April 30, 2009
So remember that new car? The one we were supposed to pick up last night, pack with six full-grown adults, and use to cruise comfortably into the sunset? The one with the leather seats? The one the iPod jack? The one that would do wonders for my street credit? The one that was a screamin' deal?
Yeah. Never mind.
NEVER! MIND!
The deal fell flat, and as usual, I'll graciously provide you with a handful of sketchy details. You know--just enough so you feel like you know me, but not enough for you to really understand my personal and confidential biznitch.
And no, it wasn't because we couldn't get a loan. Actually, if you must know, I have a credit score that's over 800 and and an income that's far beyond your wildest dream.
Fine. One of those claims is true.
The bottom line is this: We chickened out. My junk drawer calculator decided that we couldn't technically afford the car, and obviously, the Blazer still has a heck of a lot of life left in her.
So, for the second time in five days, loan docs were torn and crying ensued.
This life of mine? So freaking glamorous.
There I am!
April 30, 2009
I can't believe how many of you thought I was a child who a)wore matching clothes, b)wore a dress, and c)had combed hair! Obviously, we don't spend enough time together. I was same girl I am today, even back in the 80s. See?
I can't believe how many of you thought I was a child who a)wore matching clothes, b)wore a dress, and c)had combed hair! Obviously, we don't spend enough time together. I was same girl I am today, even back in the 80s. See?
Oh, and I regret to inform you that there is no prize for being correct. We all know I'd never mail it anyway...
Back in '86
April 29, 2009
This has got to be my favorite picture on all of Facebook. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a photo of my first grade class back in 1986:
Darn that was a good year.
I was five years old, losing teeth left and right, and looking back, it seems as though I was just embarking upon my awkward phase--you know, the one that lasted until my twenty-third birthday?
So, can you find me in there? Really, can you?
Now if you look at the child in the very center of the middle row, that's Frank. Frank was loud, wiggly, and had a most excellent sense of humor--everyone thought so. Well, everyone except our teacher. Even at the ripe old age of five, I could tell, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Mrs. P didn't care much for underarm farts, or knock-knock jokes, or the Frankie package in general.
But man, that kid was just my style. I always pulled some first grade strings to make sure that we were assigned to the same lunch table--he liked the treats my mother would pack for my table-of-four, and I liked the punch he packed when he tooted. Yin and Yang people, Yin and Yang.
One afternoon, as we were busily working away on dot-to-dot puzzles, I remember hearing our teacher say, "Frankie, if you move one more time, I'm tying you to that chair. I mean it." And before she even had the chance to wag a finger, Frank was up, using our in-class water fountain.
Whoa guys, apparently Mrs. P wasn't one for issuing empty threats. Within sixteen seconds, Frank was sitting in the middle of the classroom, tied--loosely and lovingly, of course--to his little blue plastic chair with a single strand of kite string.
Freaking. Awesome.
And with that cue, every single child in the class proceeded to use the water fountain over, and over, and over again because, du-uh!!! If Frankie was tied to his chair, it had to be fun. We wanted to be tied up, too.
And that was '86. No lawsuits involved.
So really. Can you find me?
This has got to be my favorite picture on all of Facebook. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a photo of my first grade class back in 1986:
Darn that was a good year.
I was five years old, losing teeth left and right, and looking back, it seems as though I was just embarking upon my awkward phase--you know, the one that lasted until my twenty-third birthday?
So, can you find me in there? Really, can you?
Now if you look at the child in the very center of the middle row, that's Frank. Frank was loud, wiggly, and had a most excellent sense of humor--everyone thought so. Well, everyone except our teacher. Even at the ripe old age of five, I could tell, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Mrs. P didn't care much for underarm farts, or knock-knock jokes, or the Frankie package in general.
But man, that kid was just my style. I always pulled some first grade strings to make sure that we were assigned to the same lunch table--he liked the treats my mother would pack for my table-of-four, and I liked the punch he packed when he tooted. Yin and Yang people, Yin and Yang.
One afternoon, as we were busily working away on dot-to-dot puzzles, I remember hearing our teacher say, "Frankie, if you move one more time, I'm tying you to that chair. I mean it." And before she even had the chance to wag a finger, Frank was up, using our in-class water fountain.
Whoa guys, apparently Mrs. P wasn't one for issuing empty threats. Within sixteen seconds, Frank was sitting in the middle of the classroom, tied--loosely and lovingly, of course--to his little blue plastic chair with a single strand of kite string.
Freaking. Awesome.
And with that cue, every single child in the class proceeded to use the water fountain over, and over, and over again because, du-uh!!! If Frankie was tied to his chair, it had to be fun. We wanted to be tied up, too.
And that was '86. No lawsuits involved.
So really. Can you find me?
Car Shopping: A Brief Memoir
April 27, 2009If you're ever bored on a Friday night, don't have enough cash to buy a burger, and want to be more than entertained for the length of a double-feature movie, then you should come shopping with me for a new family vehicle. Really, you're all invited.
You see, we did some car shopping this past Friday, and let me tell you, I did not disappoint. The whole experience from start to finish, all four hours of it, was beyond insane.
It started with me saying, "Huh. So that's what the Dodge Journey looks like," sometime around 4pm.
Somewhere around 7:15pm I could be heard saying (and this is no joke), "Listen Jeff, if you let me take the car home for one night, see how it fits my lifestyle, and figure out if the third row is at all suitable for making out with my husband, then I can 99% guarantee that you'll have yourself a deal."
And then, sometime around 8:30, it ended with me shouting, and I kid you not, "You have BULL SH*T running through your dirty, little veins! Both of you! BULL SH*T," ripping up a contract, and marching out the front door of the dealership.
