August 31, 2007
So I said I'd mail them on Tuesday. But Friday's not so bad, huh? The magnets are in the mail my friends, the magnets are in the mail.
They came out unexpectedly huge, so I suggest that you spend some time this weekend clearing up some space on your fridge. If you live in Manhattan and use one of those mini-fridges, then clear off the whole darn thing...they're that big.
It was actually the size that caused the unexpected delay in shipping, I had to buy some bigger envelopes to house these beauties.
Can't wait to hear how you like them! They're totally scrap-ta-trash-alistic!
August 30, 2007
Today, I'm happy to announce that I have a temporary, yet wonderful reprieve from my normal babysitting routine. Instead of watching my friends' boys from eleven until nine, they're not getting dropped off until four.
** and cue the heavenly singing**
James is down for his afternoon nap, so here I am, lying on the couch, eating cookies and watching Martha Stewart. I'm no expert, but I think this remarkably similar to how the afterlife will be.
I love Martha Stewart. She's a total biznatch, and I just can't get enough. I especially enjoy the way she enunciates her Ts, Ds, Ns, and various other letters of the alphabet--I think she picked up that habbit when she was in the pen. Incarcerated women are widely know for their beautiful alliteration.
So Martha was all like, "Mmm...these very preTTy coD fillets tasTe oh so gooD with..." when the phone rang.
It was Jared, and he was calling to update me about a few potential properties for his chiropractic office. One real estate ad pictured an x-ray machine, and from the way the ad was worded, it was very difficult to know if the machine was included in the deal. So Jared called to clear it up with the agent, and then called me to fill me in on what was up.
Jared: No, it's just a led-lined room, the x-ray machine isn't part of the deal.
Me: Oh, ok.
Jared: Yeah, apparently the guy who used to own it donated it to some third world county.
Me: Oh, that's SO nice.
Jared: No it's not! He could have donated it to me. I'm JUST as poor as the people in those countries!
Me: Ummm...ya wanna rethink that comment?
Jared: You're right, they don't have colleges in third world countries.
Me: See? We're way better off!
Jared: No! No colleges means no student loan debt. Amy--we're POORER than these people!
Yeah, compassion isn't necessarily my husband's strongest quality. But somehow, I just can't help but love this man.
August 30, 2007
CAUTION: LONG AND BORING POST AHEAD
I called my sister last night and gave her the normal telephone greeting, "Hi Kate, it's Amy." But instead of getting any kind of normal response from the girl, she replied, "NO BLOG!?" I guess the lack of Lawsons threw her individual planet off of its axis for a day--must have been traumatic.
"You always write a blog on weekdays," she explained, "you ALWAYS do." And instead of telling her the real reason for the bloglessness, I changed the subject and began talking about scrambled eggs.
I didn't have blogger's block yesterday, in fact, it's not usual that I do. Instead, I had a stroke of inspiration. I sat down on my lucky loveseat, like I do everyday, and began to write. But instead of opening up Blogger, I opened up a Word document...a blank one.
Before I go any further, let me back up a bit. This blog started in March or April--I don't really remember--on my myspace page. In a blatant effort to avoid working on my thesis, I wrote a little story about trying to buy James a cabbage patch kid. Much to my surprise, it was kind of witty--at least my mom said it was. Then came a little story about teaching James to call me "Hot Mom" instead of plain old "Mom", and then I think I wrote about a high kick contest gone bad. I was ridiculously behind on my thesis, and loving every sweet moment.
A few weeks before my thesis was due, I wrote a running skirt review, and posted a link to it in the daily Mom's discussion thread in the Runner's World forums. It got tossed around the discussion boards a little bit, and all of the sudden *BAM* I had gotten seven comments on one post. And that was that, I started blogging all the time.
But more importantly, I made a very secret promise to myself. I decided that I'd write as much as I could through the summer, see how it went, and then in the fall, I'd try to do something with all of it. In other words--wow, I hate to admit this--I'd try to become a writer.
Well guess what? Here in Dallas, the summer is over. Not in terms of the heat (everyone still has kickin' B.O.), but the school year has started, I have one-hundred-and-thirtyish blog posts, and it's time to make good on my promise.
There are certain types of personal commitments that I'm no good at following through with--they tend to be small ones. How many times have I said to myself, "I will do laundry twice a week!" or "I'm going to lose ten pounds!" or "I'm gonna read this month's book club book!" I can't even tell you how many times I've made those claims, and I've never EVER helped them come to fruition.
