were fancy statues, and a beautiful, booming organ. All signs pointed to a heavenly chorus of voices--and all signs were horribly, terribly misleading. If there had been a literal sign, it should have been a big, yellow arrow, pointed straight up to choir loft saying, "CAUTION: VERY ELDERLY PEOPLE ARE SINGING UP THERE, AND THEY'RE DOING IT WITH GUSTO."
I still remember one Christmas Eve service in particular--I must have been nine or ten years old. The choir was belting out their rendition of Oh, Holy Night, and I was squirming around in the pew, trying to will my ear canals to collapse shut.
Finally, when I couldn't handle it for another second, I leaned my head into my mom's ear and whispered, "Mom, it's like I'm chewing on a tin-foil ball."
And she was like, "Amy! Shhhhh! That's rude!"
So I turned to my father and said, "Hey Dad, remember that time you made me lick that 9-volt battery?"
He nodded.
"It feels like it's still on my tongue."
He nodded again and said, "I hear ya, Squirt."
These days, we live far away from St. Brigid Church, and have settled on a street with moderate-to-severe drainage issues. It's funny, but every time my neighbor's cat gets lodged in the underground drainage pipe, its hissing and screaming brings me right back to my childhood days, and I just can't help but look up at the sky and say, "Really? You could part the Red Sea but you couldn't give a girl an invisible walkman?"
Some things will always be a mystery...
Score One for Team Jared
December 16, 2009Jared got home approximately six minutes ago and that man has had nothing but not-nice things to say about by homemaking tendencies since the moment he stepped through the door.
I swear, if I had the option, there are days where I'd return my husband to Big Lots for nothing but a store credit.
I made him dinner--homemade sweet potato soup, pictured above--and I was like, "Say nothing about the salad bowl, Jared. Don't say a thing."
And do you know what he did? He said it. Of course he said it. He was all, "Why's my soup in a gigantic salad bowl, woman?!"
To which I calmly replied, "It's in a salad bowl for two reasons. First, all of the soup bowls are dirty, and second, I'm not convinced that I love you enough to wash one."
In response, Jared decided to kick it up a notch and hit me where it really hurts--the laundry department. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a very crumpled receipt and said, "Do you have any idea when this receipt is from?"
I remained silent, offering nothing but my patented biz-natch glare as an answer.
"October 15th. These pants haven't been washed since October 15th. It might be time, Amy."
I laughed and laughed and laughed some more. "October 15th? That's nothing, Jared. Last fall I put a sweater on and found a movie ticket stub from when I went to see 'Flubber' in 1996."
(I'm very sorry to say that I'm not making that up.)
At that point, Jared gave me a super disgusted look and goes, "You went to see Flubber when you were in high school? What were the cool kids doing?"
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZING!
TEAM JARED: 1
TEAM AMY: 0
(...in case you missed it, there's another new post down there)
Vanity Sizing
December 16, 2009Banana Republic has the most ridiculous vanity sizing I've ever had the pleasure of witnessing.
Clearly I am a size 10 (size 8 after a nine-day stomach flu), and clearly I'm okay with that. But when I go to Banana Republic? Size 6.
Size. 6.
I'm 5'8" and weigh 150 at my hottest. I weight 155 when I'm going through a donut phase, and when I happen to weigh in at 145 I can often be heard saying things like, "Dude, Cindy Crawford has totally let herself go," and "I think I'll take a trip back to the old Alma Mater and slut around the cafeteria for a little while."
In other words, 145 is my knock-em-dead-I'm-too-hot-for-my-own-good weight. 145 is when I whip out my favorite skirt from my college days--you know, the one my mom put through the wash, hung on the clothes line and said, "That's a really cute neck warmer, Amy."
And I said, "That's not a neck warmer, it's a skirt."
And she said, "You're grounded."
And I said, "You're jealous."
And she said, "You're still grounded."
And guess what size that skirt is. That's right! I don't remember what size that skirt is. But I can abslo-friggin-lutely guarentee that it's not a size 6, and that was never a problem for me. Back in the day the boys didn't care what size that little number was, all they wanted to do was pull that skirt off my bum, poke a couple of eye holes, and wrap it around the exposed skin on their faces so they could go snowmobiling.
I know, Maine is weird.
All I'm saying is this: Girls who are 68 inches tall and weigh 150 pounds are not a size 6, they're a size 10. And dude, that's cool.
But at Banana Republic? Size. 6.
Ridiculous.
RIDICULOUS!
And that is why I will continue to pay obscene amounts of money to purchase my jeans from that fine institution. When I'm above my donut weight, nine weeks post-partum, and comfortably wearing a size 6 jean? Well that's just priceless.
Haven't met a girl yet who isn't a sucker for a size 6--even if it just an illusion.
Weekend Review
Deceber 14, 2009
I had a really eventful weekend.
On Saturday morning I walked into the downstairs bathroom without knocking. That's when I caught Jared, standing in front of the gigantic mirror, naked, posing like he was in some sort of a fitness competition. The only thing missing was a sequin-studded banana-hammock. But the best part? He was saying, "Man I look good! I look so good!" It was a full second or two before he realized that he had company, and those my friends, were the greatest seconds of my entire life.
On Saturday afternoon, Jared and I went Christmas shopping. In the true spirit of giving (to myself), I bought a half-priced sweater from the Gap. Nothing funny happened. Sorry.
On Saturday night, Gracie ran away. It was pitch black, fifteen degrees outside, and that dog was not wearing her coat. After two hours of driving around with my windows rolled down, calling her name, and looking behind every dumpster in town, she came back home. When I saw her, I was like, "You suck." And she was like, "No. You suck." And I was like, "Nooo. You suck." I'm just kidding, Gracie doesn't talk. But she does suck. I have an eaten up Advent calendar, a new anti-trash electric-shock-collar on my Visa, and more than five-hundred dollars in vet bills to prove her moderate to severe suckage. You know, it's funny--I would never deal with that type of crap from my husband. But then again, he's not striped, and that's why I picked her.