Yes, I will do my best to relay the entire story to you without boring you to tears. But first, please allow me provide a little bit of background information to any readers who might be new kids on the crazy block...
My name is Amy Lawson, and it is in fact against my religion to swear. Anywho, I am also the proud driver of a 1989 4wd Chevy S10 Blazer. This particular vehicle has been in my life since I was in junior high, so obviously I love it just as much as any other member of my family--4-year-old child included. I learned how to drive in the Blazer, I took it with me to college, and when I got married at the ripe old age of 21, my parents were like, "Uh...you can keep it?" And thus it has remained a fixture in my life. Heck, it even survived a trip to Texas and back. Sure the trip back was on a flatbed truck, but you know, whatever.
It's a beast in the snow, it's incredibly fun to stand on top of, and oh, did I mention how very much I love it?
If you'd like to see a picture of the Blazer with its front wheel falling off, please click here.
If you'd like to learn more about the condition of my vehicle a year and a half ago--and trust me, you really, really do--please click here.
Anyway, Jared and I took a sacred and solemn vow on the night of our wedding--the same night he complimented me on my sparkling green eyes (they're blue ya dumb ass!)--that we would drive the Blazer right into the ground.
Well ladies and gentlemen, *DING!*, we have officially arrived in the basement level. She's got an oil leak that can't be pinpointed (head gasket, anyone?), a moderate to severely wicked antifreeze leak, and she leans six good inches to the left--which Google has clearly told me is a strong indicator that the breaks could go out and any second. And let's be honest here, the blue book value is somewhere in the $600 range--my husband's life has got to be worth at least $750.
Realistically, we're hoping to get enough money from the sale to buy ourselves a new lawnmower (the push kind), two Slurpees, and a 6-pack of Trojans--just to feel young again.
So anywho, here we are in the market for a new family vehicle. Which led me to Google the phrase "crossover," which led me to the Journey, which led me to the stinky, slimy hands of the most frig-awful car dealer in the history of all history. Yes Jeff, I'm talking about you.
And here's the part that led to the ever so dramatic weeping, wailing, and ripping of contracts. The part that I've promised to make quick. Ten steps, bear with me:
1) We agree on a fair price. They agree to give us a $1,000 trade for the Blazer. They agree to make our last payment on our station wagon that we're planning to keep.
2) We say, "Fine. It's late. We're hungry. Just sell us the car."
3) They print up some contracts.
4) I read the contracts.
5) They're selling us the car, which had 3,000 miles on it, supposedly from the manager, as used. Funny, because the car with 5,000 miles on it? Yeah, they were going to sell to us as new.
6) Because it's used, the lifetime warranty is null and void. $1,900 if we want to buy it.
7) Because it's used, we get a higher interest rate on the loan and no longer qualify for 0% financing.
8) Because it's used, that rebate they mentioned? Yeah, we don't get that either.
9) The last car payment that they so generously offered to make has been not-so-generously rolled into our new car loan.
10) I call them all bastards and leave them a huge, disgusting fart as I walk out the door.
The super skeevy financing guy yells, "But wait? Don't you want this car?" And I yell back over my shoulder, "Just about as bad as I want to have your baby." And trust me guys, the last thing I want, in this world, is a baby with slicked back hair, a goatee, poor taste in shoes, and no moral compass.
Needless to say, we didn't buy that car--but we did buy another car.
And as for me? I just want the Blazer back.
Way More Fun than DVR
April 24, 200Jared and I have been married for just about seven years, and during that time we've never had any type of cable television. Well, actually, I take that back. A couple of years ago, when we lived in Texas we took a chance and plugged in our cable cord just to see what might happen.
And whatdayaknow? *POOF* we had cable--stolen cable, but it worked every bit as well as the paid kind. For two days. And then the company sent us some kind of letter about prosecution and we promptly resumed our fuzzy viewing.
Anywho, these days we still don't have cable and trust me when I tell you, it's not because we don't love TV--because really, we love TV. More than we love each other. That's why I feel so confused when Jared's like, "Amy, get that thing out of the bed!" And I'm all, "What? I just want to spoon with my one and only for a couple minutes. I like the way it's cold screen feels against my warm cheek."
When Jared and I make our first million, we'll definitely sign up for cable--but in the mean time, we'll continue to opt for jealousy. More specifically, we chose to be insanely jealous of any human beings who have anything that resembles satellite, OnDemend, DVR, Tivo, etc in their living room.
Of course we're envious, us schmucks don't even got no remote control. Honestly.
But this fine morning, I'm trilled to say that Jared and I have finagled a fabulous (and foolproof) new way to stick it to all of our friends with premium cable packages--and folks, it has everything to do with Facebook status updates.
It basically goes like this (and if you haven't seen The Office yet, consider yourself warned):
Jared Lawson is happy that Michael Scott is working for Dunder Mifflin again.
[insert three-dozen angry "Oh c'mon! I haven't watched it yet!" comments here]
Amy Lawson says Jared, your friends sound angry. You better not tell them about the 60k buyout offer that Michael Scott declined before he asked for his old job back.
And so on and so forth.
We're loving this. Brings much satisfaction into our not-so-satisfying lives.
Amy Gets Opinionated
April 23, 2009Generally speaking, I'm not at all opinionated on this blog--but watch out, here it comes...
Does anyone recognize that woman to the right? Her name is Madlyn Primoff. She's an attorney at a prestigious Manhattan law firm, she lives in an extremely hoity-toity New York Suburb, and from the state of her hair and makeup, you can probably gather that yes, this woman is most definitely a mother.
Poor Madlyn Primoff.
This week she was arrested for--get this--pulling her car to the side of the road, tossing her incessantly bickering 10 and 12-year-old daughters onto the sidewalk, and insisting that they walk to their destination.
Dude, where's this woman's cape? She's totally my hero.
