July 14, 2009
If you've been reading this blog for any length of time at all, then I'm sure it's abundantly clear that I, Amy Lawson, am not a helicopter parent.
For those of you who don't know, a helicopter parent is any person, male or female, who constantly hovers over their child. You know the type--they won't allow their son to walk to soccer practice at age 13 for fear of wild animals, they won't allow their daughter to walk to her 2nd grade classroom on her own for fear of overly-slippery floors, and they won't allow their 15-year-old to trick-or-treat without supervision due to the possibility of Snickers laced with crack cocaine.
To put it simply, any respectable helicopter parent most certainly would not allow their child to fall ass-over-tea-kettle into an electrified pig pen. See guys? I failed the test right there.
It's not that I fight the urge to hover over James--to be quite honest, I just don't have it in me. Over supervision plain and simply isn't in my chemical make-up. The thought of it alone tires the hell out of my big, pregnant body.
On the other side of the token, I'm not a laissez-faire parent either. In other words, my kid has a bedtime, he doesn't eat candy for supper, I limit the amount of TV he watches, and trust me when I say that he'll see stars if he has the audacity to throw a rock, a frog, or an unkind word at any other child.
I like to think that I fall somewhere near the middle of the road--I keep James safe, I'm doing my best to instill him with kindness and compassion, and he has freedoms that are appropriate for a kid his age. He can play in the yard when I'm inside, he can deliver items to our elderly neighbor's house without me tagging four feet behind, he's taking the bus to pre-K in the fall, etc. He's also free to dig at his boogers as he pleases, as long as he's in his bedroom.
I'm saying all of this because this morning I had I really strange experience.
James was in the middle of his swimming lesson, while I sat on the beach and watched. It was a small group, so there were three teachers and three students. James had assigned himself to his very favorite teacher, Miss Tina--and really now, who can blame him? She's 19, a natural blond, and has a very suggestive tattoo on the small of her back. After every single lesson James longingly says, "Mom, I weally luff Miss Tina." And I say, "James, I really don't blame you. She's smokin' hot."
Anywho, Tina turned her head to talk to another one of the teachers, and at that very moment, James slipped off of his kick-board and started struggling to keep his head above water--arms flapping, feet kicking, total look of terror in his eyes. My instinct, obviously, was to tear the maternity clothes clear off my body, dive into the lake and save my son. But the logic side of my brain was saying, "Amy, he's one foot away from his swimming teacher and his head hasn't gone under the water once. He's scared, but he's fine."
About three seconds later, Tina noticed James, reached one foot over and plucked him out of the water by the back of his wetsuit. I don't care if I'd been crowned the International Helicopter Parent of the Year, there's absolutely no way I could have gotten to him that quickly anyway. James didn't cry, he just trudged up to me on the beach, gave me a sopping wet hug, and said, "I'm done."
"Done," I said? Trying my best to sound surprised. "I know you fell in, but you're okay. You did a great job keeping your head above the water, James. Let's finish up your lesson." It took five full minutes of convincing, but he got back into the water and finished what he had started.
That left me feeling pretty stinking proud.
After the lesson, James dried off and changed, clicked himself into his car seat, and we headed off to an afternoon at daycare. I walked him in, kissed him on the head, and wished him a really happy day. Then, as soon as I got into my car and drove around the corner, I pulled over, put her in park, and cried my eyes out.
We're talking a major crying moment. It was an OH MY GOSH MY BABY ALMOST DROWNED OUT THERE kind of cry. One of those cries where you're sobbing so hard you can't make coherent words. A cry where a paper bag probably would have come in handy.
For three seconds, while my kid was helplessly struggling in the lake, I felt fear like I've rarely felt it before. If I had to guess, I felt the same level of fear that helicopter parents feel about the idea of almost everything.
So, to all of you moms and dads out there who just can't help but hover, I say this: "I will no longer think bad thoughts when I see you at the park. I will no longer send snide text messages to my husband about how thoroughly insane I think you are. From this point forward, I will empathize with you, feel compassion for you, and encourage you to get a heavy prescription for blood pressure medication--because DANG YO, I bet you need it."
I, Amy Lawson, have officially made peace with the helicopter parent.
Cars, Pigs, and Electical Shocks to the Wanker
July 10, 2009
For the first time in six weeks, the sun has been shining in Maine. And no, that is absolutely not an exaggeration. I can't even begin to tell you how happy and relieved I am to see some yellow light in the blue, blue sky. Greyness wears on my soul, and let me tell you, my soul was dangerously close to kicking my husband's ass. Thankfully--due to the weather and not my propensity toward self control--we're still very happily married. The bliss marches on.
Anywho, we had a big week over here in the Lawson house, so I'll go ahead and catch you up on things:
1. I'm now officially 27 weeks pregnant, and according to most sources, that means I'm in my 3rd trimester. In honor of this milestone, I've become absolutely huge. Here's a story to prove it: There's this creepy guy in my office building--you know, the type who has a weird ponytail, outdated glasses, and is so stinking quiet you question whether or not his lips are sewn shut? Mmm hmm, that guy. But yesterday, when I walked past his door he did a quick double-take, and before his mind could filter his mouth he blurted, "Whoa! What happened to you? You look like you're about to explode!"
I stopped, stared for a second and said, "Ummm. I'm pregnant?"
And he was all, "But what happened?"
So I was like, "Well John, sometimes, when man and a woman love each other very much, they..."
Thankfully this phone rang right on cue, because honestly, I had no idea where I was headed with that story.
2. We actually bought a new car. I'm not lying, it's sitting in my garage. Right next to the '89 Blazer that I love so much.