On Sunday morning we went to church. James decided to lip-sync the words to 'Away in a Manger' instead of actually singing them. Due to the fact that my son is the second worst lip syncer on planet Earth (Who's the first? It's Brittany, b!+@#), he called a great deal of attention to himself. What can I say? I was really proud.
And then, on Sunday afternoon I went for a run around the neighborhood. I absolutely wasn't thinking when I picked a pair of mittens to wear during my jaunt. You see, when some dirty-old-pervert offered me some dirty-old-advice, it was completely impossible to give the guy the finger. So I gave him four mitten-covered fingers, and my message wasn't nearly as clear. He thought I was waving. I was not.
How was your weekend?
I had a really eventful weekend.
On Saturday morning I walked into the downstairs bathroom without knocking. That's when I caught Jared, standing in front of the gigantic mirror, naked, posing like he was in some sort of a fitness competition. The only thing missing was a sequin-studded banana-hammock. But the best part? He was saying, "Man I look good! I look so good!" It was a full second or two before he realized that he had company, and those my friends, were the greatest seconds of my entire life.
On Saturday afternoon, Jared and I went Christmas shopping. In the true spirit of giving (to myself), I bought a half-priced sweater from the Gap. Nothing funny happened. Sorry.
On Saturday night, Gracie ran away. It was pitch black, fifteen degrees outside, and that dog was not wearing her coat. After two hours of driving around with my windows rolled down, calling her name, and looking behind every dumpster in town, she came back home. When I saw her, I was like, "You suck." And she was like, "No. You suck." And I was like, "Nooo. You suck." I'm just kidding, Gracie doesn't talk. But she does suck. I have an eaten up Advent calendar, a new anti-trash electric-shock-collar on my Visa, and more than five-hundred dollars in vet bills to prove her moderate to severe suckage. You know, it's funny--I would never deal with that type of crap from my husband. But then again, he's not striped, and that's why I picked her.
On Sunday morning we went to church. James decided to lip-sync the words to 'Away in a Manger' instead of actually singing them. Due to the fact that my son is the second worst lip syncer on planet Earth (Who's the first? It's Brittany, b!+@#), he called a great deal of attention to himself. What can I say? I was really proud.
And then, on Sunday afternoon I went for a run around the neighborhood. I absolutely wasn't thinking when I picked a pair of mittens to wear during my jaunt. You see, when some dirty-old-pervert offered me some dirty-old-advice, it was completely impossible to give the guy the finger. So I gave him four mitten-covered fingers, and my message wasn't nearly as clear. He thought I was waving. I was not.
How was your weekend?
Strengths and Weaknesses: Cake Decoration
December 10, 2009
A couple of weeks ago, when I was work-free and feeling unusually domestic, I decided to bake a cake for my husband. There was no reason, really--I was just feeling particularly appreciative of his all-around efforts, so James and I planned a "Daddy Appreciation Surprise Party."
The event had all the essential elements that any bash should have--games, prizes, food, speeches, but the crowning jewel of the party was indisputable. It was the cake.
You see, before my brother-in-law left for his two-year mission back in April, we used to Tivo Ace of Cakes and watch it on Friday nights. You know, because I'm awesome.
Somehow, watching all of those episodes puffed me up with a very strong, but very false sense of confidence. I'd seen those television bakers apply a crumb coat a zillion times! I was more than familiar with the internal architecture of a wedding cake. And good heavens, if any lay person had the ability to sculpt with sugar, it had to be me.
Not to mention the fact that I worked at a bakery for two years during high school.
Yes, it's true. I was only there to fill the jelly donuts. But this baking thing? It's running through my freaking veins.
So I gathered my tools, rounded up my four-year-old assistant, and channelled my inner pastry chef. Twenty-dollars, three hours, and two buckets of sweat later, I had created this:
It's a trout.
A rainbow trout to be exact.
What? You couldn't tell? You must be grossly unfamiliar with freshwater fish species, because I swear on all things holy, it's like you could reach out, touch that thing and be surprised that you had frosting on your finger. In other words, it's incredibly lifelike.
Or so I thought.
I was proud of this fish. So proud that I posted the pictures on Facebook for all the world to see. So proud that I chose to interpret Jared's laughing as "Whoa! Ha ha ha! How did a man like me end up with a woman of such talent? Ha ha ha! It blows my mind! Ha ha!" as opposed to, "Ha ha ha! This is, hands down, the sh!++*&t cake I've ever seen in my life! Ha ha!"
The smartie candy for the eye? The chocolate sprinkles for the spots? The anatomically accurate hook jaw? I tell you what, I was about to sign my ass up for culinary school.
And then this morning, as I wiped the sleep from my eyes and checked my Google Reader, my world came crashing downaround me. And it crashed down hard.
I clicked on my friend's blog, and was greeted by a picture of this:
Yes, it's a cake. Yes, it's a trout. And yes, believe it or not, it's also a rainbow trout. Just like my cake.
(I know, she totally didn't put enough spots on the tail or the belly--it confused me, too.)
A couple of weeks ago, when I was work-free and feeling unusually domestic, I decided to bake a cake for my husband. There was no reason, really--I was just feeling particularly appreciative of his all-around efforts, so James and I planned a "Daddy Appreciation Surprise Party."
The event had all the essential elements that any bash should have--games, prizes, food, speeches, but the crowning jewel of the party was indisputable. It was the cake.
You see, before my brother-in-law left for his two-year mission back in April, we used to Tivo Ace of Cakes and watch it on Friday nights. You know, because I'm awesome.
Somehow, watching all of those episodes puffed me up with a very strong, but very false sense of confidence. I'd seen those television bakers apply a crumb coat a zillion times! I was more than familiar with the internal architecture of a wedding cake. And good heavens, if any lay person had the ability to sculpt with sugar, it had to be me.
Not to mention the fact that I worked at a bakery for two years during high school.
Yes, it's true. I was only there to fill the jelly donuts. But this baking thing? It's running through my freaking veins.
So I gathered my tools, rounded up my four-year-old assistant, and channelled my inner pastry chef. Twenty-dollars, three hours, and two buckets of sweat later, I had created this:
It's a trout.A rainbow trout to be exact.