But seriously, poor Madlyn Primoff. She's been charged with child endangerment, and in my humble opinion, that plain old sucks. I mean, definitely if the girls were 4 and 6, or maybe 6 and 8, but 10 and 12? I spent every weekend babysitting when I was 12, which means I was parading around my similar suburban town, smacking my bazooka bubble gum, with other peoples' kids in tow.
I also walked home from school before I turned 10, I would ride my bike to the grocery store for my mother before I turned 11, and by the time I turned 12, I was sitting on the stools at Friendly's ordering a plate of cheesy waffle fries, paying my tab in nickles and dimes.
Honestly now, a 10 and 12-year-old can't walk one block through suburbia while their mother waits around the corner in her mini-van mapping out her "I TOLD YOU I'D DO IT!" speech?! There's a far greater risk in letting your tweens browse the internet unsupervised for thirty seconds than there is in letting them hoof it for a couple hundred yards!
In my humble opinion, this story is total and complete bullshiz.
Let's find the parents who drive drunk with their kids in the car, or use drugs in the home, or watch smut in front of their toddlers. Let's find them and charge them with child endangerment. But the parent who lets their tween walk home from school? Yeah, let's leave them out of it.
I'm not an idiot. I know full well that the world can be a scary, threatening, and dangerous place for children. I know that we need to do everything we can to protect our kids from what's out there. And I kid you not, I can tell you, from the list tucked away in my planner, the name and address of every convicted sex offender who lives within a five mile radius of my house. So yes, protecting my child is my priority.
But in this case, I'm totally, completely, 100% on Madlyn's side.
And seriously, where can I mail the "YOU GO GIRL!" t-shirt that I bought for her this morning?
Sooooo...what do you think?
(I'll be hiding under my desk now...)
Drama, My Ear, and a Little More Drama
April 22, 2009Today, my heart goes out to cranky infants all around the world. Yesterday evening I came down with a sudden ear ache, and let me tell you, I probably would have preferred to swim through an above-ground pool of turkey poo. Honestly, from the girl who likes to run 26 miles for fun and opted out of pain meds after a c-section, it hurt that bad.
And much like the babies all across the map who deal will ear aches, I cried. And cried and cried and cried. I mean seriously, when in pain, why not up the drama factor, ya know? Jared was still at work, we didn't have a single solitary pain med in the cupboard, and oh yeah, did I mention how much it hurt?
Since James was temporarily acting as the 4-year-old man of the house, he decided to take matters into his own hands. First he crawled up next to me and pulled on my ear. It helped for about 3 seconds. Then he rubbed my ear--another 3 seconds of relief, and finally, he just pushed on my ear, which actually helped quite a bit. But not enough to get me to quit the crying--I just kept on rolling with it.
Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Very classy. Very mature.
Somewhere, in the middle of my episode, James decided to call my mother. What can I say? She's on speed dial and he's exceptionally smart. Here's what I heard on my end:
James: Gwama, der is a mergency.
My Mom: ....
James: Mom's ear spolded.
My Mom: ....
James: She's just cwyin' an cwyin' an cwyin.'
And that's just about the point when my husband walked in from work. James ran for the door, and greeted his father by saying, "Dad, my Mom needs a ear doctor. You are jus a back doctor. Go an fine a ear doctor for my mom. Go go."
And I was like, "Yeah (sob, sob, sob), go find someone who's licensed to give me big old (cry, cry, cry) shot in the ass! That's the only thing that'll help me right now (heave, heave, heave)! I need a shot in my ass..."
But Jared, bless his heart, dealt with me anyway. He looked in my ear with his thingy and was like, "Hmmmmmm....looks infected." Then he pressed on some part of my neck, muttered some nonsense about eustachian tubes, and said, "Does that hurt?" It did. "Does this hurt," he wanted to know?
"Um, YES!!!! EVERYTHING HURTS MR. CHIROPRACTOR!!!! EVERYTHING HURTS!!!!! Now give me a shot in the ass."
But he's really not licensed to do that, so he pressed some other part of my neck, gave me a heating pad, made me some soup and rubbed my hair while we watched American Idol.
And I guess that's the end of my tale.
My ear is still sore today, but I haven't cried in almost 12 hours--on account of real pain or for drama's sake. So that's some movement in the right direction--particularly in regards to my own personal growth.
And I'll leave you with the moral of the story: You should feel really bad for me and for babies and toddlers because ear aches hurt worse than c-sections and marathons put together--especially when you get the burps.
And yes, I really am sorry for wasting 4 minutes of your day with that very pointless story. What can I say? Life has been very uneventful lately. But sometimes, uneventful is good.
Sneezing my Logic Out
April 21, 2009I've been run down with a pretty nasty cold for the last couple of days, and I'm not gonna mince words here--it really kind of blows. I'm not totally sure where I picked up this little gem, but if I had to give it my best guess, I would say it has something to do with the circus that James and I attended last Friday.
You know, like the Universe said to me, "Amy. Are you really gonna pay money to take your innocent child to an event that objectifies animals, sells nutritionally deficient snacks, and puts ladies in outfits that almost reveal their ta-tas?"
And I was like, "Yes. Yes I am."
So the universe was all, "Fine. Then have fun and let me dump two quarts of snot into your head."
Honestly, that's how I think I caught this thing.
When it comes to being sick, of course there are the typical aspects that I certainly don't appreciate--you know, runny nose, gunky throat, watery eyes, and a head that I can't seem to lift off of my desk. But do you know what I hate the most? Really, do you wanna know? It's most definitely the insanely stressful dreams. And yes, I'm well aware that I might be the only person on this great green earth who deals with this particular symptom.
