The "L" Chromosome

December 31, 2007

You probably don't know this, but Jared spends 90% of his awake time in a haze of oblivion. He gets plenty of sleep and hasn't smoked pot since the 60's, so as far as I can tell, it's genetic. My interactions with Jared's two brothers also tend to confirm my suspicion: If your last name starts with an "L," ends with an "awson," and you have testicles, then you're probably very confused by day to day life.

Jared's brother Dan is a senior in college, and one heck of a nice guy. Last night I was talking to his girlfriend, and she was kind enough to tell me a great story to add to my bonehead file. A few months ago she sent Dan to the grocery store to buy one package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts. Simple enough, right? Well, ninety minutes later, he returned from the supermarket with a frozen package of chicken cordon bleu, one box of precooked turkey cutlets, a pepperoni stick, and one very proud smile.

Yes, I know--a super ball and two bottles of barbecue sauce would have been equally useful. These guys are something else.

Now that Jared has graduated from chiropractic school, we've been spending a lot of time together in public. It's two parts fun and one part excruciating, but either way you slice it, I've been met with more Lawson cluelessness in the last few days than I've seen in years.

A few days ago, Jared and I were walking through the town center, doing a little bit of post-Christmas window shopping. We paused at Barnes & Noble and were thrilled to see a display window full of New England themed books. "Wow," we exclaimed in unison. We both agreed that it felt awesome to see book covers featuring pictures of foliage and rocky coastlines. You see, most books about Dallas contain pictures of things like Gucci purses, homeless people, and cow poops...you know.

In our moment of excitement, we thought it would be fun to buy one of these books as a welcome home treat. So we walked into the store and began to browse around, looking for the New England section. After a few minutes of looking, I saw Jared approach the check out desk at the front of the store. Naturally, I thought he was seeking out a helpful employee. But as we all know, I'm married to a Lawson male. So naturally, I was wrong.

I watched as my sweet spouse cut a long line of thirty-or-so people, walked behind the check-out counter, STEPPED INTO the window display, and started flipping through some coffee table books. I saw the store clerks whisper to each other and point to my husband--and I'm not 100% sure on this--but I think they were saying something like: "Dude. Who is this guy?" or "What in the crap is up with this weirdo?" or "He's from the group home. Should I page his chaperon?"

As the window shoppers huddled around to snicker at the skinny man in the window, and the clerks dialed security, Jared just kept flipping through his book about covered bridges, whistling a Beetles song, and stopping occasionally to scratch the left side of his rear. Until that point, there had been no indication that I even knew my husband. I just watched the scene unfold out the corner of my eye, as I pretended to choose between the naked fire fighter calendar or the one with kittens tangled in string.

And then, just as I was about to nestle myself safely into the bathroom corridor, Jared peeked up over the display, cupped his hands around his mouth, and was like, "Hey Ames! We should plan a weekend to Vermont. The bridges are really old, and the skiing is killer!"

I was outed. My moment of safe hiding had come to an end. So I calmly approached my husband, smiled as sweetly as I could, and took his hand as I said, "Sure babe, I'd love to go to Vermont...just as soon as YOU GET YOUR DAMN SELF OUT OF THE WINDOW DISPLAY!"

Jared was like, "Huh? Who's standing in a window??? Amy, you confuse me."

Well, I never liked Barnes & Noble much anyway.

Say What?!

December 28, 2007

Last night, my mother was absolutely flabbergasted to find my husband eating imitation Doritos out of her large, decorative bowl from Pottery Barn. With a little bit of prompting from me, Jared thought it would be funny to walk by my mother, eating cheap chips, out of her very expensive Christmas gift.

Not surprisingly, my mother was shocked. Usually she treats my husband with an outpouring of love, and spoils him like the son she never had. But yesterday, Jared had clearly crossed the line in the sand.

"Jared! What are you thinking," my well-mannered, extraordinarily tolerant mother exclaimed?! "That bowl is for decoration! Not for eating greasy, disgusting snacks." And in one motion, my mother had dumped the chips into a tupperware container, and commandeered her beloved gift.

This is the part of the story where you'd expect my husband to apologize, right? Well, think again, my dear readers...think again.

Jared took the bowl out of my mother's arms, headed for the sink, and do you know what that 132 pound wiener had the nerve to say to his mother-in-law? Get this:

"Pipe down, Big Mama! I'll wash it."

Okay. Read that again.

We'll be leaving this morning and resuming our calm and peaceful life in our hand built shack by the river. Thanks a lot, Jared.