What? You couldn't tell? You must be grossly unfamiliar with freshwater fish species, because I swear on all things holy, it's like you could reach out, touch that thing and be surprised that you had frosting on your finger. In other words, it's incredibly lifelike.
Or so I thought.
I was proud of this fish. So proud that I posted the pictures on Facebook for all the world to see. So proud that I chose to interpret Jared's laughing as "Whoa! Ha ha ha! How did a man like me end up with a woman of such talent? Ha ha ha! It blows my mind! Ha ha!" as opposed to, "Ha ha ha! This is, hands down, the sh!++*&t cake I've ever seen in my life! Ha ha!"
The smartie candy for the eye? The chocolate sprinkles for the spots? The anatomically accurate hook jaw? I tell you what, I was about to sign my ass up for culinary school.
And then this morning, as I wiped the sleep from my eyes and checked my Google Reader, my world came crashing downaround me. And it crashed down hard.
I clicked on my friend's blog, and was greeted by a picture of this:
Yes, it's a cake. Yes, it's a trout. And yes, believe it or not, it's also a rainbow trout. Just like my cake.(I know, she totally didn't put enough spots on the tail or the belly--it confused me, too.)
Oh these novices. She'll get the hang of it eventually. And in the mean time, I'll be the one whimpering in my closet.
Getting the Hang of It
December 8, 2009
Thanks guys, you have no idea how much I needed those comments and emails yesterday.
Honestly, it turned out to be one of the craziest days I've had in a long, loooong time. It ended with my dog eating the chocolate advent calendar (she sucks), and James throwing down the tantrum of the century. Seriously, this meltdown was epic. So epic, that I pulled an old running trophy out of the basement, slammed it on his dresser and yelled, "CONGRATULATIONS! INMATES AROUND THE WORLD ARE PROUD OF YOUR BEHAVIOR!"
He stopped on a dime and was like, "Weally?"
I was like, "Really."
And he was all, "Sanks, Mom! I do love dat twophy!"
And I was thinking, "Damn. I should've thought that through. I really like that trophy, too...."
Whatever.
Anyway, some of your suggestions for managing my work-from-home situation were really, really great--much better than the ideas I had for coping. Namely wine, beer, vodka, moonshine, or pursuing a younger man.
It dawned on me this morning that my neighbor--you know, the 75 year-old woman who lives 50 feet to my left--absolutely adores babies. She stops by to see Maggie a couple of times a week and is constantly dropping hints that she'd love to babysit. Well guess what, Marion? If we can work around your water aerobics schedule, I'd looooove to have you save my sanity. (and get my trophy back if you could manage it)
Thanks again, you guys.
Thanks guys, you have no idea how much I needed those comments and emails yesterday.
Honestly, it turned out to be one of the craziest days I've had in a long, loooong time. It ended with my dog eating the chocolate advent calendar (she sucks), and James throwing down the tantrum of the century. Seriously, this meltdown was epic. So epic, that I pulled an old running trophy out of the basement, slammed it on his dresser and yelled, "CONGRATULATIONS! INMATES AROUND THE WORLD ARE PROUD OF YOUR BEHAVIOR!"
He stopped on a dime and was like, "Weally?"
I was like, "Really."
And he was all, "Sanks, Mom! I do love dat twophy!"
And I was thinking, "Damn. I should've thought that through. I really like that trophy, too...."
Whatever.
Anyway, some of your suggestions for managing my work-from-home situation were really, really great--much better than the ideas I had for coping. Namely wine, beer, vodka, moonshine, or pursuing a younger man.
It dawned on me this morning that my neighbor--you know, the 75 year-old woman who lives 50 feet to my left--absolutely adores babies. She stops by to see Maggie a couple of times a week and is constantly dropping hints that she'd love to babysit. Well guess what, Marion? If we can work around your water aerobics schedule, I'd looooove to have you save my sanity. (and get my trophy back if you could manage it)
Thanks again, you guys.
Things that Make Me Want to Hurl
December 7, 2009
In theory it sounded awesome, but to be quite honest with you, this work-at-home-mom thing isn't really coming together so well for me.
Now, instead of sitting in my office, not doing much work and feeling semi-guilty about it, I'm sitting in my den, not doing any professional work (because old habits die hard) or housework (because I'm on the clock) and feeling just about as useful as one of those infomercial 'set it and forget it' rotisserie ovens--you know...not nearly as efficient as the salesman said it would be, and dude, it takes up way too much counter space.
I sit around all morning, with my boob hanging out of my shirt, pretending (key word there) to sound useful during conference calls, all the while wondering, "Can't she just stop crying for a second???" Consequently, my self-esteem is lying somewhere in the depths of my very uncleaned toilet.
Crappy employee? Check!
Crappy housekeeper? Double check!
Crappy friend? Would be if I had any! (Didn't that sound dramatic?)
Wallowing in self pity? You bet your big, fat bottom I am!
Objectively speaking, I have precisely nothing to show for my first two weeks back at work, and honestly, it makes me want to hurl. But worst of all, I sound like a nasty little, self-entitled whiner (e.g. "Working from home and getting paid well for it is sooooo hard!" and "Why is my beautiful, healthy baby just a little bit fussy every once in a while?")--and that makes me want to hurl all over again.
I have a work contract through April, so I'll give myself at least that long to adjust to the new circumstances--so that's good.
But I have even better news. This ridiculous need to vent and complain? I'll recover from that momentarily.
In theory it sounded awesome, but to be quite honest with you, this work-at-home-mom thing isn't really coming together so well for me.
Now, instead of sitting in my office, not doing much work and feeling semi-guilty about it, I'm sitting in my den, not doing any professional work (because old habits die hard) or housework (because I'm on the clock) and feeling just about as useful as one of those infomercial 'set it and forget it' rotisserie ovens--you know...not nearly as efficient as the salesman said it would be, and dude, it takes up way too much counter space.
I sit around all morning, with my boob hanging out of my shirt, pretending (key word there) to sound useful during conference calls, all the while wondering, "Can't she just stop crying for a second???" Consequently, my self-esteem is lying somewhere in the depths of my very uncleaned toilet.
Crappy employee? Check!