But the big things, like "I'm running a marathon." or "I'm going to finish this masters degree." or "I'm going to find a way to be a stay-at-home-mom on twenty-two-thousand dollars a year.", those things have always worked out. I'm going to file "I'm going to have a career as a writer" with the big things, and if I follow my typical patterns, it might just happen. Despite my most genuine efforts, I'm sure that my child will continue to be bathed only when my mother comes to visit, but this writing thing?--I can make it happen.
So yesterday, like I was saying, I sat down on my couch, opened up Microsoft Word and typed the phrase:
A surge of tingling excitement welled up inside my chest...and then I had the overwhelming urge to boof. Yes, I'm writing a book. How unbe-freaking-lievably ridiculous is that? Totally, I know.
I've spent the summer doing a great deal of research about freelancing (I even have a subscription to Writer's Market), but I can't dispel the nagging feeling that it's just not for me. I realize that it's far more practical, and I know that I'm completely capable, but I'm not sure I'm passionate about it. I'm going to write a book, and chapter one is moving right along...
So let the nervous farting begin!
I'm not going to tell you what the book is about. There are only two people who know--Jared and James. Jared happens to be the greatest secret keeper I've ever met, and James doesn't have a very firm grasp on the English language, or the world for that matter. He politely requested elephant sandwiches for supper last night, so I think my topic's safe with him.
James would probably tell you that my book was about evil robots wearing tutus, or something crazy like that. I can't even begin to tell you how off the mark that is! My book is actually about two magical unicorns seeking a music career in Nashville.
Wow, I should stop, I fear I've said too much already.
August 27, 2007
I was a bit of a track star in high school, and pictured to the left are the lucky shorts that won me a whole mess of titles. I wore these very shorts when I won the state championship in the two mile run during my junior year (still my only claim to fame, so deal with my showing off, ok?). I was pictured wearing these beauties in my local newspapers at least ten times during the late nineties.
No, I obviously never returned my uniform like I was supposed to. And yes, I actually was number sixty-nine.
I had no idea what that number implied ten years ago, but thinking back, every member of the football team seemed to understand. I was met with rounds of rousing applause from the players every time I circled the track. I thought they liked my ponytail--guess not.
Finding myself in the midst of a laundry crisis last week, I wore these shorts to the YMCA. Barring the obvious embarrassment of wearing that number on my upper left thigh, the shorts functioned just perfectly.
Once I got home I washed the shorts, put them back in my drawer and forgot about them until last night--when I faced another laundry crisis. I was meeting my friend for a run and had nothing to wear, so on went the old track shorts.
If I had to give it my best guess, these shorts are from the 80's, so they're at least twenty years old. Based on my own unscientific analysis, elastic has a shelf life that is much shorter than twenty years, so go ahead and do the math. Last week's washing must have done the old elastic in, because one mile into the run, I had some very droopy drawers.
At first I thought it was funny. The shorts would start to droop, I'd run in front of my friend, lift up my t-shirt and show her the crack of my a$$. We were having a good time--it was kind of funny.
We kept on running, and the shorts kept drooping. Actually, they were drooping to the point where I had to hold them up. Can you see where this is going? I'm sure you can.
Somewhere around mile four, I began to tell my friend a story, and before I knew it, I was talking with my hands. Just as I was all, "So the building was THIS BIG!" (holding my hands high above my head), my nether-regions began to feel rather breezy.
I slowed down the pace, turned to my friend and calmly said, "Dude. I just lost my pants." Sarah ran over to me, and for some reason she opted to lift up my t-shirt, earning herself a nice bright view of my bum cheeks.
So there we were, standing in the middle of the road, shorts around my knees and my friend laughing her oh-so-sympathetic lungs out.
Thank GOODNESS it was dark.
August 26, 2007
First, click here to see a clip from the recent Miss Teen USA Pageant. If you'd like to donate to the South Africa and Iraq Map Fund, please contact me directly. It's a fantastic cause as Miss South Carolina so eloquently explains in her speech.
Second, speak now or forever hold your peanuts. If you posted a link to The Lawsons do Dallas! on your blog, or sent out a group email with the intention of getting a magnet, make sure you send me your mailing address.
Magnets are not emailable.
James is working away at the kitchen table, making sure the magnets are just right, and he'd hate to have you miss out. These individually crafted works of art will be finished up tomorrow and mailed out on Monday or Tuesday--after that you'll be schnit-out-of-luck. For those of you who sent me your addresses, expect nothing less than fabulousness.