Jared thinks we're going to sell the Blazer for for $500 in the newspaper. I, on the other hand, think we're going to slap some antique plates on that beauty and start featuring it at local car shows--Bondo, rust, and all!
Official Kelly Blue Book value: $181.
3. Last night, when I brought the new car home, Jared was itching to go for a ride. I, in my infinite wisdom, suggested that we take James to the local strawberry farm--after all, I heard a rumor that they have baby pigs. So off we went, with a four year old boy, a very new vehicle, and light grey interior to enjoy the sight of swine.
When we arrived at the farm and asked for the piglets, the friendly farmer directed us to a big clump of woods, telling us that "The pigs er back thar."
"Well ookeey."
We drove back to the one acre-ish stand of trees and sure enough eight baby pigs came barreling out of the woods and toward the electric fence. Well, seven actually--the brown one just kept on lounging in the food trough.
These suckers were up to their elbows in pure mud, and James was (obviously) thrilled beyond capacity. He leaned over the fence to pat a piglet on the bum, tripped over the electric fence, and landed in the pig mud.
I stood there, silent, shocked, reluctant to grab my child--because hello!, I have no idea if he's a conductor of electricity or not, and I was in no mood to get shocked when I had a perfectly able-bodied husband standing directly to my left.
I was like, "Jared, save him."
And Jared was like, "I think you should save him, he needs his mother."
So I was all, "I'll save him, but next time you want me to touch your you-know-what I'm putting on a pair of wool socks and rubbing my feet all over the carpet before I do it. That way you'll know how your kid feels."
I won. Jared picked him up. Turns out the electric fence was off, thank heavens, stars, and goodness.
So now, we have a sweet new car with an iPod jack and the scent of piglet poop.
It's good to be a Lawson.
For the first time in six weeks, the sun has been shining in Maine. And no, that is absolutely not an exaggeration. I can't even begin to tell you how happy and relieved I am to see some yellow light in the blue, blue sky. Greyness wears on my soul, and let me tell you, my soul was dangerously close to kicking my husband's ass. Thankfully--due to the weather and not my propensity toward self control--we're still very happily married. The bliss marches on.
Anywho, we had a big week over here in the Lawson house, so I'll go ahead and catch you up on things:
1. I'm now officially 27 weeks pregnant, and according to most sources, that means I'm in my 3rd trimester. In honor of this milestone, I've become absolutely huge. Here's a story to prove it: There's this creepy guy in my office building--you know, the type who has a weird ponytail, outdated glasses, and is so stinking quiet you question whether or not his lips are sewn shut? Mmm hmm, that guy. But yesterday, when I walked past his door he did a quick double-take, and before his mind could filter his mouth he blurted, "Whoa! What happened to you? You look like you're about to explode!"
I stopped, stared for a second and said, "Ummm. I'm pregnant?"
And he was all, "But what happened?"
So I was like, "Well John, sometimes, when man and a woman love each other very much, they..."
Thankfully this phone rang right on cue, because honestly, I had no idea where I was headed with that story.
2. We actually bought a new car. I'm not lying, it's sitting in my garage. Right next to the '89 Blazer that I love so much.
Jared thinks we're going to sell the Blazer for for $500 in the newspaper. I, on the other hand, think we're going to slap some antique plates on that beauty and start featuring it at local car shows--Bondo, rust, and all!
Official Kelly Blue Book value: $181.
3. Last night, when I brought the new car home, Jared was itching to go for a ride. I, in my infinite wisdom, suggested that we take James to the local strawberry farm--after all, I heard a rumor that they have baby pigs. So off we went, with a four year old boy, a very new vehicle, and light grey interior to enjoy the sight of swine.
When we arrived at the farm and asked for the piglets, the friendly farmer directed us to a big clump of woods, telling us that "The pigs er back thar."
"Well ookeey."
We drove back to the one acre-ish stand of trees and sure enough eight baby pigs came barreling out of the woods and toward the electric fence. Well, seven actually--the brown one just kept on lounging in the food trough.
These suckers were up to their elbows in pure mud, and James was (obviously) thrilled beyond capacity. He leaned over the fence to pat a piglet on the bum, tripped over the electric fence, and landed in the pig mud.
I stood there, silent, shocked, reluctant to grab my child--because hello!, I have no idea if he's a conductor of electricity or not, and I was in no mood to get shocked when I had a perfectly able-bodied husband standing directly to my left.
I was like, "Jared, save him."
And Jared was like, "I think you should save him, he needs his mother."
So I was all, "I'll save him, but next time you want me to touch your you-know-what I'm putting on a pair of wool socks and rubbing my feet all over the carpet before I do it. That way you'll know how your kid feels."
I won. Jared picked him up. Turns out the electric fence was off, thank heavens, stars, and goodness.
So now, we have a sweet new car with an iPod jack and the scent of piglet poop.
It's good to be a Lawson.
Fourth of July Pictures
July 6, 2009
Welp, I pulled it off.
I singlehandedly used thirty pounds of duct tape, fifty cardboard boxes, six cans of spray paint, and ten tons of fabric to make: 1 Statue of Liberty costume, 1 Abe Lincoln Costume, 1 Uncle Sam costume, 3 cardboard x-ray machines, 2 giant signs for the side of a pick-up truck, lots of sparkly decorations, and 1,300 labeled pieces of candy.
Jared, bless his heart and muscles, generously put the seats down in my car so we could take all of the props to the parade site. What a man!
I'm still waiting on a couple of group shots that are on my sister-in-law's memory card, but in the mean time, these will have to hold you over. And I'm sorry, but there will be no Abe Lincoln just yet--I think he's in the group shot.