Crappy housekeeper? Double check!
Crappy friend? Would be if I had any! (Didn't that sound dramatic?)
Wallowing in self pity? You bet your big, fat bottom I am!
Objectively speaking, I have precisely nothing to show for my first two weeks back at work, and honestly, it makes me want to hurl. But worst of all, I sound like a nasty little, self-entitled whiner (e.g. "Working from home and getting paid well for it is sooooo hard!" and "Why is my beautiful, healthy baby just a little bit fussy every once in a while?")--and that makes me want to hurl all over again.
I have a work contract through April, so I'll give myself at least that long to adjust to the new circumstances--so that's good.
But I have even better news. This ridiculous need to vent and complain? I'll recover from that momentarily.
An Update on My Condition
December 1, 2009
I've read the parenting books, and believe-you-me, I know that it's never okay to compare your children against one another. After all, they're individuals, with their own strengths, weaknesses, personalities, and interests. Comparison is pointless, unfair, and nothing but harmful.
But wait, hold the phone. I'm Amy Lawson, so watch me do it anyway.
James was a fantastic sleeper. At six weeks old, that boy started sleeping through the night from 10pm to 5am without so much as a whisper or a grunt. By the time he was 18 months, James was sleeping from 8pm to 8am and taking a four hour nap every single day. The kid slept so much that I barely even knew him. And that was cool with me, because sometimes strangers can have a very special and unexplainable connection to one another.
James was fat, James was happy, and James was tired. Very, very tired.
And me? Well I felt like a fresh little flower who sneezed out sunshine and farted out fairy dust.
Then there's Maggie. Miss Cutie-Cuteness-Crappy-Dappy-Sorry-Excuse-for-a-Sleeper Maggie. Thank goodness that girl is adorable, because if it weren't for those perfect, little facial features, that child would be headed to an obscure Swiss boarding school at the sweet, young age of seven weeks.
I'm sure, that in the grand scheme of things, Maggie is a pretty normal baby. But compared to her brother, this child is a straight-up insomniac.
Maggie eats at 10.
Maggie eats at midnight.
Maggie eats at 2:15.
Maggie eats at 4:45ish.
Maggie eats at 7.
Maggie is hungry.
And then, when the sun peeks up over the horizon, I wander around town looking remarkably similar to this:
Remember her? I'll give you a clue: Tell 'em Large Marge sent ya.
That's right, it's the very same truck driver who scared the pants off of Pee Wee Herman when he was on his cross country adventure, trying like heck to find his bike. If you were born in the 70's or 80's then you definitely remember how shaken Pee Wee became when Large Marge made her eyes bulge out of her head--now take a minute to think about how you'd feel if you bumped into Marge in the stacks at your local library and she gave you that same whacked out look.
And that is why I'd like to apologize to all of my fellow community members. I look like hell. I am a spitting image of Large Marge. Someone have mercy upon my weak and wretched soul.
So there you have it. My son left me looking all airy and bright, and Maggie? Well Maggie just leaves me looking like really sh!%%y 80's claymation.
I wonder how long this will last.
I've read the parenting books, and believe-you-me, I know that it's never okay to compare your children against one another. After all, they're individuals, with their own strengths, weaknesses, personalities, and interests. Comparison is pointless, unfair, and nothing but harmful.
But wait, hold the phone. I'm Amy Lawson, so watch me do it anyway.
James was a fantastic sleeper. At six weeks old, that boy started sleeping through the night from 10pm to 5am without so much as a whisper or a grunt. By the time he was 18 months, James was sleeping from 8pm to 8am and taking a four hour nap every single day. The kid slept so much that I barely even knew him. And that was cool with me, because sometimes strangers can have a very special and unexplainable connection to one another.
James was fat, James was happy, and James was tired. Very, very tired.
And me? Well I felt like a fresh little flower who sneezed out sunshine and farted out fairy dust.
Then there's Maggie. Miss Cutie-Cuteness-Crappy-Dappy-Sorry-Excuse-for-a-Sleeper Maggie. Thank goodness that girl is adorable, because if it weren't for those perfect, little facial features, that child would be headed to an obscure Swiss boarding school at the sweet, young age of seven weeks.
I'm sure, that in the grand scheme of things, Maggie is a pretty normal baby. But compared to her brother, this child is a straight-up insomniac.
Maggie eats at 10.
Maggie eats at midnight.
Maggie eats at 2:15.
Maggie eats at 4:45ish.
Maggie eats at 7.
Maggie is hungry.
And then, when the sun peeks up over the horizon, I wander around town looking remarkably similar to this:
Remember her? I'll give you a clue: Tell 'em Large Marge sent ya.
That's right, it's the very same truck driver who scared the pants off of Pee Wee Herman when he was on his cross country adventure, trying like heck to find his bike. If you were born in the 70's or 80's then you definitely remember how shaken Pee Wee became when Large Marge made her eyes bulge out of her head--now take a minute to think about how you'd feel if you bumped into Marge in the stacks at your local library and she gave you that same whacked out look.
And that is why I'd like to apologize to all of my fellow community members. I look like hell. I am a spitting image of Large Marge. Someone have mercy upon my weak and wretched soul.
So there you have it. My son left me looking all airy and bright, and Maggie? Well Maggie just leaves me looking like really sh!%%y 80's claymation.
I wonder how long this will last.
Turkey Trot Recap
November 30, 2009
Well guys, I'm proud to say that I stuck with my original plan and I ran the 5K Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning. It was a microscopic race with no mile markers, no clocks, no race numbers, no age groups, no real finish line to speak of, and no pressure for a woman who was six-and-a-half weeks post-partum. That would be me.
I went into the race with three different goal levels...
Level 1: Finish the 3.1 mile race without dropping any internal parts on the asphalt (uterus, bladder, etc).
Level 2: If all parts remained in tact, finish the race without walking.
Level 3: If I could do the course completely walk-free, finish the run in under 35 minutes.
I ran the race with my sister, who finished the Marine Corps Marathon in October. Mmm hmm, that's really fair, huh? Let me tell you, she was nothing but thrilled to have the chance to run with me, since she owed me a complete ass-whooping reminiscent to the one I dropped on her when her baby was four-months-old.