The Bachelor

December 27, 2007

There are a few things in this universe that I will never understand. For example, no matter how hard I try, I will never understand physics--it's still the only "incomplete" on my college transcript, and I honestly couldn't care less. During my grad school admission interview, my department chair said, "I see you have an "I" on your undergraduate grade report. Can you please explain that to the committee?" And I was like, "Yes. It was physics. The question about the monkey swinging in the tree, trying to reach that damn banana had me in tears. So I never went back." The department chair looked at me sympathetically and said, "Ya know what? I don't think the incomplete will be a problem," and moved on to the next question.

Another mystery of the universe that I will never understand is Diet Coke. Diet Coke tastes like Windex and literally burns as it travels down the old digestive pipe. Sure, it has no calories, but neither does squirrel urine--and you won't catch me drinking that stuff either. Yes, I might have an extra sensitive swallowing pipe, but I still don't understand the craze. I'll just stick with dirty martinis, thank you very much.

And the third thing that I will never understand, is the bachelor pad. Yes, I know that most men don't like to decorate, and that's okay--but the strict minimalist lifestyle is plain old baffling. To all of the single guys who read this blog, I'd like to share a message: We live in the USA, boys. The beauty of this nation lies in the fact that we have grocery stores, we have full access to cleaning supplies, and the law allows us to own more than just a sleeping bag.

You're probably wondering why a married woman is thinking so much about bachelor pads today. Well, it's simple--I hung out with my cousin Rick yesterday. Rick is a twenty-something single attorney who recently bought his first place. For Christmas, my Aunt bought him a very lovely serving platter with the phrase "Bless this House" written across the top. When he saw that I received the exact same gift, he looked at me with wide, desperate eyes and said, "What am I supposed to do with that?!" I was like, "Damned if I know...I'm homeless. But if I had a kitchen, I'd probably display it."

A few moments later, my sister walked into the room carrying a large, black trash bag. She was like, "Here ya go," and handed the bag to Rick. He pulled out two framed pictures of lighthouses, nodded his head approvingly, and thanked my sister. He explained to me that the walls of his 1400 square foot condo are completely bare, and my sister donated the old pictures to help remediate the situation. He held one picture in each hand and said, "Wow, this is great! I didn't know you were bringing me two pictures! Now I can decorate my entire condo and my office!"

The following night, when I went to see Rick's condo in person, he was rightfully proud of the place. After all, it's huge, it has loads of closet space, and it's in a ridiculously gorgeous town. We walked though the front hall and he was like, "Well, this is it! And here's the picture!" He opened the door to his downstairs bathroom, and there is was--the lighthouse print, hanging a few inches left of center.

I complimented him on what he'd done with the place, and he went on to show me everything else. You know...the box of raisins, his towel, his roommate, fifteen white shirts, and his carpet. And I must admit...all seven of his possessions are very, very nice.

Whoa Mama!

Christmas Eve 2007

Mom: Hey girls! Come and see what I bought for your husbands!

Amy & Katy: Okay, Mom.

Mom: I'll show you on the computer. I bought them matching gifts from Dick's Sporting goods.

Amy & Katy: Cool.

[the three ladies gather around the computer as Mom types the web address]

Mom: It's right here at w w w dot dicks dot com.

Amy: Oh my word Mom, I don't think that's the right address!

It wasn't the right address.

We Made It

Christmas Eve 2007

We did it, we survived, and we're finally home in New England. After three-and-a-half days in a Penske rental truck, believe me when I tell you that I couldn't be any happier. There's just something magical about being back home. And there's something even more magical in being freed from the stench of Chinese-food-egg-farts, in a truck cab, on a long and lonely stretch of highway.

Last night, when I went to pick up a pizza, I was greeted by a bearded cook, who was high on marijuana, wearing a Red Sox hat, and a t-shirt that said "Don't blame me--I voted for Nader." Honestly guys, the classic New England granolaness of the scene brought a tear to my eye. "There's no place like home," I thought. "There's no freaking place like home."

Tonight, as I sit and ponder the miracle of the federal highway system and the BK Whopper, I would like to extend a few "shout outs" to some key players of our pilgrimage.

To Jeff Foxworthy: I love the CD that you recorded way back in '89. I picked it up for $7.99 at a Tennessee truck stop, and I laughed my pooper off for two hours straight. Mr. Foxworthy, you are a genius.

To the woman at the same Tennessee truck stop: I also fancied the faux lion head. I am in complete agreement--I think it will look fabulous in your "drinkin' shed."