August 24, 2007
Marriage sure has its ups and downs, doesn't it?
On Tuesday it might seem as though you and your spouse are sailing on seas as smooth as glass, with mermaids jumping over the bow of your boat, tossing little sparkles into the sunny skies as you and your lover lie side-by-side feeding each other grapes and giggling as you decide if that cloud looks more like a castle or a pony.
That's sweet, isn't it?
And then, by Wednesday the winds have changed. All of the sudden it's more like you and your spouse are king-crab fisherman fighting thirty foot seas in the dead-of-winter in Alaska. You're wearing those damn rubber pants again, the hot-pockets are in short supply, and you know full well that if you push your crabbing partner off the side of the boat there will be twice as much whiskey for you.
Not so sweet. But that's marriage, and I suppose that's what those pesky vows were referring to when we all agreed to love our spouses for better or for worse.
Today, my friends, I come to you with a suggestion on how to make those challenging times a little bit less severe. Really, I tried this last night, and it worked like a charm. So Dr. Phil and marriage therapists everywhere, step aside because I have found the secret to marital happiness.
You see, last night Jared and I were fighting about--I'm embarrassed to admit this--a flashlight.
Let me back up this up a bit. Jared likes to scare the shiz out of me when I walk into our room late at night--he hides behind doors, perches on the window sill like a creepy cartoon vulture, or lies in the bathtub and then pops out. I hate it, so I've started to carry a flashlight with me, and based on the fact that I lose everything I touch, I've misplaced every flashlight in the house. So last night I took the industrial flash light out of his drill box and used that.
I walked up the stairs, shined the flashlight, and there was Jared wedged between the railing and the ceiling, naked, waiting to jump out. But instead of jumping he was like, "Hey....that's MY flashlight!" And I was like, "Hey...get your naked a$$ off MY railing." And the fight went on, and on, and on. Basically we inventoried half of the items in our house, deciding which one of us they belonged to.
Finally, I had had enough. This bickering had to stop. So I jumped out of bed, mooned my husband and used my a$$ like a puppet. Yes, I made my butt cheeks flap the line, "THE LAPTOP IS NOT HALF YOURS. IT IS ALL MINE!"
Then I pulled my pants back up and turned around to find my husband's traumatized face starting right through mine. He said, in a very serious tone, "Wow, Amy. I don't even remember what we were fighting about. I guess you win." And he covered his head with a pillow, rolled over, and pretended to sleep. In his head, I'm sure he began with his typical, "Why God?! Why?" prayer. How many times have I heard him muttering that one in the middle of the night? I can't even begin to tell you.
So there ya have it. That was my marriage tip...when fighting with your spouse, instead of using your mouth, use your backside like a puppet. You'll win every time.
August 22, 2007
I can't let you all just laugh at someone elses blog today! I can't handle that...so here's a story for you:
Now that the school year has started, my babysitting schedule has changed quite a bit. The biggest change is the fact that I'm now watching three children instead of one. Two days a week my friend brings her 20 month old son and her 5 month old son over to my place and I watch them for about six hours.
What can I say, other than HOLY. CRAP-A-MOLY. That is not an easy gig. Yesterday I was literally shooting myself in the side of the head with James's rubber band gun, repeating the phrase "I had a 4.0 in grad school," as the baby squawked, the 20 month old played in the dog's water dish and James removed his own poopy diaper.
Two days a week I pick Garfield (remember, not his real name) up from Montessori school, bring him back to his house and we hang out until dinner time. Much more chillaxed than the other job.
And one day a week James and I stay home by ourselves, eat mint chocolate chip ice cream, watch out favorite shows and pretend to do the laundry. I like that day the best.
Today was my Garfield pick-up day, the first one actually. His preschool is about a mile and a half away from my apartment, and for some reason I had the warped idea to run to his school to pick him up. You know, a kill-two-birds-with-one-stone kind of thing. So I loaded James into one side of the double jogging stroller, and off we went.
Let me just start this story by offering up this piece of advice: if you ever see a woman pushing a double stroller containing only one child, do whatever you need to do to refrain yourself from saying something idiotic like, "Lost one!" I courtesy giggled the first three times I heard this joke during the first mile.