Fantastic.
I really knew I was in for it when she--the girl who flat out refuses to pay more than 14 cents for a jar of name brand pasta sauce--jumped at the chance to cover my entrance fee.
We lined up behind some schmuck wearing a turkey on his head, and when the race director said "go" (remember, this race was way low budget--no start guns), we went. I think the race went past some really nice houses, and some picturesque New England churches, and the open ocean, but I really can't recall. All I remember was looking down at my brand new shoes and thinking, "If I accidentally let loose and pee all over these, I swear I'll throw down a tantrum at the finish line."
I'm very happy to announce that my sister was beyond merciful to me during the race. Rather than slapping me into submission like she very well could have, she kept us at a relaxed but challenging pace--enough for me to think "Wow, this sucks," but not so fast that we couldn't chat the whole way.
When we got to the end of the course (honestly, there was no real finish chute to speak of, just a bunch of guys wearing tights, doing slightly offensive stretches), she looked at her watch and said, "Oh, you'll be happy...29:17!"
And I was. 29:17 is about 7 minutes slower than I usually clock for a 5K, but then again, I don't usually run 5Ks when I have a 9-pound newborn hanging out at home.
I know that my sister could have gone a mess of a lot faster. But me? Not so much. And for that, I'd like to give her the Sisterly Love Award. You might laugh, but that's no small deal, I've only ever bestowed that award upon one person in the entire universe.
So there. I did it, just like I said I would. And I'm happy to say that the entire experience was poop, pee, and tantrum free.
Well guys, I'm proud to say that I stuck with my original plan and I ran the 5K Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning. It was a microscopic race with no mile markers, no clocks, no race numbers, no age groups, no real finish line to speak of, and no pressure for a woman who was six-and-a-half weeks post-partum. That would be me.
I went into the race with three different goal levels...
Level 1: Finish the 3.1 mile race without dropping any internal parts on the asphalt (uterus, bladder, etc).
Level 2: If all parts remained in tact, finish the race without walking.
Level 3: If I could do the course completely walk-free, finish the run in under 35 minutes.
I ran the race with my sister, who finished the Marine Corps Marathon in October. Mmm hmm, that's really fair, huh? Let me tell you, she was nothing but thrilled to have the chance to run with me, since she owed me a complete ass-whooping reminiscent to the one I dropped on her when her baby was four-months-old.
Fantastic.
I really knew I was in for it when she--the girl who flat out refuses to pay more than 14 cents for a jar of name brand pasta sauce--jumped at the chance to cover my entrance fee.
We lined up behind some schmuck wearing a turkey on his head, and when the race director said "go" (remember, this race was way low budget--no start guns), we went. I think the race went past some really nice houses, and some picturesque New England churches, and the open ocean, but I really can't recall. All I remember was looking down at my brand new shoes and thinking, "If I accidentally let loose and pee all over these, I swear I'll throw down a tantrum at the finish line."
I'm very happy to announce that my sister was beyond merciful to me during the race. Rather than slapping me into submission like she very well could have, she kept us at a relaxed but challenging pace--enough for me to think "Wow, this sucks," but not so fast that we couldn't chat the whole way.
When we got to the end of the course (honestly, there was no real finish chute to speak of, just a bunch of guys wearing tights, doing slightly offensive stretches), she looked at her watch and said, "Oh, you'll be happy...29:17!"
And I was. 29:17 is about 7 minutes slower than I usually clock for a 5K, but then again, I don't usually run 5Ks when I have a 9-pound newborn hanging out at home.
I know that my sister could have gone a mess of a lot faster. But me? Not so much. And for that, I'd like to give her the Sisterly Love Award. You might laugh, but that's no small deal, I've only ever bestowed that award upon one person in the entire universe.
So there. I did it, just like I said I would. And I'm happy to say that the entire experience was poop, pee, and tantrum free.
Old, Gold Friends
November 24, 2009The last week or so has been completely insane. So insane, that I was actually happy to see Monday roll around--and it was the Monday that I had to start working again. When I said to myself, "Ahhh, Monday! I get to start working again with a 6-week-old infant in tow. Finally, a break," I officially realized that I'd had too much.
It was just one of those weeks. You know the type--lots of late nights with the baby, a handful of nonsensical fights with the spouse, a few too many behavioral issues from the four-year-old, and a ridiculously expensive middle-of-the-night trip to the emergency vet with an almost dead dog.
And the almost dead dog thing? Totally not an exaggeration.
But she's alive, and she's back to her same old lazy, farting self--so that's good. But she owes me a ton of money for the vet bills. I know it sounds harsh, but when you almost do yourself in with a pork chop bone fished out of the trash, you obviously have a problem with self-control--and you'll never improve if you don't take responsibility. So she owes me money, and I don't care how she comes up with it. As far as I'm concerned, she can turn some tricks with pit-bulls when she's feeling up to it--as long as they have fat wallets.
Yesterday, around 11 in the morning, my good friend from high school called. She was like, "I'm thinking of coming up to see you and the baby."
And I was like, "Oh yeah? When?"
And she was all, "I'm on my way now. I'll be there in an hour. Is that okay?"
And it was. It was fine. My friend Megan is one of the only people on the planet who can show up on very little notice and it's totally, 100% okay. Usually, when someone pops in I apologize profusely for the condition of my house, pretend to be embarrassed about it, and fake-beg for their understanding.
But no no, not Megan. When I opened the front door I was like, "Oh thank goodness you're here. The Diaper Champ is overflowing and I really need someone to empty it. And then I need to run five errands that are all twenty miles away. I was hoping you could wait in the car while I do 'em, that way I don't have to heft the car seat in and out."
And she didn't even blink. She just stepped over my piles and jumped on the diaper situation.
I love her.
And then she walked over to Maggie and looked at her sleeping in her bassinet. This was the first time they'd met and Meg was all, "Ooooohhhh! I love the way her hair stands up like that! It's so cute!"
And I was like, "That's because I just washed her head with dish soap."
"You what?" she asked.