But, for now, here's a picture of Jared dressed as Uncle Sam in an x-ray machine. As you can clearly see, he was not amused. And he had his hat on backwards (the duct tape was supposed to be in the back ya know).
This is my nephew/patriotic ninja/candy thrower extraordinaire. I let him eat 3 chocolate donuts while we rode around in the back of the truck that morning--my apologies to his mother. But really now, how could I eat three donuts and then say no to him? It just didn't make sense.
Here's Jared again, strutting his stuff, pretending to be a happy person in red striped pants.
And finally, my sister-in-law Alicia who kicked Jared's ass in the sportsmanship competition.
Believe it or not, some random guy called Jared's cell phone and offered him money for the x-ray costumes after the parade. Apparently, he's in a band, and thought the costumes were perfect for a gig that night. I'm generous, so I gave them away, totally free of charge. Well, actually, I gave them away on the condition that he kept our ad on the back, turned around multiple times during the performance, and told the crowd a fake (but amazing) story that involved natural healing and my husband's office phone number.
Welp, I pulled it off.
I singlehandedly used thirty pounds of duct tape, fifty cardboard boxes, six cans of spray paint, and ten tons of fabric to make: 1 Statue of Liberty costume, 1 Abe Lincoln Costume, 1 Uncle Sam costume, 3 cardboard x-ray machines, 2 giant signs for the side of a pick-up truck, lots of sparkly decorations, and 1,300 labeled pieces of candy.
Jared, bless his heart and muscles, generously put the seats down in my car so we could take all of the props to the parade site. What a man!
I'm still waiting on a couple of group shots that are on my sister-in-law's memory card, but in the mean time, these will have to hold you over. And I'm sorry, but there will be no Abe Lincoln just yet--I think he's in the group shot.
But, for now, here's a picture of Jared dressed as Uncle Sam in an x-ray machine. As you can clearly see, he was not amused. And he had his hat on backwards (the duct tape was supposed to be in the back ya know).
This is my nephew/patriotic ninja/candy thrower extraordinaire. I let him eat 3 chocolate donuts while we rode around in the back of the truck that morning--my apologies to his mother. But really now, how could I eat three donuts and then say no to him? It just didn't make sense.
Here's Jared again, strutting his stuff, pretending to be a happy person in red striped pants.
And finally, my sister-in-law Alicia who kicked Jared's ass in the sportsmanship competition.
Believe it or not, some random guy called Jared's cell phone and offered him money for the x-ray costumes after the parade. Apparently, he's in a band, and thought the costumes were perfect for a gig that night. I'm generous, so I gave them away, totally free of charge. Well, actually, I gave them away on the condition that he kept our ad on the back, turned around multiple times during the performance, and told the crowd a fake (but amazing) story that involved natural healing and my husband's office phone number.
All in all, I'd have to say that it was a smashing success. Thanks again for the inspiration.
Oh, Just an Update
July 1, 2009
(Happy 30th Birthday, Jared!)
Well friends, as of my appointment this morning, it's official--I'm up 24 pounds and I've never looked better. At least that's what the medical assistant keeps on telling me.
(I love you, Lisa!)
Actually (and I fully realize that according to the fashion magazines I'm supposed to hate myself and wretch every time I look in the mirror right now), I really can't help but agree with her. I'm looking pretty stinkin' cute these days.
So fine, the back of my thighs are a straight-up cellulite horror show. But the rest of me? Not so bad if I do say so myself--and I should know. After all, I see my reflection at least thirty to fifty times daily--you know, every single time I have to stop what I'm doing to get up and go pee.
And no, that is not an exaggeration.
There are many days, today included, that I'll excuse myself from my desk to use the facilities, do my business, and turn on my heels before I even get back to my office, because I have to go and pee again. And friends, these are not false alarms, these are good-old-fashioned fire house pees.
Earlier today, while I sat in the waiting room for sixty minutes at my midwife's office (gestational diabetes test), I used the potty not once, not twice, but five times. James went twice. We earned our stares--every last one of them.
This pee situation doesn't bother me so much during the day--any excuse to leave my work in a cold, stagnant pile is fine by me. But dude, the night times? Not so good. I'm tired, I'm walking into walls, and a couple of weeks ago I actually woke up to find myself standing on the cold tile, jiggling the deadbolt on our mudroom door. Apparently, I was changing things up and planning to go outside to pee in a sleep-walky haze.
Huh. Makes sense. Safe, too.
Anywho, that's about all I've got for this latest update--up some pounds, pee machine, and it now officially take three jabs to get the blood in my veins out of my arm. Oh, and I almost forgot--this season, McDonald's double cheeseburgers are the new apple.
Have a good rest of the day, guys.
(Happy 30th Birthday, Jared!)
Well friends, as of my appointment this morning, it's official--I'm up 24 pounds and I've never looked better. At least that's what the medical assistant keeps on telling me.
(I love you, Lisa!)
Actually (and I fully realize that according to the fashion magazines I'm supposed to hate myself and wretch every time I look in the mirror right now), I really can't help but agree with her. I'm looking pretty stinkin' cute these days.
So fine, the back of my thighs are a straight-up cellulite horror show. But the rest of me? Not so bad if I do say so myself--and I should know. After all, I see my reflection at least thirty to fifty times daily--you know, every single time I have to stop what I'm doing to get up and go pee.
And no, that is not an exaggeration.
There are many days, today included, that I'll excuse myself from my desk to use the facilities, do my business, and turn on my heels before I even get back to my office, because I have to go and pee again. And friends, these are not false alarms, these are good-old-fashioned fire house pees.
Earlier today, while I sat in the waiting room for sixty minutes at my midwife's office (gestational diabetes test), I used the potty not once, not twice, but five times. James went twice. We earned our stares--every last one of them.