But the fourth time, oh the fourth time...that's when I decided that it was my turn to be witty! This maintenance man looked at my stroller, looked at me and lightheartedly said, "Looks like you lost one, ma'am...heh, heh, heh." So I stopped, put a confused look on my faced, peered into the stroller, looked at the man with the widest eyes I could make, dramatically gasped for air and said, "OH MY GOODNESS. I can't believe I did that." Then I ran away as fast as I possibly could, as if to collect my missing child before he took my station wagon for a joy ride.
For that moment I had regained the feeling of control in my life, and wow, it felt good.
I arrived at the preschool a few minutes later, and let's just say I was the only mom who literally ran to pick up a child. A few well-dressed Dallas-type moms chatted on the front lawn as I ran up, farting my brains out and sweating like a fat man wearing a wool sweater in death valley. The double stroller has a duct-taped handle bar, a poop stain (from and kid or a dog, I'm not sure), and contained my dirty little two year old who wasn't wearing any pants.
**Side note: in case you haven't put two and two together yet, James only wears pants on Sundays, it's his fashion signature.**
For a split second I felt inferior. You know, the nasty little babysitter with the jerry-rigged stroller. Then I had a realization of sorts. I thought to myself, "Amy. You RAN here and you're about to RUN back home. YOU are the cool one." And it's true, anyone can use their Volvo Wagon to pick a kid up from preschool, but not everyone relies on their Nikes.
So I put on my confidence suit, chatted with the moms, put Garfield into the stroller next to James, and off we ran--farting, of course, the whole way home.
August 22, 2007
I've got to walk the dog, go for a run and head to work, so obviously time is of the essence this morning. Oh yeah, James is still fast asleep, has no intention of waking up anytime soon, and will most likely expect a leisurely breakfast when he does.
Sorry kid, it's called a pre-packaged granola bar and it goes in your mouth.
Even though I'm unable to provide it, if you're looking for a chuckle, read this haggard mom's ebay post for a single package of Pokemon cards. That poor woman is very, very funny.
But wow, holy hell, I'm never having six children...ever.
August 21, 2007
Since there is nothing exciting and/or noteworthy going on in the Lawson household, I thought I'd write an update for all of my family and friends today. So hold on to your hats...
James is doing fantastically. His vocabulary is simply exploding, and his ability to string words together is something else. James has been using these new skills to continuously shock his mother by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. On Sunday, for example, he piped up during the quiet part of church--twice. First he piped up to proclaim, "Amy...I a monkey!" Then he preceded to make his best monkey noise over and over....and over. Can you say 'attention grabber'?
Then, during the second hymn, James climbed on to the pew (FYI: we were sitting in the second row), did some sort of dance that resembled the 'cabbage patch' and yelled, "Oh yeah! Oh yeah!" Apparently, James is soulful enough to rock out to the world's most boring version of 'How Great Thou Art.' He was really feeling it. It was the second time he's successfully performed that stunt in church.
He's becoming a real crowd pleaser, and yes, he calls me by my first name (as long as he doesn't start calling me 'Woman', I'm fine with it). Also, he won't let me cut his toe nails, he likes to stick his hand down his diaper immediately after pooping, and according the James, Elmo is dating Spiderman. Who knew?
Jared is fine. As I type, he's in the middle of his last round of final exams--ever. He has a few clinic requirements to finish up, and in less than four months he'll be Dr. Lawson. More importantly, he'll be employed, and at this point I don't care if Dr. Lawson is working the drive-thru window at a donut shop. Dr. Lawson needs a paycheck.
In other news, Jared gave himself a haircut last night. He's been doing these self-haircuts for a few months now, and so far so
Last night, like every home haircut, Jared asked for my assistance, and then harshly criticized my efforts. "Amy" he hissed, "you are not holding my hair the right way with your fingers when you cut the stragglerssssss." I threw down the scissors in a moment of exasperation and quit. I am no longer the haircut helper, Jared was too demanding. Now he looks like a pot scrubber--whatev.
Well, I'm happy to say that everything is going well in my world, too. Yesterday my blog received its ten-thousandth hit from unique visitors, so I'm feeling pretty important. I was just waiting for the paparazzi to pop out from behind the cereal display at WalMart and start snapping my pic. It never happened, thank goodness. I would never want to world to know that I buy the store brand cheerios.
I bought some size eight jeans from the Gap on Friday instead of my regular size tens. I wore them on a date to the art museum and I could breath normally. Hallelujah.