To the proprietor of The Budget Inn in Bristol, VA: Unless new wallpaper in 1994 is considered "recently remodeled" in your next of the woods, you my dear, are a bold faced liar. PS...my dog took a dump in your goldfish pond.

To the prostitute at the travel stop in New Jersey: I am speechless.

And to my fellow Burger King consumer: Yo. I honestly assumed that you were planning to feed your entire family with that order. Two triple Whoopers, a twelve-piece chicken fries, one apple pie, two orders of onion rings, and an orange drink?! I sincerely hope that you've included me in your will--because I could use a small inheritance in the next few weeks.

In the spirit of the holiday, I must sign off. I apologize for the short post, but I still have one Tip n' Toot Tractor, two tubes of toothpaste, and four cases of windshield washer fluid to wrap.

Merry Christmas, Troops!

This is It

December 20, 2007

Well, this is it. Today is my last day as a Dallas Texan, and I'm surprisingly sad. It's not the actual city that I'll miss, because let's face it, any right minded person can do without seven laned highways, one-hundred-and-four degree sleeping weather, and x-rated billboards with obscenely catchy slogans like "Ho-Made Pies." It's the friends that I'll miss--you know, the hos who actually make the baked goods. My friends all have exceptional ta-tas and loads of talent in the kitchen. I see many bright futures ahead.

As with any move, we've already had our share of ups and downs. But, for the sake of my own mental health, I'm choosing to look on the bright side of things.

For example:

The bad news is--I dropped my cell phone in the unflushed toilet this morning (yes, I was texting from the can). But the good news is--I fished it out within one eighth of a second.

The bad news is--The phone's not working. But the good news is--I've got a spare.

The bad news is--It's packed away somewhere in the moving truck, I've got a job interview on Monday morning, and that's my only source of communication. The good news is--I have a loving husband, a healthy son, and very supportive parents.

Okay, I know that has nothing to do with the cell phone, but I'm having a hard time finding the up side of that situation.

Posts will be light (if at all) for the next few days. But rest assured that I'll bring my camera, and I'll have some killer stories for you when I get home.

The Move Has Been Cancelled

December 19, 2007

Okay, fine. We haven't really cancelled the move, but believe-you-me, I'm tempted. This desire has nothing to do with the major inconvenience of packing, the long drive ahead, or the friends that I will miss so dearly. It's bigger than that. It's James's hair.

You see, James is already up North with his Grandma and Pep. Prior to this trip, I had never been away from James for more than one night. Couple that with the fact that I'm mostly a stay-at-home mom, and you can imagine how strange it is to be without my three-foot-tall growling troll companion. In order to keep my sadness at bay, my mom has been posting pictures of James's daily activities on her blog each night.

To be quite honest, I don't miss James that much--I know he's in good hands. Sure, I've been buying him a little toy any time I step into Target, and sure I have the occasional twinge of sadness when I turn around and exclaim "Do you see that kitty pooping?!" only to find an empty car seat, but mostly I'm enjoying the freedom. I've been eating out, cruising the mall, and doing a bang-up job glorifying my temporary role as a stay-at-home woman.

Anywho, I was shocked when I checked my mom's blog last night. James's hair, which is far and away my most significant source of parental pride, looks totally different. It's changed completely.

This is James's hair in Texas (can't you see why it drastically elevates my self esteem?):



















And this is James's hair in New England:

Where's the fro? Where are the curls? Where is my purpose for living? My mom swears up and down that she hasn't brushed through James's hair. She claims that the humidity in Texas was responsible for the helmet-shaped hair do, and now that we're moving home we'll be parents to a normal looking kid.

Don't get me wrong, I understand that James isn't "normal looking" in these pictures by any stretch of the imagination. He looks like an exceptionally cute, but hung-over Ronald McDonald with a serious case of bedhead. Or he might resemble a happy Donald Trump at age three.

Either way, James needs a haircut. Or a home perm. I'll probably go with the perm.

Is There a Chiropractor in the House?

December 17, 2007

Yes, it's true...I've neglected the blog. But trust me when I tell you that it's all for a good reason. You see, this was Jared's graduation weekend...finally. We had tons of family in town, Jared now goes by "Dr.", and I guess I'm just getting chunky. James is already with his grandparents in New England, Gracie has her typical stress toots, and our cross-country trek in a super-sexy Budget rental truck will commence this week.

Life has been a complete whirlwind, but rest assured, it's been a good whirlwind.