"I said I washed her head with dish soap. I wanted her to look clean when you got here, but I didn't have time to give her a bath, so I rubbed her head down with that dish rag over there."
And guess what Megan said. She said, "Oh Amy, you didn't have to do that just for me! You could have left her greasy and I wouldn't have cared! Don't bother next time."
Please note: She wasn't appalled that I had cleaned my baby with a dirty rag and WalMart brand dish soap, she was appalled that I'd gone through all that trouble just for her.
And that is precisely why she's one of my oldest, goldest friends.
In exchange for her unconditional friendship, I bought Megan an onion bagel with bacon cream cheese and a Diet Coke.
In my universe, that's how real friends show their love.
Running My Arse Off...Because That's What's Required After a Baby Comes
November 16, 2009
Believe it or not, way back in the day, this blog had a lot to do with running. I was thin, I was fast, I was rich and sexy. I chewed up marathons and spit 'em out for lunch, I had an ass you could easily bounce quarters off of, and obviously, I was my own best friend. My own hero on a good day.
Okay fine, maybe my life wasn't quite that fancy. But I was running thirty or forty miles a week, I had a membership to the YMCA, and I missed the cutoff for the Boston Marathon by seven minutes and some change. Let's just say that I was no stranger to a well-fitting pair of running tights.
These days? Not so much. These days I'm lucky if I can even wiggle a pair of prepregnancy sweatpants over my ham hocks. This new look of mine might be appetizing to a hungry lion, or the Big Bad Wolf, but to the average human eye I probably just seem lumpy.
I've tried and tried over the last two years to keep running as a big part of my life (now buckle your seat belt for a long list of excuses), but with pregnancy, and a cross country move, and a rude reintroduction to New England winters, it's moved to the edge of the map.
Now I've got to say, I commend myself for the things that I have done. For example, I bought a treadmill last winter and get this, I actually used it--for running! You know, as opposed to using it as a shoe rack or as a conveyor belt for home-canning.
I also ran (mmmm, trotted) through my pregnancy up until 30 weeks or so. If you're new to the blog, you can read about my experience of running while pregnant here. And then, if you enjoyed that little story, you can read about the reason I had to stop here. Two most excellent posts if I do say so myself (I know you can manage to make the time, so go and read them).
I really haven't done a bad job by any stretch of the imagination, I simply haven't soared to new heights--and with Jared as the wind beneath my wings (and a constant willingness to hurl me off a cliff), I have absolutely no reason not to. But seriously, my husband is super supportive of my running hobby--"I stand behind anything that gets you out of the house and gives you a bangin' bod," he likes to say. I guess that's probably the reason he sends me to fat camp every summer, too.
OH MY HECK I'M JOKING, PEOPLE! He never makes me go, he only encourages it. By making the initial deposit. And buying me a bus ticket.
OH MY HECK I'M JOKING AGAIN, PEOPLE! Settle down, settle down.
So, without further ado, I give you my tentative race schedule for the next year (which, I reserve the right to change, alter, and/or back out of at any time with no guilt and/or excuses):
11/26/2009: The Chatham Turkey Trot in Chatham, MA. It's a 5k, it costs $5, and I plan to scare precisely 5 five-year-old children when I stuff my 5-gallon ass into some pint-sized running pants (not my line, the 5-gallon ass thing is completely hijacked from Travis Cowing, a laugh out loud funny guy I went to college with).
2/28/2009: The Hyannis Marathon, Half Marathon, 10 km, and Marathon Team Relay in Hyannis, MA. I'd like to commend the race director for developing the very descriptive, accurate, and literal name of the race. I know I'm not confused, and I bet you're not either. Well done Mr(s). Practicality!
I plan to run the 10k, and I abso-fricking-loutely plan to win the female clydesdale division. Because hello!, if it translates into a trophy of any sort, I'll gladly subject myself to a public weigh-in.
5/8/2010: The Polar Bear Triathlon in Brunswick, ME. No no, don't get excited, I still require three lifeguards and a set of water wings when I swim, so I won't be doing the full tri. But sometimes a girl's gotta get her bike on, so I'll be doing the du. Duathlon that is. It's a two-mile run, a twelve-mile bike, and a three-mile run. Unlike the previous race I listed, I plan to come in last--but to come in last with tons of style, of course.
6/2010: The Friends of the Kennebec Rail Trail Half-Marathon in Augusta, ME. It's fairly close to home, it's cheap, and if I get tired of running, it goes right behind a really great diner. I'll definitely bring my wallet along.
And then, depending on how things go (like nursing a baby), maybe a marathon in the fall? Something easy to get to, like the Maine Marathon or the Mount Desert Island Marathon. Who knows? I could be far more interested in wearing velour and eating Snickers by that point., and that would be okay. We'll just have to see.
So anyway, that's that. Let's see how it happens in real life.
Believe it or not, way back in the day, this blog had a lot to do with running. I was thin, I was fast, I was rich and sexy. I chewed up marathons and spit 'em out for lunch, I had an ass you could easily bounce quarters off of, and obviously, I was my own best friend. My own hero on a good day.
Okay fine, maybe my life wasn't quite that fancy. But I was running thirty or forty miles a week, I had a membership to the YMCA, and I missed the cutoff for the Boston Marathon by seven minutes and some change. Let's just say that I was no stranger to a well-fitting pair of running tights.
These days? Not so much. These days I'm lucky if I can even wiggle a pair of prepregnancy sweatpants over my ham hocks. This new look of mine might be appetizing to a hungry lion, or the Big Bad Wolf, but to the average human eye I probably just seem lumpy.
I've tried and tried over the last two years to keep running as a big part of my life (now buckle your seat belt for a long list of excuses), but with pregnancy, and a cross country move, and a rude reintroduction to New England winters, it's moved to the edge of the map.
Now I've got to say, I commend myself for the things that I have done. For example, I bought a treadmill last winter and get this, I actually used it--for running! You know, as opposed to using it as a shoe rack or as a conveyor belt for home-canning.
I also ran (mmmm, trotted) through my pregnancy up until 30 weeks or so. If you're new to the blog, you can read about my experience of running while pregnant here. And then, if you enjoyed that little story, you can read about the reason I had to stop here. Two most excellent posts if I do say so myself (I know you can manage to make the time, so go and read them).