This pee situation doesn't bother me so much during the day--any excuse to leave my work in a cold, stagnant pile is fine by me. But dude, the night times? Not so good. I'm tired, I'm walking into walls, and a couple of weeks ago I actually woke up to find myself standing on the cold tile, jiggling the deadbolt on our mudroom door. Apparently, I was changing things up and planning to go outside to pee in a sleep-walky haze.
Huh. Makes sense. Safe, too.
Anywho, that's about all I've got for this latest update--up some pounds, pee machine, and it now officially take three jabs to get the blood in my veins out of my arm. Oh, and I almost forgot--this season, McDonald's double cheeseburgers are the new apple.
Have a good rest of the day, guys.
Rain, More Rain, and Really Big Bathing Suits
June 30, 2009
Well friends, it's still raining in Maine. If I had to venture an honest guess, I'd say we've had two or three days of sun during the entire month of June. And according to the ten-day forecast, we shouldn't expect to see the sun until next Wednesday.
Long live the summer!
Swimming lessons started yesterday, and guess what? They were cancelled. Due to thunder.
You see, up here in Maine we don't do swanky swimming lessons in indoor pools--we pay $5 for a snotty little teenager to teach our kids to swim in the lake--the 54 degree lake. As of yet, swimming lesson are still a go for today--you know, with scattered showers and a high of 57.
In honor of the next three weeks, I taught James the word "hell." As in, "This lake is cold as a frozen chunk of hell," and "Why in the hell do you do this to me, Mom?" I'm hoping the extended vocabulary takes the edge off of his discomfort--I know it always works for me.
Oh, and geeze, I almost forgot to mention that James's 4-year-old group lesson is described in the flyer as a "parental involvement class."
Joy above joys.
Not only do I get the opportunity to shiver my cellulite off, but I also have the rare and unique chance to show my half-naked pregnant body to James's friends' parents, a handful of neighbors, and our adorable teenage babysitter (just one more reason not to have sex in high school, honey!).
I mean, don't get me wrong here, I'm all for walking out to the mailbox in my underpants--there's just something about the size large maternity tankini that makes me want to hide. Behind my 45 pound son.
So there ya go. Yay summer!!!
Well friends, it's still raining in Maine. If I had to venture an honest guess, I'd say we've had two or three days of sun during the entire month of June. And according to the ten-day forecast, we shouldn't expect to see the sun until next Wednesday.
Long live the summer!
Swimming lessons started yesterday, and guess what? They were cancelled. Due to thunder.
You see, up here in Maine we don't do swanky swimming lessons in indoor pools--we pay $5 for a snotty little teenager to teach our kids to swim in the lake--the 54 degree lake. As of yet, swimming lesson are still a go for today--you know, with scattered showers and a high of 57.
In honor of the next three weeks, I taught James the word "hell." As in, "This lake is cold as a frozen chunk of hell," and "Why in the hell do you do this to me, Mom?" I'm hoping the extended vocabulary takes the edge off of his discomfort--I know it always works for me.
Oh, and geeze, I almost forgot to mention that James's 4-year-old group lesson is described in the flyer as a "parental involvement class."
Joy above joys.
Not only do I get the opportunity to shiver my cellulite off, but I also have the rare and unique chance to show my half-naked pregnant body to James's friends' parents, a handful of neighbors, and our adorable teenage babysitter (just one more reason not to have sex in high school, honey!).
I mean, don't get me wrong here, I'm all for walking out to the mailbox in my underpants--there's just something about the size large maternity tankini that makes me want to hide. Behind my 45 pound son.
So there ya go. Yay summer!!!
Pregnancy Sass
June 29, 2009
For the first time in my life I can honestly say that I've become a head turner--double takes, triple takes, eyes the size of dinner plates, I get them all.
And it's probably not because I'm hot.
I personally think it has a lot more to do with the fact that lately I've preferred to exercise in the broad daylight, in a bright yellow volunteer t-shirt, that somehow makes me look pregnant in my ass and in my tea kettle.
Couple that with my very shiny spandex pants, and folks, I've become the stuff that highly disturbing dreams are made of.
Just this past weekend, after my run, when I was still in my skin tight get up, James told our neighbor that, "My Mom might have twins. Dat means two babies. She got one in her tummy and maybe one in her bum."
Thank you, James. Thank you so, so much.
Prior to this pregnancy, I wondered, on an almost daily basis, why so many larger-sized people seem to love to wear spandex pants. Now my friends, I completely understand. It's not about the love--it's comfortable, it fits, now shut your mouth and get out of my way or I'll eat you faster than a peanut butter cup.
That's why.
I think it's funny when strangers stop my on the street to say things like, "Look at you exercising! You're so cute!" I just keep plodding along and I'm like, "Cute? I'm not so cute, I'm so hungry. And so full of pee. But thank you. Have a nice day."
Last night, I had a very different reaction from a very strange stranger. She was moping along in the rain, smelling like booze, letting her puppy poop all over the middle of the sidewalk (my pet peeve beyond all pet peeves). As I approached her, I stepped off the sidewalk to run on the shoulder of the road--partly to be polite, and mostly to avoid a run in with the dog doo.
When we were almost shoulder to shoulder, I offered a casual smile and she offered me the following comment: "You're gonna shake your baby and give it brain damage from runnin' like that."
I was confused and honestly thought I'd heard wrong, so I stopped, removed my earbuds and said, "I'm sorry, what?"
"You're givin' your baby brain damage from that."
"From what," I snottily demanded.
"From running," she said.
"Oh my word," I replied back, "I didn't realize that. Are you an obstetrician," I asked?