I wanted to take a few minutes and bring you all up-to-date with a photo recap of the weekend's events. It started with one hell of celebratory banquet, and it ended with a lovely graduation ceremony that continuously stressed the importance of good spinal health.


Here is a picture of Jared, his two fishing buddies boyfriends, and the wives. Don't mind the guy on the right. His name is Blake, and the moment you hold up a camera and tell him to smile he puts on that constipated face. I'm like, "Blake...they told you to look at the camera, not look like you're taking a freaking dump. Geeze!"


You know it's a classy affair when there is upholstered furniture in the ladies rest room. I don't know about you, but I always like to kick my feet up after a good hand washing.







But let's face it, no matter how swanky a party might be, men will always splatter their pee on the walls. Urine splashers get folding chairs, not Lazy Boys. Suckers.






I'm swinging from the chandelier.


















I'm mooning the City of Dallas from the 48th floor of of a downtown high rise.

















Jared was like, "Take my picture with Courtney!" I was all, "Wow, she's pretty. Sure I'll take your picture."

















Jared was like, "Take my picture with Jamie, too!" And I thought, "Wow, she's pretty, too. What does she weigh...like 120? Sure, I'll take your picture with her, too."






Then Jared said, "Hey Amy...take my picture with Missy and Nicole." And I was thinking, "Ok, now he's got two. Yes, damn it, I'll take your picture."


And then he asked me to take his picture posing with his friend named Abby. I was like, "Did you graduate with any ugly girls?"










Finally I made Jared stand next to this guy. He was all, "Amy, I barely know him. I can't even remember his last name." I said, "I don't care. Just stand next to a boy."






Here is Dr. Lawson walking across the stage at the commencement ceremony. The bald guy was like, "Listen son, if a patient ever passes some nasty-ass-rat-gas while you're adjusting her, just excuse yourself and take 100% of the blame. Trust me son, follow this advice and you'll go places."







Never tell my child that this was actually a microphone and not a pirate's spy glass--that would break his tender little heart. James was concentrating intensely, as he was hot on the trail of some "bayweed twezzah." (translastion: burried treasure)








And finally, here's the happy graduate, the super proud wife, and the unamused toddler. Look at that picture, James is like, "Oh, c'mon you stupid treasure, where are you?"

CONGRATULATIONS JARED, I DON'T THINK I'VE EVER BEEN SO PROUD!

Stressed Much?

December 13, 2007

Jared is a man who manifests his stress in a variety of strange and mysterious ways. His most common stress side-effect is a significant loss of appetite which leads to sudden, dramatic weight loss. His pants fall off, his stomach caves in, and his wife becomes insanely jealous. It's terrible.

Jared will stand on the scale and say something like, "Oh Amy, this is horrible! I'm into the 130's today!"

And I'm all, "Yes Jared, this is terrible...because I'm leaving you for a man who regularly outweighs me. Eat this snickerdoodle NOW, or I'm out of here you skinny little weasel!"

Me, on the other hand--I tend to deal with stress in ways that are much easier on our marriage. I do things like--I don't know--dress my dog up like a nun? She also looks great in hand knit scarves and last season's t-shirts from The Gap. Yes, I understand that this stress relief method is unconventional, but it's 100% safe on the marriage. Jared has never threatened to leave me because our dog is dressed up like a cat. So really, who's the better spouse?

Last night, I forced Jared to eat a nice, big dinner. Since he wasn't able to curb his stress by starving himself, my husband was forced to develop a new approach mental wellness. We were sitting on the couch, watching David Letterman, when he grabbed my cheeks with both hands, turned my face towards his, and sloppily licked my forehead.

I was like, "Uhck! What in the hellers are you doing, Jared! Why'd you lick my forehead, you sicko?"

Before he could piece together any sort of reasonable explanation, he picked up our LL Bean throw blanket, and began to violently wipe his tongue with it. In between wipes, he was all, "Oh.....your forehead.....it tastes......SO BAD!.......uck Amy.......that's so nasty...."

It shouldn't come as any surprise that I started to feel a bit offended. After all, I hadn't asked this man to taste my head! "Well," I replied in my very defensive tone. "Exactly what did you hope that my forehead would taste like?"

"I don't know," he exclaimed between blanket wipes, "lemon-lime maybe?"

My husband turns into a skinny-legged-head-kisser when he's dealing with stress. I like to dress Gracie up in a dish-towel cape. So here's my question of the day: What do you do to cope with the pressures of life? (warning: If you say things like 'exercise' or 'meditate,' I might think you're boring.)

Kiss Your What?!