I really haven't done a bad job by any stretch of the imagination, I simply haven't soared to new heights--and with Jared as the wind beneath my wings (and a constant willingness to hurl me off a cliff), I have absolutely no reason not to. But seriously, my husband is super supportive of my running hobby--"I stand behind anything that gets you out of the house and gives you a bangin' bod," he likes to say. I guess that's probably the reason he sends me to fat camp every summer, too.
OH MY HECK I'M JOKING, PEOPLE! He never makes me go, he only encourages it. By making the initial deposit. And buying me a bus ticket.
OH MY HECK I'M JOKING AGAIN, PEOPLE! Settle down, settle down.
So, without further ado, I give you my tentative race schedule for the next year (which, I reserve the right to change, alter, and/or back out of at any time with no guilt and/or excuses):
11/26/2009: The Chatham Turkey Trot in Chatham, MA. It's a 5k, it costs $5, and I plan to scare precisely 5 five-year-old children when I stuff my 5-gallon ass into some pint-sized running pants (not my line, the 5-gallon ass thing is completely hijacked from Travis Cowing, a laugh out loud funny guy I went to college with).
2/28/2009: The Hyannis Marathon, Half Marathon, 10 km, and Marathon Team Relay in Hyannis, MA. I'd like to commend the race director for developing the very descriptive, accurate, and literal name of the race. I know I'm not confused, and I bet you're not either. Well done Mr(s). Practicality!
I plan to run the 10k, and I abso-fricking-loutely plan to win the female clydesdale division. Because hello!, if it translates into a trophy of any sort, I'll gladly subject myself to a public weigh-in.
5/8/2010: The Polar Bear Triathlon in Brunswick, ME. No no, don't get excited, I still require three lifeguards and a set of water wings when I swim, so I won't be doing the full tri. But sometimes a girl's gotta get her bike on, so I'll be doing the du. Duathlon that is. It's a two-mile run, a twelve-mile bike, and a three-mile run. Unlike the previous race I listed, I plan to come in last--but to come in last with tons of style, of course.
6/2010: The Friends of the Kennebec Rail Trail Half-Marathon in Augusta, ME. It's fairly close to home, it's cheap, and if I get tired of running, it goes right behind a really great diner. I'll definitely bring my wallet along.
And then, depending on how things go (like nursing a baby), maybe a marathon in the fall? Something easy to get to, like the Maine Marathon or the Mount Desert Island Marathon. Who knows? I could be far more interested in wearing velour and eating Snickers by that point., and that would be okay. We'll just have to see.
So anyway, that's that. Let's see how it happens in real life.
Simply Suckalicious
November 16, 2009
Jared just informed me that my blog is headed south down the pooper on the express train. It's lame, it's ignored, it's all about the children.
I don't know where he gets off saying thing kind of stuff to me. I mean, he got a D+ in physics during his sophomore year of college (while he was a physics major, mind you) and you don't see me broadcasting that kind of embarrassment up and down the internets.
Jared would like you all to know that he got an A- on his second go 'round.
I would like you all to know that he once peed on my back a little bit while we were dating.
Anyway...
So fine. I get it. My blog sucks. My blog mega sucks. I suck.
Tomorrow, I vow to you, my fun and frisky readers, that I will step away my Weight Watchers points, I will step away from my daytime television, and I will step away from all of my parental responsibilities to produce a blog post that will actually make you laugh. Imagine that.
Just keep in mind, if James wanders off to the photo counter at Rite Aid and Maggie's belly gets so empty that she starts drinking blue Gatorade, it's your own damn fault.
And really now, have you seen a baby who's raised on super sugary drinks? Mmm yeah--let's just say they grow up to wear a lot of beer t-shirts and blaze orange.
Thanks a lot.
See you tomorrow.
Jared just informed me that my blog is headed south down the pooper on the express train. It's lame, it's ignored, it's all about the children.
I don't know where he gets off saying thing kind of stuff to me. I mean, he got a D+ in physics during his sophomore year of college (while he was a physics major, mind you) and you don't see me broadcasting that kind of embarrassment up and down the internets.
Jared would like you all to know that he got an A- on his second go 'round.
I would like you all to know that he once peed on my back a little bit while we were dating.
Anyway...
So fine. I get it. My blog sucks. My blog mega sucks. I suck.
Tomorrow, I vow to you, my fun and frisky readers, that I will step away my Weight Watchers points, I will step away from my daytime television, and I will step away from all of my parental responsibilities to produce a blog post that will actually make you laugh. Imagine that.
Just keep in mind, if James wanders off to the photo counter at Rite Aid and Maggie's belly gets so empty that she starts drinking blue Gatorade, it's your own damn fault.
And really now, have you seen a baby who's raised on super sugary drinks? Mmm yeah--let's just say they grow up to wear a lot of beer t-shirts and blaze orange.
Thanks a lot.
See you tomorrow.
One Month Old: Tales from the Very Over-Tired
November 12, 2009
As of Tuesday, Maggie is one month old and just as sweet as ever.
See?
I know. She's so cute it makes you wonder what's wrong with your own kids.
As of Tuesday, Maggie is one month old and just as sweet as ever.
See?
I know. She's so cute it makes you wonder what's wrong with your own kids.
Aside from being captivatingly beautiful, Maggie is a total and complete night owl--consequently I've become a straight-up spaz. I cry when Jared leaves for work, I cry when Jared comes home from work, I cry when I drop super heavy things on my toes, and sometimes I even cry when I eat too much pie.
Lack of sleep is so not pretty on me.
Aside from being all weepy, I'm confused as heck. For example, last week when I walked out of Sam's club, I pushed the cart over toward my car and said, "That's not my car. My car doesn't have that black stripe on the bottom." So I picked a car a few rows over--same make and model, very different color--and tried like hell to unlock it. I was madly pressing on my key chain, cursing at its brokenness, as my actual car flashed and beeped behind my back.
Finally I was like, "Who's that butt head who won't stop beeping?! I think I'll kick 'im in the balls." I turned around to get a look at his face, and sure enough, it was me. I was the butt head--the super sleep deprived butt head.