Last night for example, I dreamt that my 87-year neighbor asked me to bring her to free-day at Disney World. Obviously it was packed, and my neighbor--bless her soul--refused to sit in a wheel chair. As soon as we got into the park, my neighbor let me know that she really had to use the bathroom, so we shuffled and shuffled and shuffled around until we finally found a bathroom. With a two hour wait. And then, THEN, when it was finally our turn, I realized that this particular restroom was completely lacking toilets. I had to pee into a 2-liter 7-UP bottle, and my elderly neighbor--seriously, bless her heart--was expected to pee into a metal Juicy-Juice can with those tiny little triangle openings.
Can you get any more stressful than that? Obviously, I woke up panting, in a cold, hard sweat.
When I finally settled back down and fell back to sleep, I was plagued with another terribly stressful dream. This time I needed to buy an airline ticket, but of course, every time I tried to make my way to expedia.com or travelocity.com or even delta.com, my hands turned all jelloish and I completely forgot how to type. Since my hands didn't work well enough to drive, I hopped on my bike and rode 75 miles down the highway--with no hands--and bought my ticket directly from the agent at the counter. For $613. And it was only one way. And I bought it for the wrong destination.
More cold sweat.
Then there was the dream about the single college-aged girl who moved into my house, changed the locks, furnished the entire place with plastic Ikea furniture, and successfully convinced me that I was the crazy one.
And the dream that my mother disowned me for spending $100 on a pair of jeans.
And the other dream where Jared left me to live underwater.
Lots of cold sweat.
So honestly, am I the only one in the house who has this crazy symptom? Anyone else out there? Anyone else?
Laser Beams, Rockets, and Legs
April 17, 2009I'm not sure where the fascination is stemming from, but lately James has been absolutely obsessed with Transformers. You know what they are--those palm-sized plastic cars that turn into nasty little robots who like to shoot innocent bystanders with laser beams? Yup, those are the ones.
For the past month, it honestly seems like every other word out of my kid's mouth has been 'robot' or 'jet' or 'if-you-love-me-at-all-you'll-buy-me-an-Optimus-Prime.' My head is spinning over here...what ever happened to his love for Lightning McQueen and sidewalk chalk? At this point I'd even take Caillou back with wide open arms--and if you're the parent of a toddler, you know just how serious that really is.
Anywho, as a result of last Saturday's birthday party James is now the proud owner of seven, yes seven, Transformer toys. They range from a yellow car named Bumblebee to an ambulance-robot to Optimus Prime himself. I'm quite sure that if it came down to it, we have more than enough characters to reenact the feature film from start to finish.
This morning when I got into my car, already running late, I was beyond frustrated to find a gas gauge needle that literally hung below the illuminated low fuel light. I guess that's what I get for letting Jared use the station wagon to transport three boys to a church youth-group service project. Never again Brother Lawson! Never again!
So on the way to school, James and I stopped at our neighborhood gas station. I unstrapped him from his car seat, and we walked toward the store so we could pre-pay for our fuel.
When I spotted the man chatting on the steps who was wearing shorts, I knew exactly what was about to happen. After all, he had one real leg and one titanium replacement--James was on the verge of a field day.
Unfortunately, James is a quick one. Before I even had the chance to grab him by the ear, my kid was standing inches away from this stranger, gazing at his titanium leg with pure admiration. "Mom," he screamed, turning toward me in excitement. "Dis man is a weel twansfowmah! You see his weg?! Do you see dis?!"
"I'm sorry," I said to the man, not knowing what might come out of my mouth next. "My son is really into robots and transformers, and I guess he thinks your leg is cool."
"Well," he replied, looking straight at James, "it's even cooler when the rockets are working, but you know, I can't turn them on with all these people around."
James nodded in solidarity--and that's when I finally had the chance to pull my child into the store by his big, floppy ear.
Thank goodness for strangers with a sense of humor...
Happy Fourth!
April 17, 2009
This past Saturday, James turned four. Very exciting, very exciting. Apparently, now that he's four, James wholeheartedly believes that it's socially acceptable to punch your best friend on the playground over and over and over again--you know, until the teacher had to peel him off.
I like to believe that my sweet little guy simply got carried away in the moment as he was doing his best to impersonate The Incredible Hulk. Jared likes to believe that James is average and I'm in denial.
Gosh I love this age.
Either way, I've taken the first step in completing what I'm sure will be a lengthy process--perfecting the art of the parental apology email. Heaven knows I'm always up for learning something new!
Anywho, here's a picture of James blowing out his candles at his party on Saturday. I obviously forgot to buy appropriate birthday candles at the grocery store, which would be the reason for the coconut scented tea candles dotting the cake. James vehemently refused to blow out his candles or eat any cake--after all, he would have much rather sat in the living room, gazing upon his mountain of still-wrapped gifts. However, I used my manipulative mothering skills to at least get this photo op:
See how puffed up his little cheeks are? That is completely due to the fact that they were filled up with sassy baby swears just waiting to be unleased upon the very woman who gave him the gift of life four years earlier.
Seriously guys, I just love this age.
This past Saturday, James turned four. Very exciting, very exciting. Apparently, now that he's four, James wholeheartedly believes that it's socially acceptable to punch your best friend on the playground over and over and over again--you know, until the teacher had to peel him off.
I like to believe that my sweet little guy simply got carried away in the moment as he was doing his best to impersonate The Incredible Hulk. Jared likes to believe that James is average and I'm in denial.
Gosh I love this age.
Either way, I've taken the first step in completing what I'm sure will be a lengthy process--perfecting the art of the parental apology email. Heaven knows I'm always up for learning something new!