December 11, 2007

Last night, James came home from a six hour play date, and he was completely amped up on frosting and fun. My two-year-old had spent the entire afternoon with his good friend Max, he was sporting a sassy looking tweety-bird pull-up, and he was dropped off carrying a greasy paper bag filled with mini-corndogs and french fries.

Now I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure that James experienced the toddler equivalent of spontaneously losing thirty pounds, and marrying a swimsuit model with a trust fund.

It was a good day.

It was very obvious that James was overexcited the moment he swung open our front door and stumbled inside like a mini-little drunk man. Rather than taking a moment to collect himself and tell me about his adventures, he walked into the living room, grabbed hold of his enormous book wagon, and wheeled it into the kitchen.

"James" I said. "Why'd you bring the book wagon in here?"

"I happy" he replied. "So I well frow da book in da kishen!" (translation: I'm happy. So I'll throw the books in the kitchen!)

And before I knew it, the kitchen floor was littered with thirty-or-so board books, Goodnight Moon had landed in the dish-filled sink, and The Foot Book was floating sadly in the dog's water bowl.

James observed his work, flashed a mischievous smile and proclaimed, "I not done yet! Now I well stind en da wagone!" (translation: I'm not done yet! Now I will stand in the wagon!)

"James buddy...don't stand up in the wagon. It's not safe. You could..."

And he interrupted my sentence by falling backwards and smacking his head on the linoleum. It really was a sad sight--thirty-nine pounds of my extra big toddler, lying in a pile of crinkled up books, and screaming with the intensity of an overtired zoo animal.

I picked him up, straightened his lop-sided afro and asked, "Are you okay, pal?"

"No Moyee. I not otay. My hayo urts." (translastion: No Mommy. I'm not okay. My hair hurts.)

So I gave him a kiss on the head.

"And dis urts" he said--lip quivering, as he pointed to his rear end. "Moyee, you need ta kiss my bum. Pwease Moyee, kiss my boddum."

"You want me to what!?"

I don't suppose that line of toddler speak requires much translation. You read it correctly--my two-year-old son asked me to kiss his butt. And I'm embarrassed to admit, that without a split second of hesitation, I puckered up and made it happen.

Please. Someone knock some sense into me.

The Aftermath

December 11, 2007

Wow. Sore is not the word to describe the way my body is feeling after this marathon. I am so, totally, beyond sore. I can't say that I've ever been pushed off the roof of a twelve story condominium building surrounded by concrete slabs, but if I had to guess, this is strikingly similar to how the aftermath would feel.

I should also mention that my mind is completely fried, and I'm not sure that I'll ever be funny again. We'll see.

Unfortunately, my sense of humor has been replaced with a dreadful dose of crankiness. I have been temporarily transformed into the biz-nitchy neighbor who lets her dog poop in the middle of the sidewalk, doesn't even think about picking it up*, and spends twenty-three hours a day wearing pink curlers and a ratty-old, terrycloth bathrobe.

For example, last night, when he refused my order to fetch the remote, I called Jared a "flaming bag of hooker poop." As creative as that line may be, it's really very mean. Thankfully, he laughed and thought that I was kidding. Unfortunately, I was not. And now I'm just ashamed.

Hopefully I'll be back to my normal old self by tomorrow. After all, we're moving across the country next week, and I should be packing right now. So far, I've managed to pack six cotton balls, one package of mechanical pencils, and two hooded sweatshirts. I've really got to pick up the pace.

*I would never actually leave a poo on the sidewalk. I pride myself on being the very best pooper scooper in this whole dang neighborhood.

Close, But No Cigar: A Marathon Race Report

December 10, 2007

Every inch of my body is sore. I tried to touch my toes this morning, and I couldn't make it past my knees. Seriously you guys, it kind of hurts to type, so I'll keep it short and add more later. But here are a few highlights:

I ran a personal record in the marathon yesterday--3:48:44. I think it's about 8:43 per mile, but I'm not totally sure on that. If you want more details and stats, you can click here.

I missed qualifying for the Boston Marathon by 7 minutes and 45 seconds. I'm honestly fine with it. For some reason, I'd rather miss the mark by 8 minutes than by 2 or 3 minutes.

I was on pace for Boston until mile 16 or 17. I hit a major wall, had to take a potty break, and I wasn't able regain my pace until mile 21.5

I saw Jared and James three times during the race, I saw my friend Beth and her family once, and I saw the words "GO AMY" written across my friend Catherine's naked bum twice.

I ate a 3,000 calorie dinner last night. That was another personal record for me, and I'm feeling very, very accomplished.