"No."
"A pediatrician," I offered?
"No."
"A child development expert?"
"No," she replied.
"So I guess that means you're just super opinionated," I confirmed?
Silence.
"Geesh," I said, "You know? I'm not even pregnant. Show how much you know." (I threw it out there for dramatic effect)
She eyed me up and down, found that be very confusing, huffed, and kept on walking.
That line--the "I'm not even pregnant" line?--hasn't failed me yet, and honestly, I never expect that it will.
Today I'm feeling slightly to moderately guilt ridden for being such a sassy mouth to a total and complete stranger. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe she had just worked a double, dropped her paycheck in the mud, and had her hat stolen by an angry bird. I guess I'll never know.
I'm sorry random lady.
For the first time in my life I can honestly say that I've become a head turner--double takes, triple takes, eyes the size of dinner plates, I get them all.
And it's probably not because I'm hot.
I personally think it has a lot more to do with the fact that lately I've preferred to exercise in the broad daylight, in a bright yellow volunteer t-shirt, that somehow makes me look pregnant in my ass and in my tea kettle.
Couple that with my very shiny spandex pants, and folks, I've become the stuff that highly disturbing dreams are made of.
Just this past weekend, after my run, when I was still in my skin tight get up, James told our neighbor that, "My Mom might have twins. Dat means two babies. She got one in her tummy and maybe one in her bum."
Thank you, James. Thank you so, so much.
Prior to this pregnancy, I wondered, on an almost daily basis, why so many larger-sized people seem to love to wear spandex pants. Now my friends, I completely understand. It's not about the love--it's comfortable, it fits, now shut your mouth and get out of my way or I'll eat you faster than a peanut butter cup.
That's why.
I think it's funny when strangers stop my on the street to say things like, "Look at you exercising! You're so cute!" I just keep plodding along and I'm like, "Cute? I'm not so cute, I'm so hungry. And so full of pee. But thank you. Have a nice day."
Last night, I had a very different reaction from a very strange stranger. She was moping along in the rain, smelling like booze, letting her puppy poop all over the middle of the sidewalk (my pet peeve beyond all pet peeves). As I approached her, I stepped off the sidewalk to run on the shoulder of the road--partly to be polite, and mostly to avoid a run in with the dog doo.
When we were almost shoulder to shoulder, I offered a casual smile and she offered me the following comment: "You're gonna shake your baby and give it brain damage from runnin' like that."
I was confused and honestly thought I'd heard wrong, so I stopped, removed my earbuds and said, "I'm sorry, what?"
"You're givin' your baby brain damage from that."
"From what," I snottily demanded.
"From running," she said.
"Oh my word," I replied back, "I didn't realize that. Are you an obstetrician," I asked?
"No."
"A pediatrician," I offered?
"No."
"A child development expert?"
"No," she replied.
"So I guess that means you're just super opinionated," I confirmed?
Silence.
"Geesh," I said, "You know? I'm not even pregnant. Show how much you know." (I threw it out there for dramatic effect)
She eyed me up and down, found that be very confusing, huffed, and kept on walking.
That line--the "I'm not even pregnant" line?--hasn't failed me yet, and honestly, I never expect that it will.
Today I'm feeling slightly to moderately guilt ridden for being such a sassy mouth to a total and complete stranger. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe she had just worked a double, dropped her paycheck in the mud, and had her hat stolen by an angry bird. I guess I'll never know.
I'm sorry random lady.
He May be Gone, But He'll Always Creep Me Out
June 26, 2009
I'm still sitting in the supply closet, using the computer that seems to have been salvaged from the Sputnik Space Shuttle in 1957. Now if I could just manage to find a poodle skirt and a pair of roller skates, I'd be all the rage.
So it's June 26, 2009 and Michael Jackson is no longer with us. And no, this will most certainly not become one of my heartfelt and contemplative posts.
I'm not planning to mince words here, folks--that man thoroughly creeped me out. From the Neverland Ranch, to the 493 nose jobs (which he claimed he never had), to the baby named Blanket, I simply never got Michael Jackson.
I got that the moonwalk was cool, and I got that Man in the Mirror was a tear jerker of a song, I even got the King of Pop title. But Michael? Above all else, you gave me the willies.
(Now his sister on the other hand, the one with the bangin' legs who let her hooter slip out at the Super Bowl? She remains on my cool list.)
I still remember the very first time he skeeved me out. I must have been three years old, and I was listening to the 'Thriller' record in our teeny, little living room. I picked up the album cover (click here to see the artifact first hand), locked eyes with Michael, and cried when I realized that a tiny, mini version of that guy was dancing around inside of my record album. (Remember? When you were three? And you thought a miniature band was actually playing instruments inside the vinyl?... No? You don't? Well you suck.)
I hid the album cover under the couch and cried for three days straight. Then I cried for three more days. And three days after that. But I guess the extended crying was due to the fact that I was a pain-in-the-ass of a child--not because of any Michael induced fears.
But really now, even with all of my personal childhood behavior issues aside, after he lost the afro and the babyface, Michael Jackson became one seriously creepy dude.
In spite of the fact that he induced heebie-jeebies like no other person on the planet, I'm still sorry for Michael Jackson and his family that his life was cut short at the age of 50. Any way you slice it, that's way too young to die. And any other way you slice it, he was a revolutionary musician in his day.
So rest in peace Michael Jackson, may you stay on my radio, but out of my dreams for the rest of eternity.
I'm still sitting in the supply closet, using the computer that seems to have been salvaged from the Sputnik Space Shuttle in 1957. Now if I could just manage to find a poodle skirt and a pair of roller skates, I'd be all the rage.