Anywho, here's a picture of James blowing out his candles at his party on Saturday. I obviously forgot to buy appropriate birthday candles at the grocery store, which would be the reason for the coconut scented tea candles dotting the cake. James vehemently refused to blow out his candles or eat any cake--after all, he would have much rather sat in the living room, gazing upon his mountain of still-wrapped gifts. However, I used my manipulative mothering skills to at least get this photo op:
See how puffed up his little cheeks are? That is completely due to the fact that they were filled up with sassy baby swears just waiting to be unleased upon the very woman who gave him the gift of life four years earlier.Seriously guys, I just love this age.
I'm Snoring Over Here
April 16, 2009
Can you even believe how boring I've been lately?
Yeah, me neither.
You can blame it on my brother-in-law, the really skinny one who just left on his two-year mission.
Because I'm a stellar sister-in-law (and a very lazy employee), I've been doing my best to send Bryan a letter every single day--and honestly, I give those letters my all. There's not much left over for this sorry old blog.
I know. Someone send me a martyr trophy.
Anywho...please direct your anger regarding my insane lack of creativity to Elder Bryan Lawson. It's all his fault.
Can you even believe how boring I've been lately?
Yeah, me neither.
You can blame it on my brother-in-law, the really skinny one who just left on his two-year mission.
Because I'm a stellar sister-in-law (and a very lazy employee), I've been doing my best to send Bryan a letter every single day--and honestly, I give those letters my all. There's not much left over for this sorry old blog.
I know. Someone send me a martyr trophy.
Anywho...please direct your anger regarding my insane lack of creativity to Elder Bryan Lawson. It's all his fault.
On Finding Myself
April 14, 2009
Most of my time between the ages of 18 and 23 was spent in an all-out, concerted effort to find myself. If I were a betting woman, I'd place some money on the assumption that all too many of you know exactly what I'm talking about.
I would wake up in the morning, audibly ask "Who am I?," and spend the rest of the day hopping from class to bookstores to the natural food co-op in a cold hard sweat. I had no idea what made me tick, and holy hell, it was stressing me out.
Turns out I was nothing more than a cute young student, with a rockin' body, who liked to roller blade and make out with boys. Simple enough. To this day, I still wonder why the coming of age process was so unbelievably difficult for me. I was a girl who enjoyed Dairy Queen and The Gap--what in the holy heavens is so complicated about that?
These days, if someone were to put on their most serious face and ask, "Amy. Who are you?" I would probably say something like, "I'm the girl who's about to go take a poop in my office bathroom." Or, "I'm a woman who finds great satisfaction in nagging." Or, "Here, look at these stretch marks." Because honestly? That about sums me up.
During my five-year mission to decode the mystery of me, I often found myself fantasizing about work. I know, these days it sounds utterly ridiculous, but back then I honestly thought that a career would fill me with joy, provide me with purpose, and pave my avenue to becoming a revolutionary world changer--all while providing excellent health and dental benefits.
It was a nice thought.
Now, as a 28-year-old working mother, my career has boiled down to nothing more that two simplicities...1) Work is a means to pay my overdue telephone bill, and 2) Work affords me the opportunity to listen to whatever music I want. It honestly has very little to do with "who I am."
When I look back at my romantic expectations of a career five or ten years ago, I can't help but snicker. Let's take last night for example...
I've been contracted by a town to do some consulting work. I know, sounds glamorous. Guess what--it's not. I'm overseen by a local steering committee, and last night we had a meeting where I was supposed to update all twelve members on my progress, get some feedback, and brainstorm a few ideas on what my next steps might be.
I pulled into the parking lot with four minutes to spare, and spotted the co-chairs of the committee leaning against a truck, shooting the shiz about who-knows-what. Aside from the truck, and my own car, there was only one other vehicle in the entire lot. "If that thing isn't a clown car," I thought, "then no one's showing up to this meeting."
And I was right. No one, including the person with the key to the building, decided to show up last night. So there we stood, the co-chairs and me, conducting the meeting in the middle of an elementary school parking lot, in 38 degree weather, with wind gusts topping out at 25 miles per hour. Agendas were flapping in the breeze and no one could hear a damn thing that anyone else was saying.
I was like, "HERE ARE THE BROCHURES THAT I HAD PRINTED UP. WHY DON'T YOU
EACH TAKE THREE?"
And they were like, "WHAT???!!!"
So I was all, "HERE! THE BROCHURES! TAKE SOME!" And just like that, they were scattered all over the parking lot, three adults were running in circles to catch them, and every time I bent down to retrieve a stray flyer, I'm quite sure I exposed the crack of my ass to the middle-aged co-chairs.
Truly revolutionary.
After the wrinkly flyers had been retrieved, one of the gentlemen asked me a very legitimate question. "Amy," he said, "how can we keep these committee members interested?"
"Pay them," I offered?
"We can't pay them," he replied. "This is a volunteer committee."
"Well," I continued, "then I guess it'll just be the three of us standing around in this parking lot."
Not quite what I had in mind ten years back.
Most of my time between the ages of 18 and 23 was spent in an all-out, concerted effort to find myself. If I were a betting woman, I'd place some money on the assumption that all too many of you know exactly what I'm talking about.
I would wake up in the morning, audibly ask "Who am I?," and spend the rest of the day hopping from class to bookstores to the natural food co-op in a cold hard sweat. I had no idea what made me tick, and holy hell, it was stressing me out.
Turns out I was nothing more than a cute young student, with a rockin' body, who liked to roller blade and make out with boys. Simple enough. To this day, I still wonder why the coming of age process was so unbelievably difficult for me. I was a girl who enjoyed Dairy Queen and The Gap--what in the holy heavens is so complicated about that?
These days, if someone were to put on their most serious face and ask, "Amy. Who are you?" I would probably say something like, "I'm the girl who's about to go take a poop in my office bathroom." Or, "I'm a woman who finds great satisfaction in nagging." Or, "Here, look at these stretch marks." Because honestly? That about sums me up.