And last but not least, my career as a professional babysitter has really taken off and I now have a second job. What's even more noteworthy is the fact that a family tried to lure me in at the park with an elaborate nanny-poaching scheme. In all seriousness it involved a grandmother following me to the park and giving me a drawn-out sob story about the family's childcare situation. It ended with a neighborly dispute and a desperate phone call from the family I currently work with (I guess they haven't realized that my child never wears pants and can recite the movie 'Cars' from start to finish). But really, how important did I feel?! LOVED IT!
Well, that's all the news for now, folks. I'll add a few pics when James wakes up. And as always, lots of love to our family and friends!
August 20, 2007
August 16, 2007
If you read this blog regularly, then you know that I'm not a health-food freak by any stretch of the imagination. My favorite foods tend to be both horrible for the body and embarrassing for the ego.
We do, however, try to keep things relatively healthy on a day-to-day basis. You know--wheat instead of white, water instead of soda, organic when it's on sale (I can't afford the mortgage on most organic muffins), blah, blah, blah. The one thing that we're pretty stick-up-the-bum about is high fructose corn syrup. We don't let it into our house.Let me revise that: We USUALLY don't let it into our house.
Somehow, when we were grocery shopping on Monday, Jared didn't realize that high fructose corn syrup was the very first ingredient in the store brand pink-lemonade-from-concentrate that retails for seventy-nine cents.
Yeah, I'm not sure how he missed that one either.
Anyway, we were having a barbecue type dinner tonight, and I thought the pink lemonade would be fun, so I mixed it up. James watched in utter amazement from his high chair as I mixed the neon goop with four cans of water and stirred it all together. And when he realized that this crazy pink stuff was actually meant for drinking, well, let's just say he shouted for joy.
There was no doubt in my mind that when translated into adult-speak, his happy little shrieks actually meant: WOMAN, YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR HEAD IF YOU THINK I'M NOT GETTING ANY OF THAT. THE PINK STUFF GOES IN THE SIPPY CUP. NOW.
So I avoided the inevitable conflict and filled his cup with some watered-down lemonade. He took one sip, removed the cup from his lips, held it to his chest with both hands, pointed his eyes toward the ceiling and let out a deep breath as if to say: FINALLY, MY LIFE ON THIS EARTH HAS MEANING. THANK YOU,THANK YOU OH GREAT ONE.
He went on, slowly drinking his lemonade through dinner, smacking his fat little lips after each sip. Somehow, I think James knew that this drink of the gods was an administrative oversight, and tonight would be the last time he would experience such rapture until the age of eighteen, because he didn't slurp it down all at once. He enjoyed it.
After dinner he still hadn't finished his lemonade, but insisted on carrying his cup around as he played. His green monkey puppet had a pretend sip of juice, his teddy-bear-rocking-chair had a pretend sip of juice, and his caveman action figure got a pretend sip of juice.
I left the room for a minute and came back to find James sitting in front of the fireplace, having some sort of an emotional moment with his sippy cup. Jared and I kind of laughed and Jared asked, "James buddy, whatcha doing?"
And James replied, "Daddy, I uggen da duce."
"Ohhhhhh," we said in unison.
James was 'hugging his juice.'
August 16, 2007
Well I've gone and done it, and it's too late to turn back. I promised my friend Sarah that I would run the Dallas White Rock Marathon with her in December.
A $90 entrance fee and 26.2 miles of running...non-stop. There will be no cowboys kicking me with spurs, there will be no criminals chasing me with stun-guns, and there will be no wild boars trying to take a bite out of my arse. This run will occur as a result of my free will and choice...how ridonculous is that?
We've decided to run this race as our last big hurrah before I move back to New England. Sure, we could have taken a cruise to Mexico, but who wants to look back and say, "Remember that time at karaoke...?" when you can fondly look back and ask questions like, "Remember that time in the medical tent...?" or "Remember that time when we were licking the sidewalk...?"
So what does that mean for you, the reader? Well, it does not mean that The Lawsons do Dallas! will turn into an exclusive running blog. I personally find running far too dull...and repetitive...and painful (actually, that's made up...the truth is, half-fast has cornered the market on funny running blogs, and I can't even begin to compete). Believe you me, if this blog were to cover one topic exclusively, it would be NASCAR, no question. I love race cars and I love RVs, so to me, NASCAR is one step above eating cherry-cheesecake with Saint Peter on my own personal cloud in heaven.
Anywho, it means that for the next four months you'll enjoy stories of me pooping behind porta-potties, pooping on the side of the highway, pooping in random stranger's toilets, and when my stars haven't quite aligned, pooping in my pants. At least that's how it went last time I ran a marathon in 2004, and that was fine, because pooping in your pants is cool--really cool.