So it's June 26, 2009 and Michael Jackson is no longer with us. And no, this will most certainly not become one of my heartfelt and contemplative posts.
I'm not planning to mince words here, folks--that man thoroughly creeped me out. From the Neverland Ranch, to the 493 nose jobs (which he claimed he never had), to the baby named Blanket, I simply never got Michael Jackson.
I got that the moonwalk was cool, and I got that Man in the Mirror was a tear jerker of a song, I even got the King of Pop title. But Michael? Above all else, you gave me the willies.
(Now his sister on the other hand, the one with the bangin' legs who let her hooter slip out at the Super Bowl? She remains on my cool list.)
I still remember the very first time he skeeved me out. I must have been three years old, and I was listening to the 'Thriller' record in our teeny, little living room. I picked up the album cover (click here to see the artifact first hand), locked eyes with Michael, and cried when I realized that a tiny, mini version of that guy was dancing around inside of my record album. (Remember? When you were three? And you thought a miniature band was actually playing instruments inside the vinyl?... No? You don't? Well you suck.)
I hid the album cover under the couch and cried for three days straight. Then I cried for three more days. And three days after that. But I guess the extended crying was due to the fact that I was a pain-in-the-ass of a child--not because of any Michael induced fears.
But really now, even with all of my personal childhood behavior issues aside, after he lost the afro and the babyface, Michael Jackson became one seriously creepy dude.
In spite of the fact that he induced heebie-jeebies like no other person on the planet, I'm still sorry for Michael Jackson and his family that his life was cut short at the age of 50. Any way you slice it, that's way too young to die. And any other way you slice it, he was a revolutionary musician in his day.
So rest in peace Michael Jackson, may you stay on my radio, but out of my dreams for the rest of eternity.
Laptop Down
June 26, 2009
Well guys, I'm down one laptop--at least until the end of this week. The situation has left me typing this message on a six-year-old desktop, which happens to be half the size of Mississippi. I would also like to note that I'm sitting in the supply closet.
According to my very scientific calculations, I'm half a step above a homeless pirate sending handwritten messages in an empty rum bottle.
At least this computer monitor outweighs me. Not many things do these days, so it's going a really long way in the self esteem department. I'm actually thinking about dumping this thing in a grocery cart, pushing it around town, and stopping random strangers to ask questions like, "Excuse me, ma'am? Does this monitor make me look skinny?" or "Do you think a laptop would make my bum look fat?"
That's my long way of saying that I might not be on much this week.
And please, if I never write again, be sure to watch Wipeout tonight. It will change your life for the better. I promise.
Well guys, I'm down one laptop--at least until the end of this week. The situation has left me typing this message on a six-year-old desktop, which happens to be half the size of Mississippi. I would also like to note that I'm sitting in the supply closet.
According to my very scientific calculations, I'm half a step above a homeless pirate sending handwritten messages in an empty rum bottle.
At least this computer monitor outweighs me. Not many things do these days, so it's going a really long way in the self esteem department. I'm actually thinking about dumping this thing in a grocery cart, pushing it around town, and stopping random strangers to ask questions like, "Excuse me, ma'am? Does this monitor make me look skinny?" or "Do you think a laptop would make my bum look fat?"
That's my long way of saying that I might not be on much this week.
And please, if I never write again, be sure to watch Wipeout tonight. It will change your life for the better. I promise.
Marsha and the Grumpy Old Man
June 22, 2009
Welp, it's been raining for one week straight, and according to the almighty internet, this weather's not planning to go anywhere for the next eight days.
The rain's fine. Honestly, it doesn't bother me much--hopefully it'll help my grass seed sprout. But the people? Ay yi yi, welcome to the world of cranky old New Englanders. They're elderly, they're salty, and when they weather fails to meet their specifications, they'll give you the finger in the grocery store just because they feel like it.
Earlier this morning, I stopped at our little, local bank. I was standing in a line of three, waiting to return a key (no seriously, the banks here loan out keys to their back doors for after hours use of the conference rooms), when a 80-something man hobbled in with his walker.
He cut straight to the front of the line, leaving a pregnant girl (me), a super old woman (my neighbor), and a middle-aged lady with a very antsy child in the dust of his orthopedic shoes. Again, no big deal. For all I know, this guy could have fought off Nazi forces on the beaches of Normandy, and if that's the case--and I just decided to assume that it was--he can cut me in line all day long.
And really, I would have sent him ahead of me anyway. Not only does it make me look like an exemplary citizen and score me a handful of heaven points, but that man probably would have limped out of there and taken a leak in my gas tank if I had the nerve to do my banking ahead of him.
So he pushed his way to the front of the line and slowly began his transaction. A minute later, I could hear the teller wrapping it up:
"Anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Smith," she asked? (I didn't catch his name)
"No."
"Well I hope you enjoy your day," she replied with a smile.
"A day like today," he demanded? "Kiss my ass, Marsha."
Marsha didn't flinch. He must be a regular customer. And as for me? It's two hours later and I'm still snickering about the incident in my office.
It's official, my day has been made!
Welp, it's been raining for one week straight, and according to the almighty internet, this weather's not planning to go anywhere for the next eight days.
The rain's fine. Honestly, it doesn't bother me much--hopefully it'll help my grass seed sprout. But the people? Ay yi yi, welcome to the world of cranky old New Englanders. They're elderly, they're salty, and when they weather fails to meet their specifications, they'll give you the finger in the grocery store just because they feel like it.
Earlier this morning, I stopped at our little, local bank. I was standing in a line of three, waiting to return a key (no seriously, the banks here loan out keys to their back doors for after hours use of the conference rooms), when a 80-something man hobbled in with his walker.