During my five-year mission to decode the mystery of me, I often found myself fantasizing about work. I know, these days it sounds utterly ridiculous, but back then I honestly thought that a career would fill me with joy, provide me with purpose, and pave my avenue to becoming a revolutionary world changer--all while providing excellent health and dental benefits.
It was a nice thought.
Now, as a 28-year-old working mother, my career has boiled down to nothing more that two simplicities...1) Work is a means to pay my overdue telephone bill, and 2) Work affords me the opportunity to listen to whatever music I want. It honestly has very little to do with "who I am."
When I look back at my romantic expectations of a career five or ten years ago, I can't help but snicker. Let's take last night for example...
I've been contracted by a town to do some consulting work. I know, sounds glamorous. Guess what--it's not. I'm overseen by a local steering committee, and last night we had a meeting where I was supposed to update all twelve members on my progress, get some feedback, and brainstorm a few ideas on what my next steps might be.
I pulled into the parking lot with four minutes to spare, and spotted the co-chairs of the committee leaning against a truck, shooting the shiz about who-knows-what. Aside from the truck, and my own car, there was only one other vehicle in the entire lot. "If that thing isn't a clown car," I thought, "then no one's showing up to this meeting."
And I was right. No one, including the person with the key to the building, decided to show up last night. So there we stood, the co-chairs and me, conducting the meeting in the middle of an elementary school parking lot, in 38 degree weather, with wind gusts topping out at 25 miles per hour. Agendas were flapping in the breeze and no one could hear a damn thing that anyone else was saying.
I was like, "HERE ARE THE BROCHURES THAT I HAD PRINTED UP. WHY DON'T YOU
EACH TAKE THREE?"
And they were like, "WHAT???!!!"
So I was all, "HERE! THE BROCHURES! TAKE SOME!" And just like that, they were scattered all over the parking lot, three adults were running in circles to catch them, and every time I bent down to retrieve a stray flyer, I'm quite sure I exposed the crack of my ass to the middle-aged co-chairs.
Truly revolutionary.
After the wrinkly flyers had been retrieved, one of the gentlemen asked me a very legitimate question. "Amy," he said, "how can we keep these committee members interested?"
"Pay them," I offered?
"We can't pay them," he replied. "This is a volunteer committee."
"Well," I continued, "then I guess it'll just be the three of us standing around in this parking lot."
Not quite what I had in mind ten years back.
Amy's Easter Retrospective
April 13, 2009Everywhere I turn I see blog post after blog post after blog post all about dying Easter eggs--happy children, smiling parents, you know, the works. Now I'm not sure if I'm a craptastic mother or a sub-prime member of the human race in general, but honestly, I detest dying Easter eggs with my child. Or any child for that matter.
I sat back earlier today to reflect upon my unkind feelings, and was quite surprised to uncover the true source of my disdain. It's not what you might think, the mess doesn't bother me one fraction of an iota. I mean come one, we all know that I willingly take my child to the grocery store wearing nothing but grape jelly, snot, and a pair of Bob the Builder underpants.
My bad feelings are 100%, completely due to the eggs themselves. There's no tree to hang them from, my neighbors would look at me funny if I piled them up on my front step, and dude, they get too rancid to even make a decent sandwich out of.
What in the smokin' hell are you supposed to do with those eggs?
Some people would tell me to hide them all around my house and my yard and then let my eager, young child run around to find them. Um, yeah, okay--if I'm gonna go through that much trouble, I'd much rather spend the time teaching my kid to walk to the grocery store and use some coupons to by Mom a dozen fresh eggs, a gallon of milk, a box of tampons and some Jack Daniels chillers. I know I know, how very practical of me.
Other people would tell me put the eggs in my child's Easter basket. Well, only if I have a 2-pound pork loin, half-a dozen oranges, and some fast-acting yeast to go with 'em. Honestly, getting a pink egg for a holiday is only slightly less exciting than getting some poop in your pants on a 8-hour airplane ride--as in, not at all.
It's simple really. I prefer my Easter eggs when they're made of peanut butter and dipped in chocolate. Is that so wrong? Am I the only one? Is there anyone else like me?
Salad Anyone?
April 9, 2009
If this blog still exists when James turns thirteen, he's absolutely going to hate his mother when he reads this story...
In the last couple of months, James has made the transition from sitting to standing when he pees. He was stuck on the fence about his preferred peeing position until two weeks ago. Two weeks ago you see, Jared taught James about the hole in boy's underwear and familiarized him with its oh-so-mighty purpose.
The moment my son realized that his transformer underpants had a special secret hole just for his penis, the deal was officially sealed. Standing it is. James may very well hold the world record for level of excitement in regards to underpants, underpants with willy-holes, and the vast world of willies in general.
Every single time the child decides to use the potty, I can absolutely count on the same ten step process happening:
1) James enters the bathroom.
2) James lifts the toilet seat.
3) James drops his pants.
4) James implements proper use of the willy-hole.
5) James breathlessly screams, "Mom! Come quick! My penis fits in dis penis hoe! Mom! Come and yook! Dis is fantastic!"
6) I yell, "That's okay, buddy! I know it does! That's great!"
7) James repeats, "Mom! Come quick! My penis fits in dis penis hoe! Mom! Come and yook! Dis is fantastic!"
8) Repeat steps five, six and seven over and over and over again.
9) I give in.
10) We have a brief exchange, decide that his underpants and his penis are magical, and the kid finally pees.
Last week, when James was at my mother's house, he entered the bathroom and suspiciously, things remained quiet. My mother, unnerved by the unusual silence cracked the bathroom door to evaluate the situation. And then, just like that, my mother had to fan herself profusely to prevent herself from fainting onto the cold, linoleum floor.