You will also get to hear my thoughts on gaining weight.
Ok, I know what you're thinking...'Gaining weight? While training for a marathon!? That's not how it's supposed to work!" Well guys, get those thoughts out of your head right now, because I'm not your average marathon runner. You see, as soon as I turn in a marathon entrance form I immediately feel entitled to eat whatever I want, whenever I want. And when I say 'whatever I want' I mean 16 slices of pepperoni pizza dipped in ranch dressing with a side of fried chicken...for a snack. Seriously, I committed to this race yesterday, I haven't even completed my first official training run, and today I have already eaten a bowl of cereal, a couple pieces of chocolate, and a large plate of enchiladas.
Current time: 10:57 a.m.
This, my friends, is going to be fantastic.
August 14, 2007
I'd like to send a happy, happy birthday to my big sister Katy who is now thirty years old. She claims to be excited about her new age (not that there's anything wrong with that). I keep hearing that thirty is the new twenty, and considering recent medical advancements, I can't say that I completely disagree.
Katy, today is your day, so hit the town and do something for yourself. Do something that thirty-year-olds enjoy. In case you're short on ideas, I've come up with a few of my own. You could:
...go to Macy's and try on a few holiday themed cardigan sweaters.
...take a fiber laxative (but only after your purchase it using a manufacturer's coupon).
...buy yourself a new, age appropriate swimsuit.
...test drive your dream mini-van.
...order a nice, new pair of mom-jeans from JC Penney or Sears (your choice).
...or treat yourself to a short, easy-to-manage haircut.You're right Katy, thirty is cool. Rock on in your button down halloween sweater, matching turtleneck shirt, and coordinating pin! Rock on in your sensible shoes! Rock on to your favorite song by Kenny G (and other lite favorites)!
Rock on, girl...because life truly begins at thirty!
August 13, 2007
My friend Samye tagged me. That means I get to answer all of these questions, tag five of you, and then you can answer the questions on your blog. Can you say 'F-U-N'?
Jobs I’ve Held:
1. jelly donut filler
2. sandwich maker
3. children's entertainer/pirate impersonator (This is still the highest paying job I've ever had--it involved dropping my pants to expose my burlap underwear to a ship full of tourists. Yes, I wore burlap underpants--damn straight I made good money)
4. personal assistant to Donna (Donna was an incredibly sweet woman with special needs. Despite the fact that she would take the food right out of my hand, slurp my hot chocolate while I tried to hold on to it for dear life, and regularly got out of my moving vehicle, I liked that job)
5. grant writer at UMaine (Oh my gosh, this was excruciatingly boring. I generally spent 7 hours a day napping at my desk and shopping the sales at gap.com)
Movies I Can Watch Over and Over:
2. Fast and the Furious
3. Too Fast, Too Furious
4. Fast and the Furious, Tokyo Drift
My Guilty Pleasures:
1. buying Cars toys (update: I found Sarge)
2. being a lazy sack of crap
3. eating chocolate
4. singing in the shower
5. putting James in kid-care at the YMCA and hiding in the locker room reading People magazine instead of working out
TV Shows I Like:
1. Sesame Street (damn I love those puppets)
2. Last Comic Standing
3. The Office
4. The Today Show
First Things I Thought When I Met My Husband:
1. Wow. That's a belt buckle.
2. This boy bears a striking resemblance to Doug Funny (the NickToon pictured above)
3. I think I outweigh him by 3 to 5 pounds
4. I should have brushed my hair
5. Well, here's the guy I'm gonna marry
Places I've Been on Vacation:
1. Disney World
2. Galveston, TX
3. Broken Bow, OK
4. San Antonio, TX
5. Washington DC
3. Corn Dogs
4. nachos grande
5. root beer floats
(obviously, I'm a disgusting person and I enjoy attending fairs and sporting events)
Websites I Visit Every Day:
1. Ten zillion blogs (all listed to the right)
2. Yahoo! mail
4. runners world (because I have a strange habit that I can't seem to shake)
5. my running moms group (because the best friends are virtual friends)
Body Parts I've Injured:
1. None. I'm built like a super-combination of Stretch Armstrong and the man of steel with a pain tolerance the size of Minneapolis.
And now I get to tag five people:
I would tag Vanilla, but I think he's quite particular about what goes on his blog...not that there's anything wrong with that.