I'll add some pictures and stories later...you know, when I can breath without it hurting. Thanks for all of the positive thoughts and well wishes yesterday!

A New Twist On an Old Story

December 8, 2007

Last night, I realized something strange about myself. I have a very difficult time acting appropriately--I believe it's a trait that I've inherited from my mother. My behavior becomes particularly uncalled for when I'm in a party situation, or when I find myself surrounded by straight-laced, well mannered, conservative folks.

It's really too bad that I'm a member of a religion filled with modest people who love to throw parties. Because, holy cow you guys, I have way too much fuel for this fire that's burning inside of me.

A few years ago, Jared and I attended a "Get to Know You Game Night." There were a lot of new couples in the congregation, and we were trying to forge some new friendships. The hostess of the game night was like, "Mmmmm....I have an idea! Let's all go around and say something interesting about ourselves!"

You could almost see the wheels turning inside of people's heads. In their sweet, loving minds they were thinking, "Should I tell them that I majored in dance at BYU, or should I tell them about my two-year mission to Thailand? Boy that's a tough one."

And then, when it was my turn, I was all, "Hi, my name is Amy. Something interesting about me? Let's see..... Well I'm married to a man who used to wait tables at a very fancy restaurant. And one time, while he was taking someone's wine order, he sharted in his pants--right there at the table! Can you believe that?! Okay, I think that's all I'd like to share."

Jared shot me the deadliest stare I'd ever seen, while the girl next to me was like, "I like to quilt?"

Well, last night was my church Christmas party, and I can't say that I didn't go out without a bang.

I was walking down the hallway, looking for James, when I was intercepted by one of the kindest women I know. She was like, "Oh Amy, can you help me? I need to get forty children dressed up for the nativity play, and I don't think that I can do it by myself." Obviously, I obliged. And I managed to dress three shepherds and two angels before I spotted an unopened box of costumes.

In hopes of finding some jazzy accessories, I opened the box. And holy hotcakes, I hit the friggin' jackpot. I'm not sure how this box had settled in among the nativity costumes, but it was filled with feather boas, sunglasses, Mardi Gras beads, and--the piece de resistance--a black dress, size XXL. In a split second, I found myself ignoring the children, and begging my friend's husband to let me dress him up.

"Seriously Larry" I pleaded. "You don't have to do a thing. All you have to do is stand there, let me dress you up, and then walk into the gym when Brother Foote mentions something about wise men."

Larry was like, "Yeah, that's fine."

And within three minutes, my buddy Larry had been transformed into the most flamboyant wise man in the history of Christianity. He wore the classic wise man hat, but I glammed it up with a simple black dress, a pink feather boa, gold sunglasses, a princess crown, Mardi Gras beads that were the size of light bulbs, and a fluffy belt with a six-shooter tucked into it.

As soon as Larry was dressed, I got him into the line of actors, and I went to the gym to watch the show. The stage was filled with thirty-or-so children, wearing serious faces, and carefully following directions. And then, all of the sudden, the wise men entered stage left. Now there were thirty-two lovely children, and one six-foot attorney dressed in drag.

No one laughed. No one gasped. No one let out so much as a quiet, little snicker.

They were either thinking, "Oh poor Larry. He didn't realize that this play was just for children. And, geeze, he's got terrible taste!" or "Wow. I really, really can't wait until Amy Lawson moves back to New England."

I will call a therapist on Monday.

Judgement Day

December 7, 2007

Well, it's here--this is marathon weekend. On Sunday morning, I will skip my churchly duties, and with a desperate prayer in my heart, I will run 26.2 miles with the ultimate goal of qualifying for the 2008 Boston Marathon.

The weather reports have been all over the place, and seem to be changing dramatically by the minute. A week ago, weather.com really got my hopes up. They told me that I could expect sunshine, rainbows, butterflies, and a high temperature of 65 degrees. There was a slight chance of the sun turning into a cartoonish smiley face, and the clouds breaking into spontaneous show tunes. I was really looking forward to it.

By the middle of this week, the weather wasn't looking quite so ideal. The forecast called for a high temperature of 78, high humidity and strong winds. It wasn't the perfect running weather, but it was the perfect spectator weather, so I was still feeling fairly optimistic about the whole ordeal. If I was extra hot and sweaty, so what. At least there would be friendly folks with signs, forty rockin' bands, goofy looking little boys ringing cowbells, and Snickers bars at mile twenty-one.