So I got in my car and cried. Obviously.
Or what about Monday? Monday was awesome.
I drove to the bank and withdrew a hundred bucks in cash. I put the wad in my center console, just like I always do (thieves, please take note), and drove into town--or the Burger King drive-thru, but whatever, those details are personal.
When I reached into my console to find money to pay for my water and small side salad--or my onion rings and Whopper, but whatever, those details are personal too--I was like, "NO SPANKIN' WAY!!!! I JUST FOUND A HUNDRED DOLLARS!!!! THIS IS THE BEST. DAY. EVER."
I pulled up to the window to pay and the lady was like, "Here you go. Have a nice day."
And I was all, "I just found a hundred dollars! I'm having the nicest day ever! I hope you find lot of money, too."
Then it dawned on me--I didn't actually "find" that money, I had withdrawn it twenty minutes earlier, and it was set aside for groceries, and diapers, and fun-sized Snickers bars, and other essentials.
Huge bummer. Huge enough in fact, to make me cry.
But dude. Seriously. How cute is she?????
Nosiness Satisfied
November 10, 2009
I'm really no good at blogging while I'm on maternity leave. I guess I'm just too busy doing other things right now--like forgetting to bring Maggie while I go to pick up James from school (only happened once and I swear I won't do it again), cheating on Weight Watchers, and nursing in front of our huge picture window that faces the street.
See? Very busy.
Now, before I sign off to make myself a snack, I guess I'll quench your nosiness--because I know, for a fact, that a lot of you are wondering.
Yes, I'm going back to work in two weeks.
And here's the very detailed background information for the nosiest of readers out there:
I was a stay-at-home mom with James--for almost three years. If you want me to get super technical about it, I was in grad school when James was a baby. I went back to school when James was five weeks old, so with the exception of weekend trips to the library, a class here and there, and study sessions at Starbucks, James and I were together all the time.
We were still living in Texas when I finished school, and James had just turned two. Jared had six more months to go until he graduated, so instead of diving into my career in a state we were about to leave, I took a babysitting job.
"A babysitter with a master's degree." I can't quite remember, but I think that was the tag line on my blog for a while.
I went back to work full-time when we moved back to New England in 2008. Jared stayed home with James while he figured out the details of opening up his practice. You know--getting licensed, selecting a font for his sign, finding well-fitting trousers that would keep the lady patients coming back. I've got to say, you'd be absolutely flabbergasted by the level of planning that went into it.
When Jared opened his practice, I switched jobs and landed where I am now--in a part-time gig. Someone had to put a nice dinner on the table every night, and unless I was happy to eat a bowl of Cracker Jacks at 9:30pm, that 'someone' had to be me.
Seriously, where was I going with this?
Right. I'm going back to work when Maggie's six weeks old.
But get this--I'm going back to work, part-time, from home, and Maggie's staying with me.
So instead of checking peoples' status updates on Facebook every morning for four hours while James is at school, I'll do some work. You can laugh all you want, but I honestly think it will be very manageable.
I'm one lucky girl.
And the Board of Directors? They're one super lucky group of old guys. Who else gets to have a snugly, little infant at every single meeting?
So there you have it. Nosiness satisfied--and you didn't even have to come right out and ask.
I'm really no good at blogging while I'm on maternity leave. I guess I'm just too busy doing other things right now--like forgetting to bring Maggie while I go to pick up James from school (only happened once and I swear I won't do it again), cheating on Weight Watchers, and nursing in front of our huge picture window that faces the street.
See? Very busy.
Now, before I sign off to make myself a snack, I guess I'll quench your nosiness--because I know, for a fact, that a lot of you are wondering.
Yes, I'm going back to work in two weeks.
And here's the very detailed background information for the nosiest of readers out there:
I was a stay-at-home mom with James--for almost three years. If you want me to get super technical about it, I was in grad school when James was a baby. I went back to school when James was five weeks old, so with the exception of weekend trips to the library, a class here and there, and study sessions at Starbucks, James and I were together all the time.
We were still living in Texas when I finished school, and James had just turned two. Jared had six more months to go until he graduated, so instead of diving into my career in a state we were about to leave, I took a babysitting job.
"A babysitter with a master's degree." I can't quite remember, but I think that was the tag line on my blog for a while.
I went back to work full-time when we moved back to New England in 2008. Jared stayed home with James while he figured out the details of opening up his practice. You know--getting licensed, selecting a font for his sign, finding well-fitting trousers that would keep the lady patients coming back. I've got to say, you'd be absolutely flabbergasted by the level of planning that went into it.
When Jared opened his practice, I switched jobs and landed where I am now--in a part-time gig. Someone had to put a nice dinner on the table every night, and unless I was happy to eat a bowl of Cracker Jacks at 9:30pm, that 'someone' had to be me.
Seriously, where was I going with this?
Right. I'm going back to work when Maggie's six weeks old.
But get this--I'm going back to work, part-time, from home, and Maggie's staying with me.
So instead of checking peoples' status updates on Facebook every morning for four hours while James is at school, I'll do some work. You can laugh all you want, but I honestly think it will be very manageable.
I'm one lucky girl.
And the Board of Directors? They're one super lucky group of old guys. Who else gets to have a snugly, little infant at every single meeting?
So there you have it. Nosiness satisfied--and you didn't even have to come right out and ask.
College Prep
November 6, 2009
Yesterday I made the mistake of checking my email while I'm out on maternity leave. Sure enough there was a message from the president of my organization--bless his heart--saying something to the effect of, "By no means do you have to do this, but if for some reason you're bored, can you....?"
Bored. Bored? Seriously?
Make no mistake about it, diaper and wipes aside, I've found ten-thousand-and-thirty ways to keep myself adequately busy over these last couple of weeks.
For example, I decided that it's never too early to do a little bit of college prep with James. So we've worked on his handwriting, his counting, and this kind of thing:
That's right. I taught James how to dance on top of a bar.
What? It kept him busy for an entire hour! And besides, if he goes to my alma mater--and I hope he does--this skill will really come in handy.
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