You would have too if you found your almost-four-year-old grandson using your favorite set of salad servers to aim 'it' at the potty. Usually boys use their hands.
Yesterday
April 9, 2009
Okay, so yesterday went well. Maybe not well enough to rip my shirt off and circle the police station, but well enough to shoot through the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru in a topless state--and that's something. Jared has a few more details to iron out on Monday, but you can rest assured that in the meantime I definitely won't be applying at Arby's. I won't lie, I'm a little bit bummed about that.
Okay, so yesterday went well. Maybe not well enough to rip my shirt off and circle the police station, but well enough to shoot through the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru in a topless state--and that's something. Jared has a few more details to iron out on Monday, but you can rest assured that in the meantime I definitely won't be applying at Arby's. I won't lie, I'm a little bit bummed about that.
Go Jared! Go Jared!
April 8, 2009
So have you heard about the economy? In case you haven't tuned into the news or picked up a paper any time during the last, oh, year, let me fill you in. Basically, the economy is in the toilet and I'm hoping to high heavens that nobody presses the flusher.
And that about sums it up.
When we made the decision to open our own practice--in spite of the times--we anticipated that things would be relatively slow. It would take more patience, more persistence, and more creativity to find success than it would have a few years ago. People wouldn't be as willing to part with their co-pays as they have been in days gone by, and besides that, Jared would be the new guy, still trying to prove to our neck of the woods that he's not just another slick chiropractor who likes to see normal people three times a week for the rest of eternity--you know, just for sh*ts and giggles.
Fortunately, we opened a practice with very low overhead expenses and consequently Jared was pretty much out of the red the day he started cracking backs. Unfortunately we're still not very far into the black. So his practice is self-sufficient, but oh-my-heavenly-day he's still driving a 1989 Chevy Blazer with a somewhat serious oil leak. Honestly, I'm okay with it for now, I've never been much of a car person anyway, but goodness me, I know that car won't go on forever.
So if his practice is out of the red, and he's seeing more and more patients every week, why are we still driving that sexy, twenty-year-old off-roading machine?
Well, it just occured to me last night. Construction workers who lose their health benefits when their hours are dropped to part-time still throw their backs out. The woman with a neck condition so painful that it makes it almost impossible to do her job in the mail room of a college needs help--whether she's getting foreclosed on or not. And that guy who looks just like my husband? The one who works at a bank, has two kids, and drives a pretty nice Subaru? Even he can't afford to pay his bill in full right now.
So it's not that Jared's practice isn't growing. Because peoplewise, it is. I guess the real issue is that people in general are having a harder time paying their bills. And holy moly, I absolutely DEFY you to turn away a young mom who's standing in your office, heaving sobs, because she herniated a disc and can't miss work later that night.
But, the bottom line is this: we've got to do something.
Far be in from me to sound shallow, but I'm in the midst of a moderate-to-severe fashion crisis and a little extra cash would be a sure solution. Oh, and I owe the electric company a check, too--but come now, a woman's gotta have priorities! I mean seriously, what would my boyfriend think about jeans with a saggy crotch? So unbecoming on a woman like me.
Luckily, and I'm crossing my fingers and toes on this one, our answer--our "have your cake and eat it, too" answer--might have come ten days ago. We'll know for sure this afternoon. And when I say it's coming right in the nick of time, I mean it's coming right in the nick of time. We're kind of up to our nostrils in the Red Sea, hanging on to the hope that it will be parted in two, and we can safely walk to the Applebee's on the other side.
So if you're a finger crosser or a positive-thought-giver or a rabbit's foot rubber, do it for us today. If you're the praying type, send one up on Jared's behalf. However you want to do it, just send my husband some positive vibes.
I don't usually say much in regards to my faith on this blog, so you'll have to give me a pass this one time, because I just can't hold this back. I've been praying and praying about our situation for a long time--sometimes on my knees, and sometimes into my wallet in the parking lot of work--and every time I finish a prayer, the same phrase runs through my head: You take care of mine, and I'll take care of yours.
You take care of mine, and I'll take care of yours.
Then I usually squint my eyes, curl my lips, and wag my finger at the sky saying, "I hope you mean that..."
Then I'm usually like, "Oops, sorry God. That was kind of disrespectful."
So that's what we've been doing. I've been trying my hardest to take good care of Jared and James. And Jared's been trying his hardest to take good care or anyone who's in pain whether they have excellent insurance, terrible insurance, or no insurance at all.
And today, maybe today, things will come together for us.
If you see me tonight on I-95, hanging out of the sunroof of a station wagon, topless, then you'll know we struck a deal. On the other hand, if you see my husband hauling wheel-barrows of manure through barren wastelands while I take orders at Arby's, then chances are good that we probably didn't.
I'll let you know.
But in the meantime, I'm assuming the whole afternoon will be smooth sailing for my husband. After all, we looked up "HOW TO NEGOTIATE" on Google last night and there were some really good tips.
Hope you all have a great day!
So have you heard about the economy? In case you haven't tuned into the news or picked up a paper any time during the last, oh, year, let me fill you in. Basically, the economy is in the toilet and I'm hoping to high heavens that nobody presses the flusher.
And that about sums it up.
When we made the decision to open our own practice--in spite of the times--we anticipated that things would be relatively slow. It would take more patience, more persistence, and more creativity to find success than it would have a few years ago. People wouldn't be as willing to part with their co-pays as they have been in days gone by, and besides that, Jared would be the new guy, still trying to prove to our neck of the woods that he's not just another slick chiropractor who likes to see normal people three times a week for the rest of eternity--you know, just for sh*ts and giggles.