So I will tag Carrie B, Katy, Mom, Sarah Y, and Rebecca.
Gosh, I feel so bossy....
Jared has officially gone off the deep end with text messaging. The man might just be the slowest, most inefficient texter that I've ever known, but that doesn't mean he's not devoted. I learned of his new found interest in texting last month when I opened the cell phone bill--it was twenty dollars higher than normal.
After my exasperation wore off and I scotch taped the torn up bill back together, I combed through it to see who he was texting, because it definitely wasn't me. So who was it? It was three people: Courtney, Blake, Lehi.
Courtney is the girl who sits next to Jared in class. Yes, you read that right. They text each other all day long, and they sit next to each other in class...all day long. Apparently passing notes is no longer functional. In order to piss away hard earned tuition money, one must pay fifteen cents per message.
Blake and Lehi are Jared's BFFs. They both seem to be within twelve feet of my husband every time I call. When I scrolled though Jared's in and out box, their texting conversation went something like this:
Yo. Who farted?
Oh. Ur hair looks good today.
And there went seventy five cents, right down the pooper shoot.
This morning I had get to church early, so Jared and I took separate cars. As I walked out the door, Jared stopped me and said, "Hey, do you have your phone with you?"
"Um yeah. Why?"
"Oh, because I want you to send me a text to let me know where you're sitting."
I was like, "Excuse me? You want me to take out my phone, in church, and text you to let you know where I'm sitting?! No Jared, I won't do that."
And he dejectedly asked, "Well why not?"
"Because our church is the size of a tool shed, Jared. There are only eight rows in the entire chapel. I think you can manage to find me."
August 11, 2007
This weekend we took a somewhat impromptu trip to San Antonio. Basically Murphy's Law was in full force, and everything went wrong. Despite seven hours of traffic on the way down, an over tired toddler, a bowl of soup and a burger totalling forty dollars, an echoing tantrum in the hotel room, an echoing tantrum in a cave, and a ridiculously disgruntled husband, I managed to have a whale of a time.
There was only one time that I really wanted to throw in the towel and cry, and that was on the way home. We stopped off to have dinner at Luby's Cafeteria. I'm overly enthusiastic about all types of cafeteria food (hospital, school, prison, etc.)--so I was excited to say the least. We walked to the front door of the restaurant and Jared said "Oh, I have to go put my sunglasses in the car." As he walked back to the old Toyota, a church bus pulled up to the entrance, let out its little puff of air, and off walked 40-or-so happy, hungry church members. Jared came back, and being the curmudgeon he is, refused to wait. As we walked away from Luby's, with a tear welling up in my eye, I stopped, gave my husband a laser-beam glare and grumbled, "I hate your sunglasses. I hate them so much." And then we ate fast food.
Anywho, the rest of the trip was fantastic (for me at least). San Antonio is a beautiful city--further proof that Dallas is still the lamest dot on a map of Texas.
That first picture is of me and my family posed in front of the Alamo. It was surprisingly small in person. Being the history buff that I am, I have no idea why the Alamo is famous. Even after the [snoring boring] educational tour, I still have no idea why the Alamo is famous. All I know is that my all time favorite movie, Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, had a scene at the Alamo. I looked and looked, and much to my dismay, Pee-Wee's bike was not on display.
Here is a picture of James performing The Dance of the Over Tired Toddler for a group of tourists on the river walk.
Here I am showing James a duck. He told me that he wanted to eat the duck. I was like, "James, that's disgusting."
Here I am trying to reason with James, letting him know that he's not allowed to go 'fwimming', in the river because he might float away. I am also gently talking myself out of letting James go 'fwimming' because the trip could take a sharp turn for the better if he did float away.
James and his beloved water bottle.
Here we are at some cave. I saw the billboard on the ride home and made Jared take the fifteen mile detour, because DAMNIT! he was gonna have some fun. Little did I know that taking an overtired toddler into an echoing cave, 135 feet below the earth, with only one way out, was a very, very bad idea. Thirty-five dollars and two hours later, we were barely speaking.
Here is an aquifer (as if I even know what that means). Yes, of course James wanted to go 'fwimming' and had a tantrum on a two foot wide ledge when I said no. He was clawing at the cave walls, screaming like a madman, and he totally pulled my skirt down for a second. That's when the overly friendly tour guide shimmied over, looked at James and said, "Honey, remember not to touch the walls of the cave!"