But the latest forecast could very well be the worst--60ish degrees at the start, with declining temperatures throughout the race, heavy rain, and a possibility of thunder and lightening.

So what does that mean for the runners? It means that we will get colder and wetter with every mile, and there's a strong possibility that a few of us will get our hair singed off by a stray lightening bolt. The band members will be sleeping, the Snickers man will be hiding, the spectators will be Christmas shopping, and the kids with cowbells will be forced to play inside.

So basically, the race festivities will consist of 15,000 runners, 15,000 disgruntled spouses, and my very enthusiastic friend Catherine cheering everyone on like a mad woman. If there are no bands, Catherine will sing. If there are no cowbell kids, Catherine will beat her chest like a female ape. And if there are no Snickers bars at mile 21, I'm sure that Catherine will do something to appease the athletes (remove her shirt, perhaps?).

So yes, I will admit that I'm kind of discouraged and a little bit disappointed. But I'm totally prepared, and I'm not at all afraid. On Sunday morning, at 8 o'clock central standard time, I will stand on the starting line--probably smelling like a wet dog--I will look Mother Nature bang in the eye, point my umbrella to the heavens and say "Bring it on you crazy, heartless ho-bag. BRING IT ON!"

I just hope that the woman standing next to me doesn't think I'm talking to her.

Orange Who?

December 6, 2007

Thanks a million for all of the birthday wishes yesterday--I had a really awesome day!

In other news, now that the birthday high has worn off, I'm a total nervous wreck. Somehow I thought it was an okay idea to run a marathon the week before my husband graduates, and two weeks before we move across the country. I'm so relieved that I didn't also commit to star in that feature film with Matthew McConaughey, because wow, that would have totally pushed me over the edge.

I'm not sure about you, but three things happen when I experience anxiety:

1. I become very jittery.
2. I get really goofy.
3. I completely shut down.

So basically, I've spent the morning sitting at the kitchen table with my to-do list positioned to my left, and the telephone sitting to my right. But instead of using the telephone to accomplish my tasks, which seems like the logical thing to do, I've spent the last hour trying to unwrap the same damn BlowPop while I make up zillions of new knock-knock jokes that involve the word orange.

Poor James, he's getting so sick of these knock-knocks, but bless his golden little heart, the kid keeps playing along. Somehow, I think he knows that his mother's about to crack, and he's desperately trying to avert an emotional crisis. Our morning has sounded a lot like this...

Me: Knock knock.

James: Who es dare?

Me: Orange.

James: Owenge hoo?

Me: Ummmmm.....Orange you glad that your mom is hot? or Orange you grossed out that our dog smells like overcooked broccoli? or Orange you sad that The Cosby Show got cancelled? or Orange you sooo frustrated that this stinkin' BlowPop is wrapped more securely than FREAKING FORT KNOX?!?!

James: Uh, yes.

And then we do it again.

As soon as I get my sanity back, I'm buying this kid a bulldozer. I know it seems extravagant, but it's all he's ever wanted, and he really does deserve it.

Have a good day, troops!

Today's the Day

December 5, 2007

Yes, it's true. Today is my birthday. Twenty-seven years ago, my mother's life finally gained a complete sense of meaning and purpose. Sure, the birth of my sister brought her part way there, but it was my birth that made her say, "Ah ha! This is what life is all about!"

Fine. Okay. Not really. My birth actually made her say something more like, "Ah ha! This is how moderately severe behavioral and emotional issues manifest themselves in children."

So, I wasn't going to mention that it was my birthday on this blog. I figured that I already provide more than enough personal information on this website, and I should continue to withhold at least one detail from stalkers and identity thieves. But alas, my sister-in-law spilled the beans in yesterday's comments. And now, in the spirit of information sharing, I will kindly reveal my social security number, my college transcripts, and my checking account routing number--keep your eyes open, I'll post it all next week.

So far, I'm surprised and happy to say that I'm having a fabulous birthday! Two days ago, I completely forgot that my birthday was even coming up. I was reminded when I opened a hand-signed birthday card from Reginald Smithson, my friendly car insurance salesman. I opened it up and I was like, "Grown up birthdays suck," because really, they kind of do.

You don't have that special, queen-of-the-world feeling when you wake up in the morning, you don't get to wear a paper hat around work all day, and no one is jealous of you--friends are all, "Dude, you're getting old. Why don't you have half-decent health insurance yet?"

