Amy Lawson: Lazy Sack of Crap
September 30, 2007
Whenever I come home to visit my parents, there are two thing that inevitably happen:
1) I get hilariously constipated.
2) I turn lazier than a smoking pile of ape turd.
For the sake of my reputation, I won't focus on number one. Instead, I'll embarrass myself by letting the world know how immature and unmotivated I become the moment my foot lands on Connecticut soil.
Really, it's like I get off the airplane, spot one of my two parents waiting by the baggage claim, drop all of my belongings to the floor and say "carry me."
I've taken four days in a row off from running, I've seen sixteen-or-so kitchen remodels on HGTV, and today, when I tried to throw a piece of dental floss in the trash and missed, I didn't rectify my mistake--rather, I looked at the sad, misplaced piece of string and thought "Damn, damn, damn, I missed the trash can." Then I made my sister come and pick it up.
I don't even like to update my blog. My mom's actually making me do this. She was all, "You'd better come up with something for that blog of yours, or else you'll lose all your readers."
So here I sit, continuing to ignore my toddler.
My interactions with James really change when I'm at my parents' house. I let my sister, who has a nine-month-old baby, push James around the yard in the plastic mini-van as she coerces her own very wiggly child to take his bottle. While she does that, I like to pretend I'm taking a dump--which is an obvious lie on account of number one up there.
I let my father, who is quite hard of hearing (so sorry, Dad!), try to decipher James's long, drawn-out food requests while I nap behind the water heater in the basement.
And, of course, I let my mom do everything else. It's like this:
Mom: Amy! James pooped.
Me: Thanks for letting me know, Mom. The diapers are in the Jetta...I'll pop the trunk.
Mom: Amy! Can you shuck the corn for supper?
Amy: Just open a can mom, it's pre-shucked. Isn't it awesome what they can do these days?
Mom: Amy! James just ran out the front door and he's standing in the road.
Amy: Oh geesh, stop talking and start running!
Mom: Amy! James rubbed poop all over his socks.
Amy: Well THANK GOODNESS you're such a whiz with the laundry!
My mom is even typing this blog for me--I'm dictating to her as I sit in a luscious, neck deep bubble bath. Ok, not really. But if their tub had jets, you could bet your family heirlooms that's just what I'd be doing.
I love it here, I really do. I can hear my sister fixing James a snack, letting him know that it's almost time for bed. Don't worry, I'll help her out with bed-time. I'll just yell down the stairs and be like, "Listen to Auntie! And don't let her forget to brush your teeth!"
Long live Connecticut!