He cut straight to the front of the line, leaving a pregnant girl (me), a super old woman (my neighbor), and a middle-aged lady with a very antsy child in the dust of his orthopedic shoes. Again, no big deal. For all I know, this guy could have fought off Nazi forces on the beaches of Normandy, and if that's the case--and I just decided to assume that it was--he can cut me in line all day long.
And really, I would have sent him ahead of me anyway. Not only does it make me look like an exemplary citizen and score me a handful of heaven points, but that man probably would have limped out of there and taken a leak in my gas tank if I had the nerve to do my banking ahead of him.
So he pushed his way to the front of the line and slowly began his transaction. A minute later, I could hear the teller wrapping it up:
"Anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Smith," she asked? (I didn't catch his name)
"No."
"Well I hope you enjoy your day," she replied with a smile.
"A day like today," he demanded? "Kiss my ass, Marsha."
Marsha didn't flinch. He must be a regular customer. And as for me? It's two hours later and I'm still snickering about the incident in my office.
It's official, my day has been made!
Happy Father's Day, Dad!
June 21, 2009
Happy Father's Day to the best Dad on the planet. If you think that's up for argument, then take a look at this:
It's a recap of my second grade Christmas vacation, and it says:
This past vacation it was Christmas. My favorite present was a dollhouse I got from my Dad. He built it himself and he said to me it was a lot of work, and I said I love it and I gave him a big hug and he said that there's 3,000 shingles on it. And I really do love it.
Did your Dad ever make you a dollhouse with 3,000 shingles for Christmas? Right, yeah, I didn't think so.
As I was sifting through my old journals today, trying to find something to post, I was really blown away by entry after entry after entry that said something like, "This weekend we went out on the boat," or "This weekend we went camping," or this weekend we went to see a show in New York," or "This weekend we tried to catch a fish."
When I was a kid, we somehow managed to have more fun every weekend than most kids have in an entire summer and get our backsides to church. I'm still scratching my head over how he pulled it all off.
My dad can build anything, fix anything, and figure out any mechanical thing in three to five seconds flat--no instructions required. He's built additions, kitchen cabinets, bird houses, old motors, decks, swing sets, and just about anything else you can imagine--in his own house, my sister's house, and in mine. When it comes to 'the way things work,' he is, by far, the smartest, most intuitive person I've ever met.
My Dad taught me how to play the drum set in sixth grade.
My Dad threatened to pull my bottom lip over the top of my head if I ever missed my curfew by four minutes ever again.
My Dad took me to Disney World three times when I was growing up.
My Dad bought me bagels every Sunday.
My Dad is nice to everyone.
Happy Father's Day, Dad! I sure do love you!
Happy Father's Day to the best Dad on the planet. If you think that's up for argument, then take a look at this:
It's a recap of my second grade Christmas vacation, and it says:This past vacation it was Christmas. My favorite present was a dollhouse I got from my Dad. He built it himself and he said to me it was a lot of work, and I said I love it and I gave him a big hug and he said that there's 3,000 shingles on it. And I really do love it.
Did your Dad ever make you a dollhouse with 3,000 shingles for Christmas? Right, yeah, I didn't think so.
As I was sifting through my old journals today, trying to find something to post, I was really blown away by entry after entry after entry that said something like, "This weekend we went out on the boat," or "This weekend we went camping," or this weekend we went to see a show in New York," or "This weekend we tried to catch a fish."
When I was a kid, we somehow managed to have more fun every weekend than most kids have in an entire summer and get our backsides to church. I'm still scratching my head over how he pulled it all off.
My dad can build anything, fix anything, and figure out any mechanical thing in three to five seconds flat--no instructions required. He's built additions, kitchen cabinets, bird houses, old motors, decks, swing sets, and just about anything else you can imagine--in his own house, my sister's house, and in mine. When it comes to 'the way things work,' he is, by far, the smartest, most intuitive person I've ever met.
My Dad taught me how to play the drum set in sixth grade.
My Dad threatened to pull my bottom lip over the top of my head if I ever missed my curfew by four minutes ever again.
My Dad took me to Disney World three times when I was growing up.
My Dad bought me bagels every Sunday.
My Dad is nice to everyone.
Happy Father's Day, Dad! I sure do love you!
Late Night Musings
June 19, 2009
Happy Friday, everyone. I don't know how the weather's holding up in your neck of the woods, but it's pouring buckets up here, and it's not slated to stop until Sunday.
Please understand that the previous statement wasn't meant to be taken as a complaint, but merely as a statement of fact. Regular old rain is nothing--you won't hear me complain until the sky opens up and starts dropping cat poo or flavored cream of wheat. I really hate cream of wheat.
Last night, it was raining so hard that I was startled awake in a super confused stupor--which is more common than I care to admit these days. Last week for example, I startled myself awake when I became frustrated with our sticky deadbolt lock. Apparently I was on my way to check in on our elderly neighbors. Huh.
So last night, I woke up to the sound of the rain, I turned to Jared and said, "I hate big cats. If I ever see a mountain lion walking through our yard, I swear I'll kill it."
"No you wouldn't."
"Yes I would," I spat back. "I don't care if it's lying around licking its paws, I'll shoot it."
"No you wouldn't."
"Jared," I said, "If it could kill James, and it's in my yard, then I'm shooting it."
"What about a bear," he asked? "What would you do if a bear walked through our yard?"
"A bear," I repeated? "I'd probably tie a giant bow around its neck and hug it for an hour."
It was the middle of the night, it made perfect sense.
Happy Friday, everyone. I don't know how the weather's holding up in your neck of the woods, but it's pouring buckets up here, and it's not slated to stop until Sunday.