But today is different--I'm feeling straight up fantastic. Maybe it's the fact that my mom and dad bought me the world's most fabulous dress, or because my inbox is stuffed with e-cards, but really--and not to get all sentimental on you--I think it's because my two year old son knows it's my birthday, and he's more excited than I've ever seen him. He's singing to me, telling random strangers that it's his "moyee's birfday," and he's given me approxiamtely 4,000 kisses. It's no wonder this birthday feels so special.

Or I guess it could be the sexy new iPod.

Just a Few Things

December 4, 2007

Just a few things before I leave for my t-shirt shopping extravaganza (I'm looking for the perfect, new shirt for my race this weekend)...

Last night, Jared admitted to me that the term "swass" is as much of a Lawson original as the cinnamon raisin bagel. Turns out, he didn't make it up--he got it from his crazy-ass, red-headed friend Lehi. I feel really, really let down by this turn of events because the first time Jared used the word "swass" my face lit up, I gave him an enormous hug, and I was like, "Oh my gosh! You thought of something funny! BY YOURSELF!" No wonder he claimed it as his own.

Also, I'd like to point out that shower heads serve one purpose only--showering. Last night, as I was rinsing off, Jared walked into the bathroom and we started to chat. This is how it went...

Amy: Do you ever like to power wash your teeth in the shower?

Jared: What do you mean?

A: Like this.

I clenched my teeth together and opened my lips as wide as I could. Then, I balanced on my tippy-toes, and positioned my teeth about one quarter of an inch away from the shower head.

A: See, if you hold your teeth that close you get a lot of water pressure. It knocks all the gunk off and makes your teeth extra smooth and silky. You should try it.

J: Amy, that's not power washing your teeth, that putting your mouth on the shower head.

That's when I started to get defensive.

A: NO IT'S NOT!!!! THIS is putting your mouth on the shower head!

And then I put my mouth completely around the shower head.

While the shower was running.

And then I almost died.

Trust me guys, I will never complain about lousy water pressure, ever again. Water pressure, I've learned, is a relative term.

Swass: A Detailed Explanation in Layman's Terms

December 3, 2007

In two weeks, Jared will be a chiropractor. It's been a long, long road--about eight years total--and we're both ready for next Saturday's graduation. And when we move, you'd better believe that I'm having our mail forwarded to Dr. and Mrs. Lawson. Sure, maybe it's a little pretentious, but I want people to be confused when packages get delivered to Dr. Lawson's double-wide trailer and when Dr. Lawson registers his 1989 Chevy Blazer in a new state.

You see, we have a lot of student loan debt to take care of before we can even think about considering a discussion of living the high life. And even then, I doubt it will ever happen. Jared and I both love recreation far too much--boating, skiing, rock climbing, nose picking, pie eating--we love it all. And I think we both agree that we'd rather work three-and-a-half days a week and make ends meet than work six days a week and drive a Lexus.

So we're not going to get rich off of this chiropractic thing, and that's totally fine. But you'd be totally off the mark if you think we haven't gained anything from this experience. Jared has gained the ability to use very technical sounding words and terms, and I've gained the highly-coveted ability to tune him out.

Jared will be like, "I'm stressed out. I think my patient might have a slight bulge of the L4 disc brought on by the severe calcification of the spinus process and some type of ballistic movement. We're going to have to do an MRI to rule out any spondelostethis or arthropothies, and I'm not sure that their insurance will cover it."

And I'm like, "That's nice honey."

But, for all of the technical terms that my husband throws into our lunchtime conversations, he uses a lot of less technical speak as well.

For example, "Oh Amy, I wish this weather would cool down. This swass is just killing me."

I bet you don't know what "swass" is--actually, of course you don't, it's a Lawson original. Well, let me give you a clue. The "sw" stands for sweaty, and I think you're very capable of figuring out the rest. Jared also suffers from "swalls" and "swenis" on a fairly regular basis. And being the enthusiastic professional that he is, Jared gave me a long, detailed explanation of the reason why swenis and swalls never occur independently. Apparently, they only happen together--a phenomenon that Jared likes to refer to as "the swackage."

So, if you suffer from excessive swarm-pits or sweet, please don't be afraid to discuss it with your doctor. Because chances are, she deals with her own rockin' case of swajango. Trust me, she'll totally understand.

Baby Pictures

December 1, 2007

My mom is having trouble finding the bucket-on-the-head picture, but have no fear, I'm sure that it will surface.

In the mean time, if you'd like to see five or six pictures of me as a happy child, you can visit my mom's blog.

If you do visit her blog, you'll also see that my mother would like a real pony for Christmas. If anyone knows some guy who can hook me up with a pony for cheap, send me an email.

Happy Saturday!