James stopped crying, looked at me, and said, "Mommy, I bite her." I was like "Ok."
So there ya have it! Our weekend trip to San Antonio with a toddler in tow. Hee-haw!
It's been a while, and it's due time that I do some shouting out to my friends around the block.
And the second Shout Out! goes out to:
Susan is a somewhat friendly reader from the Midwest, who might take mommy blogging just a tad too seriously. I like Susan because she sent me my first ever piece of fan mail, which boosted my self-esteem more than I'd like to admit. But I struggle with Susan based on the content of her letter:
I would like to take this opportunity to respond to Susan.
Thank you for your email. I like having fans, even when they're not so adoring. I must disagree with you when it comes to your comment regarding my negativity. Rather, I would term myself a realist.
For example, yesterday James attempted to flush his own hand down the toilet--repeatedly. If I were negative I would blog like this: James is trying to flush his hand. I'm cracking under the pressure, I'm unhappy in my marriage and life, and I need to get some therapy.
If I were strangely positive (as you seem to prefer), I would blog like this: Awwww! James is trying to flush his hand down the toilet :o) I'm so grateful that he's taking interest in the potty and that his developmental skills are right on track. That's m'boy! :) (o:
But since I'm a realist, I blog like this: James has been trying to flush his hand down the toilet for two hours. I'm loving the free time. Oh, and remind me to put anti-bacterial soap on my shopping list.
I would also like to set the record straight and beg your forgiveness because, yes, I make things up--all the time. I'm actually the assistant CFO of a fortune 500 company and I really love to blog in my spare time. I am a 52 year old male who makes $349,000 annually, and I'm sitting in my corner office on the 68th floor of a high rise as I type.
**Sidenote: I am single, so if you'd like to go out, just leave a comment**
It is quite true that I have a two year old son named James. However, he is a very reasonable human being, he rarely misbehaves, and he far prefers flashcards to toys. He has been potty-trained for 4+ months and has little trouble speaking in full sentences.
Roger P. McSchmidtyschnuts (stage name: Amy Lawson)
August 8, 2007
Have you ever stopped, taken a moment to breath, and consciously excused yourself from life? This is precisely what I'm trying to convince my husband to do. I want to taste the free life, and I want Jared to enjoy it with me.
We've been married for five years, and with the exception of the past two months we've both been students the entire time. During the course of our five years together we've earned two bachelors degrees, produced one ninety page thesis, earned one masters degree (with a 4.0), and we're on the cusp of adding a doctorate to this list. We have excellent professional references and an excellent credit rating. We've lived comfortably within our means, have splurged on two movies in the past three years, and have a savings account the size of Alaska. I've run one full marathon, two half marathons, and a thousand other races in between. Add one child born via c-section, a cross country move, and a house flip to the mix, and you've got a pretty clear picture of our first few years together.
I should mention--I'm twenty-six years old.
Impressive? I'd say so. Exciting? You bet. Exhausting? I'm just starting to feel it.
I'm ready to take a moment, enjoy our successes, and breath. I want some time off.
You see, for the past several months, we've been knee deep in business planning. In following with our pattern of ambition, we've decided to open our own chiropractic practice. Consequently we've been swallowed up by loan applications, interest calculators, profit projections, real estate listings and retainer agreements. I'm just now beginning to understand the commitment and heart it takes to be a successful entrepreneur.
I'm very capable and very willing to do what it takes. I'm just not sure that I'm ready. I want to run away, just for a little while, before life sets in and retirement comes around faster than I can spell 'Mississippi.'
I want to delay opening the practice by a month--well, maybe two. And to pass the time I want to rent a beach house on an island in Maine or a cabin in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, preferably without a TV. I want to hang out in front of a wood stove with my family, I want to slip on the wooden floors in my wool socks, I want to teach James how to build a snowman, and maybe learn some yoga. I want to hear Jared play his guitar, and laugh like school girls at each other's jokes. I want to give James his time outs on an old, rustic set of stairs. I want to cook recipes from The Joy of Cooking, and buy lobster straight from the man who caught it. I want to play cards, and read story books, and maybe even start the writing career that I've wanted since I was twelve.
It's clearly mapped out in my imagination--all that's left to do is convince Jared.
So here's my question to you. Have you ever taken a break from life? Have you stepped away and taken an extended breather? Where'd you go? Was it totally worth it? Was it a complete waste of money? Did you come back to life feeling stressed or refreshed? How did you convince your spouse? I'm curious...