*TAP TAP TAP*
Is this thing on?
Good morning ladies and gentlemen. My name is Amy Lawson and I stand before you this morning to vent my fair share of frustration. Before I go any further, I would like to make a clear, solid point--and that is, nobody likes a whiner. I fully understanding that I am assuming the role of a whiner, and as such, I stand to lose popularity.
Today, my friends and ex-friends, I am willing to take this risk. You see, I am stressed--very, very stressed. And I know only three successful strategies for dealing with pressured situations:
1. Write about them.
2. Eat pounds and pounds of carbohydrates.
3. Draw pictures of my friends, co-workers, and neighbors in the nude.
Unfortunately I have eaten every granola bar, bread product, and Goldfish Cracker in the house and my husband is insistent that the nudie pics are inappropriate and "a law-suit waiting to happen." As such, I am left with no option but to express my feelings in writing.
My husband Jared is a chiropractor--a chiropractor who is in significant need of a new adjusting table. Yesterday afternoon, we drove a couple of hours south to pick up a table that was kindly given to us by a fellow practitioner. The tables was described as "beautiful" and "modern" and "in excellent condition." We wondered why this chiropractor was willing to part with this self-described "work of art," but chose to believe her assertion that she was nearing retirement, had reduced her hours, and wanted to give something back to the profession.
She didn't mention that the table was over thirty years old. And spring loaded. And dangerous. And looked like it had tetanus. And would probably send patients running in the other direction. Or catapult them through the store front window. Or eat them.
When I first laid eyes on the table, I wasn't sure what to say or how to react, so I walked down the hall, stepped in the restroom, grabbed my hair at the root and yelled....."YOOOOOOO!!!!!" When I stepped back out of the restroom I sort of looked around the waiting area, made an apologetic face, pointed to my rear, and mouthed the word "hemorrhoid." I got a lot of sympathetic nods from those sweet, shuffling Medicare subscribers.
When I walked back to find Jared, he was standing alone in the room with the torture device and he was obviously feigning optimism.
"So what do you think?" he asked, forcing half of a smile.
"I think you should get a lab coat, some circle shaped glasses, a lightening machine, and perform experimental monster brain surgery on this table. I mean seriously, if you want to do that, this thing is totally perfect."
To which Jared replied, "Well great! I'll back the truck up to the door."
We left the experimental laboratory (pronounced la-BOR-a-try) and preceded to Portland, Maine where we had arranged to pick up a few room dividers and a reception desk. I'll keep a long story short by letting you know that the cubicle dividers were the color of cat-regurgitated-stroganoff. But that wasn't the problem--in fact I have no problem with feline boof. The room dividers couldn't stand without the aid of a large metal desk, and as much as I like desks, we don't need four of them spread throughout Jared's treatment space.
And the reception station? Well the reception station was larger than our entire waiting room, and despite my calculations, I simply couldn't figure out a way to fit it through the front door of the office.
Based on yesterday's unsuccessful eighteen-hour workday, the newest item on my to-do list is, "Buy a front desk, some room dividers, and an adjusting table all for less than $17.96 by Saturday." And therein lies the root-cause of my current state of freaking-outage.
I'd like to express my sincere gratitude for your attention through this, the Annual State of the Lawsons Address.
I feel a great deal of relief from this opportunity to vent my frustrations. But if you'd be so kind as to send me a head-to-toe photo, so I can draw you walking next to the Statue of Liberty naked, I think I could make a full recovery.