Fortunately, we opened a practice with very low overhead expenses and consequently Jared was pretty much out of the red the day he started cracking backs. Unfortunately we're still not very far into the black. So his practice is self-sufficient, but oh-my-heavenly-day he's still driving a 1989 Chevy Blazer with a somewhat serious oil leak. Honestly, I'm okay with it for now, I've never been much of a car person anyway, but goodness me, I know that car won't go on forever.
So if his practice is out of the red, and he's seeing more and more patients every week, why are we still driving that sexy, twenty-year-old off-roading machine?
Well, it just occured to me last night. Construction workers who lose their health benefits when their hours are dropped to part-time still throw their backs out. The woman with a neck condition so painful that it makes it almost impossible to do her job in the mail room of a college needs help--whether she's getting foreclosed on or not. And that guy who looks just like my husband? The one who works at a bank, has two kids, and drives a pretty nice Subaru? Even he can't afford to pay his bill in full right now.
So it's not that Jared's practice isn't growing. Because peoplewise, it is. I guess the real issue is that people in general are having a harder time paying their bills. And holy moly, I absolutely DEFY you to turn away a young mom who's standing in your office, heaving sobs, because she herniated a disc and can't miss work later that night.
But, the bottom line is this: we've got to do something.
Far be in from me to sound shallow, but I'm in the midst of a moderate-to-severe fashion crisis and a little extra cash would be a sure solution. Oh, and I owe the electric company a check, too--but come now, a woman's gotta have priorities! I mean seriously, what would my boyfriend think about jeans with a saggy crotch? So unbecoming on a woman like me.
Luckily, and I'm crossing my fingers and toes on this one, our answer--our "have your cake and eat it, too" answer--might have come ten days ago. We'll know for sure this afternoon. And when I say it's coming right in the nick of time, I mean it's coming right in the nick of time. We're kind of up to our nostrils in the Red Sea, hanging on to the hope that it will be parted in two, and we can safely walk to the Applebee's on the other side.
So if you're a finger crosser or a positive-thought-giver or a rabbit's foot rubber, do it for us today. If you're the praying type, send one up on Jared's behalf. However you want to do it, just send my husband some positive vibes.
I don't usually say much in regards to my faith on this blog, so you'll have to give me a pass this one time, because I just can't hold this back. I've been praying and praying about our situation for a long time--sometimes on my knees, and sometimes into my wallet in the parking lot of work--and every time I finish a prayer, the same phrase runs through my head: You take care of mine, and I'll take care of yours.
You take care of mine, and I'll take care of yours.
Then I usually squint my eyes, curl my lips, and wag my finger at the sky saying, "I hope you mean that..."
Then I'm usually like, "Oops, sorry God. That was kind of disrespectful."
So that's what we've been doing. I've been trying my hardest to take good care of Jared and James. And Jared's been trying his hardest to take good care or anyone who's in pain whether they have excellent insurance, terrible insurance, or no insurance at all.
And today, maybe today, things will come together for us.
If you see me tonight on I-95, hanging out of the sunroof of a station wagon, topless, then you'll know we struck a deal. On the other hand, if you see my husband hauling wheel-barrows of manure through barren wastelands while I take orders at Arby's, then chances are good that we probably didn't.
I'll let you know.
But in the meantime, I'm assuming the whole afternoon will be smooth sailing for my husband. After all, we looked up "HOW TO NEGOTIATE" on Google last night and there were some really good tips.
Hope you all have a great day!
Quality of Life
April 6, 2009
Phew. Last week it felt like my little family was spread all over the dang map. Probably because we were. From Utah to Arizona to Georgia to Massachusetts, my clan was seriously dispersed. But today I'm happy to announce that I'm back, Jared's back, the dog's back, and honestly, I'm not really sure where James is.
Last week I taught him how to hide under a bed, and my oh my, what a wonderful gift this has been to myself. Basically James spends three hours hiding, crawls out for a potty break, three more hours hiding, emerges for a snack, and so on and so forth.
Today I might send him under the bed with a box of granola bars and his portable DVD player. According to my calculations, this would buy me more than enough time to take a brief shopping trip to TJ Maxx. And dude, I love TJ Maxx.
Today I would like to know if there are any women out there who don't love TJ Maxx, and if so, I want to hear an exceptional excuse.
This week I bought a Liz Claiborne bra, with a manufacturer's suggested retail of $30, for THREE DOLLARS! Honest to goodness, my boobs look absolutely breathtaking and I had enough money left over for a six-pack of burger shots from my neighborhood BK.
I love my life. But only because of TJ Maxx.
Please feel free to join with me in the love fest...or give me that really good excuse.
Happy Monday everyone!
Phew. Last week it felt like my little family was spread all over the dang map. Probably because we were. From Utah to Arizona to Georgia to Massachusetts, my clan was seriously dispersed. But today I'm happy to announce that I'm back, Jared's back, the dog's back, and honestly, I'm not really sure where James is.
Last week I taught him how to hide under a bed, and my oh my, what a wonderful gift this has been to myself. Basically James spends three hours hiding, crawls out for a potty break, three more hours hiding, emerges for a snack, and so on and so forth.
Today I might send him under the bed with a box of granola bars and his portable DVD player. According to my calculations, this would buy me more than enough time to take a brief shopping trip to TJ Maxx. And dude, I love TJ Maxx.
Today I would like to know if there are any women out there who don't love TJ Maxx, and if so, I want to hear an exceptional excuse.
This week I bought a Liz Claiborne bra, with a manufacturer's suggested retail of $30, for THREE DOLLARS! Honest to goodness, my boobs look absolutely breathtaking and I had enough money left over for a six-pack of burger shots from my neighborhood BK.
I love my life. But only because of TJ Maxx.
Please feel free to join with me in the love fest...or give me that really good excuse.
Happy Monday everyone!
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