Today is a pretty significant day for the Lawson family. Today, you see, is the day that we finally get to close on our house. It will be a few more weeks before we're actually living in it full time, but that doesn't squelch my excitement even one fraction of an iota. Does it really matter if my new walk in closet smells like a men's locker room? Not to me it doesn't--because this afternoon I get an extra key and a brand new garage door opener to throw into my black hole of a purse. Two more items to lose and find, lose and find, lose and find--it's like the heartbeat of my life.
As you can see by the picture posted in the upper right hand corner, the house could use a coat of paint or four. That's a picture of James's room, and no, don't adjust the color settings on your monitor, it really is that shade of purple. The carpet in basement is also that shade of red, we have more than our fair share of wood paneling to contend with, and last but certainly not least, we found a "well used" pair of men's tighty whities sitting in our fire place. I say, "Dude, if your client sharted his shorts that badly, do us all a favor and light the match--let's turn those underbritches into forgotten history." Seriously, I'm gonna write that on a post-it note, crumple it up into a tiny ball, and roll that message to the seller's agent at the closing this afternoon.
This place is also loaded with some very cool features that I never ever dreamed of having in my very own house. For example:
The tree house is wired for electricity. I hope James enjoys his new wilderness themed room.
There's a bathroom in the basement, which means I will no longer have to mess myself while waiting for my towels to fluff in the dryer.
The house has a workshop in the basement. Finally, Jared will have a place to put his tool (no, that is not meant to be plural).
There are two large picture windows on the front of the house. Lucky for the neighbors, they'll get to see the crack of my a** on a day-to-day basis.
There is also a den for blogging, a garage for parking, a loft with a trap door for jumping out of, a roof for skiing down, a garden for killing, and one front lawn with the full potential to grow as high as my knees. Gosh, we haven't even moved in yet, and I already love this house.
I kind of hate to say this, but we've worked our tails off in the last few years, and I honestly think we've earned ourselves a permanent place to settle in--home sweet home. Also, I'm completely sick of using my brother-in-law's tooth brush. I've made it a priority to unpack my own.
Apparently, it's completely possible to scare the shi-tang-tang right out of a turkey. They also know how to fly. Who knew?
Yesterday I was driving on a back country road in Maine. James was strapped securely into his carseat, and we were cruising down the road listening to what is, quite possibly, the greatest song of all time--What It Takes, by Aerosmith. James was staring out the window, composing a verbal inventory of the sights and sounds: twactoh, bawn, moo cow, cah on byocks, etc. (translation: tractor, barn, moo cow, car on blocks, etc.) while I sang to the music and daydreamed of heaven.
More specifically, I was thinking, "When I get to heaven, instead of angels playing harps I'm going to request the Indigo Girls playing this song, for ever and ever and ever..."
As we came around a snowy bend, I was met with a sight that left my jaw hanging wide. It was a long row of turkeys--at least seven or eight of them--flying over the road. Apparently, turkeys aren't much for soaring into the sunset, because these birds were flying about six feet above the pavement.
There was a parade of traffic behind me, so slamming on the breaks was completely out of the question--because seriously, I'd rather have a dead bird to contend with than a Ford F150 Long Bed Crew Cab wedged into my back seat. I simply held my breath and drove straight toward the rainbow of flying gobblers, hoping all the way that one of those monstrosities didn't get it's feedbag thingy stuck in the ski rack on the top of my Toyota.
I closed my eyes for a split-second, anticipating the moment of impact, and was relieved when I never heard any kind of a *thud.* Much to my relief, I didn't open my eyes to find a cartoon turkey with Xs for eyes limply sprawled across my hood. Instead, I found my windshield covered in a turkey poop or two...or four.
I literally scared the shitoodles right out of those ugly birds.
Welp, there's another line item to cross off of my master list of life goals.
March 6, 2008
I knew I'd get it one of these days--an email from a reader letting me know that my recent stories sound far too outrageous to be true..."Dogs on your desk? Drag queen hairdressers? Vasectomy stories? I'm sorry," wrote the reader, "but this is getting kinda hard to believe. Funny, but hard to believe."
Every couple of I months I get a doubter, and I was long overdue. To be quite honest, I can't say I disagree with the concerned party, these stories are wild. Please know that the elevated crazy factor is partly due to the lens through which view the world--I look for (and tend to exaggerate) the humor in everything--and partly due to my location in arsty-fart New England.
In previous posts I've described this place as "off-beat." And that, my friends, is a glorious understatement. If you could hop on a plane tonight and attend the weekly Karaoke Sing-Off and Talent Hour in the basement of the UU Church, you would totally see what I mean. How that woman can play the xylophone with four mallets while she nurses her infant is something that I will never understand. Let's face it, I was barely coordinated enough to eat a sprinkle donut and watch the Simpsons while I nursed.
If you're not from around here, you simply won't believe the things I see on a regular basis. For example, yesterday I saw a fisherman wearing hip waders having coffee with a shirtless guy with a boa constrictor wrapped around his neck. I should note that I have a wicked case of the hots for any man sporting rubber fishing pants and I'm completely repulsed by snakes, so the two men sort of cancelled each other out. They were a very odd looking pair, but they've probably been friends for years.
And then, of course, there's the hair salon with the stripper pole--for every minute you dance, you get one dollar off of your hair cut. You can dance for up to five minutes and your clothes must stay on because, duh, it's a family hair salon! I've never been inside of the place, but I love to walk by on my lunch breaks. Every once in a while, I have the privilege of watching a local resident who's too cheap to maintain their dignity. One time I saw a man in a flannel shirt who was holding the stripper pole with one hand while he danced like Pinocchio--the puppet, not the boy. Another time I saw an elderly woman doing the hokey-pokey while the stylists gathered 'round and offered encouraging applause.
Apparently it was no easy task for the shop owner to obtain a license for his window-front stripper pole. After a great deal of convincing, his pole is now up-to-code and open for use. As a token of gratitude, he still brings small gifts to the town employees every now and again. Most recently? Single serve packets of glow-in-the-dark hair gel for everyone.
Heaven help us all. And I'll say it again--Heaven help us all.
I can't lie, I love being here. After all, every single day brings a series of new adventures. And the restaurants are nothing to sneeze at either. But in a few weeks I'll be moved to a different office in the region, where things are far more, uhhh, regular? I'll miss the adventure of it all, but lately I feel like it's turned my blog into a shock-jock Howard Stern publication--at least to the Mom crowd.
In the next little bit I'll be happy to return to my previous level of Mormon risqué-ness. A happy PG rating if you will. You know--farting, homecrafted swear-replacement, recaps of spousal disagreements, and coworkers who spit when they talk. Well, at least I'm hoping for something as funny as a spitting cubemate.
But in the mean time, I'll just continue on with daily mantra..."We're not it Texas anymore, James. We're certainly not in Texas."
Question of the day: Which of these scenarios is the worst?
A. Being cornered by a small mob of fire-spitting, venom-breathing, angry townspeople all asking questions that you don't have the slightest idea how to answer.
B. Hearing the intimate details of your 61-year-old coworker's vasectomy including, but not limited to: the surgical process, swelling, discoloration, and level of satisfaction with the ultimate result. Unfortunately, the presentation included a great deal of pointing and a hand-drawn diagram.
C. The inability to fasten your fat pants without losing a button.
No question in my mind, I'm voting for scenario B. It's rare that I lose my appetite, but today my friends, my desire to eat is nowhere to be found. Hopefully it will help with situation C.
So go ahead and cast your vote in the comments. I'm anxious to know if we're all in agreement on this one.