Please understand that the previous statement wasn't meant to be taken as a complaint, but merely as a statement of fact. Regular old rain is nothing--you won't hear me complain until the sky opens up and starts dropping cat poo or flavored cream of wheat. I really hate cream of wheat.
Last night, it was raining so hard that I was startled awake in a super confused stupor--which is more common than I care to admit these days. Last week for example, I startled myself awake when I became frustrated with our sticky deadbolt lock. Apparently I was on my way to check in on our elderly neighbors. Huh.
So last night, I woke up to the sound of the rain, I turned to Jared and said, "I hate big cats. If I ever see a mountain lion walking through our yard, I swear I'll kill it."
"No you wouldn't."
"Yes I would," I spat back. "I don't care if it's lying around licking its paws, I'll shoot it."
"No you wouldn't."
"Jared," I said, "If it could kill James, and it's in my yard, then I'm shooting it."
"What about a bear," he asked? "What would you do if a bear walked through our yard?"
"A bear," I repeated? "I'd probably tie a giant bow around its neck and hug it for an hour."
It was the middle of the night, it made perfect sense.
Jared and the Hairy Eyeball
June 18, 2009(photo courtesy of James)
If you've ever met my husband in person, you know full well that he has some of the largest eyes in the history of all mankind. If his head weighs approximately eight pounds (which according to Google, it does), then I'd have to estimate that his eyeballs alone account for forty-eight ounces of that mass.
What you might not know is that Jared possesses the unique and deplorable ability to throw some incredibly hairy eyeballs with those suckers.
Seriously, if there was some sort of a local hairy eyeball competition in our region, I'd sign Jared up in a heartbeat. You know, I might even spend the prize money before he won it--that's how confident I am in his ability to dominate such an event.
I don't know why, but this morning my husband was in a particularly sensitive mood. Jared's famous expressions were being thrown around like candy from a parade float, and finally, when he had tossed out one too many 'I wonder how far I could toss you' looks, I was like, "USE YOUR WORDS, MAN! USE YOUR WORDS!"
Far be it from me to leave you starving for any details of our personal, marital business--so, without further ado, here is a three act play to recaps a few of this morning's fine interactions:
Jared and the Hairy Eyeball
by Amy B. Lawson
ACT I
Setting: 5:30am, in bed.
AMY: Good morning, Jared!
JARED: Marrying you was the worst mistake I have ever made in my life. You, Amy Lawson, are my Everest. [said silently with his eyes]
ACT II
Setting: Jared is taking a shower while Amy is brushing her teeth.
AMY: I need to get some cash so I can pay the babysitter today.
JARED: Why are you getting a babysitter again?
AMY: So I can go to an afternoon meeting.
JARED: How much do you pay her, anyway?
AMY: I pay her $6.50 an hour...half of her age.
JARED: [craning his neck from behind the shower curtain like an angry turtle in heat] That peasant deserves no more than a package of Ramen Noodles and the change in my back pocket! [said silently with his eyes]
AMY: That's what I pay her, Jared. You have to deal with it.
JARED: I wonder where I can bury you in our yard. [said silently with his eyes]
ACT III
Setting: Amy is handing Jared his lunch in the kitchen.
JARED: Did you pack leftover pasta for my lunch?
AMY: Yup.
JARED: You know I don't have a microwave in my office, Amy.
AMY: So eat it cold. I promise that you won't die from unhappiness.
JARED: My spirit died from unhappiness the moment I said 'I do.' [said silently with his eyes]
--The End--
I hope you enjoyed my play. If the three act version is an off-Broadway hit, I'm hoping for an offer to produce the eighteen-act version. Trust me, I have more than enough material. And it's all from this morning.
Whoopie!!!!
June 16, 2009Ladies and Gentlemen, I tip my hat to all of you.
I wish, more than anything, that I had enough loose change under my couch cushions to buy forty-three whoopie pies and mail them all over the country to every single person who entered my most amazing contest.
But the truth is, I'm not that well off. Even if I had that kind of change, I wouldn't use it on whoopie pies for strangers--I'd use it on McChicken sandwiches for myself.
I know. Sometimes the truth hurts. I'm sorry.
So, now that all of your feelings are hurt, and without furter ado, I'd like to award two whoopie pies to my dear friend from Texas. The one who wrote this flowing little gem:
I wish the Barbie Doll was more of a piglet like me...with hairy legs, orange juice spilled on her shirt, and a skirt riding up between her legs because of that nasty static cling. Maybe then, I wouldn't feel the need to stick a light bulb up her ass and light her beach house on fire.
I chose Rachel's entry for three distinct reasons...
1. I can relate to those sentances. Barbie's such a ho--and I'm so super jealous of her.
2. Rachel guilted me into the victory with light to moderate stalking.
3. Rachel incorporated the word "ass" into her comment.
So there ya go, Rach! Congratulations!
Please send me your address so I can mail your prize and steal yard maintenance tools out of your garage.
Keep Your Eyes Peeled
June 16, 2009
The lucky winner of the whoopie pie giveaway will be posted sometime this evening--after I get home from work, after I eat dinner, and after I mow the lawn (which could take a while, because seriously, that dern pull-cord was made to be my nemesis). Oh and after Jared gets home, too--he likes to have input when it comes to the big decisions in our marriage.
Stay tuned.
The lucky winner of the whoopie pie giveaway will be posted sometime this evening--after I get home from work, after I eat dinner, and after I mow the lawn (which could take a while, because seriously, that dern pull-cord was made to be my nemesis). Oh and after Jared gets home, too--he likes to have input when it comes to the big decisions in our marriage.
Stay tuned.
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