The Lawson Family Debates

January 31, 2008

There has been a major shift in the Lawson family, and all of the sudden I'm married to a political junkie. Jared just can't seem to get enough of this stuff. When I come home in the afternoon the man is usually watching C-SPAN or CNN or some ugly old guy talking about what happened on C-SPAN or CNN. I'm usually like, "Real men watch HGTV Jared. If you want to stay informed, switch it to channel 32. You'll learn how to match crown molding to a bed skirt."

He never goes for it, and consequently, I'm in the process of losing my mind.

Now that he's a stay-at-home-dad, Jared has used his time to teach James how to march around like a wind-up toy and chant, "Mitt! Mitt! Mitt!" In retaliation, my mother has taught James to get that dreamy look in his two-year-old eye and say, "I looooove Hillary." And me? I just sit back and watch them confuse the hell out of my innocent little toddler. Every now and again I'll muster up the energy to interject and say, "James, don't listen to either of them. You're two, and the only thing you need to know is how to order a Snickers Blizzard at the Dairy Queen window. You can form your own opinion when you're old enough to drive a motor scooter." That usually quiets the masses.

It's really no wonder that James is receiving so many mixed messages. I was raised by a long, hard line of staunch Democratic supporters. Once my Grandfather earned his American citizenship, it didn't matter if the left-wing candidate wore underpants on his head and his running mate was a full-bred Shetland pony--he voted straight Democratic every single time.

And my in-law's? They'd vote for the Republican kazoo player named Mr. Pickles without a moment's hesitation--because let's face it folks, if you want the Earth to remain on its axis, a right-winged vote is the only sensible way to go.

And then there's me. I'm like, "Mmmmmm..I'm voting for the brown hooker boots. Those ballet flats make her calves look really fat even though they're TOTALLY NOT!"

I like The Style Network.

Last night, Jared had the nerve to switch off American Idol so he could watch another Presidential debate. And I swear on my package of Breath Saver mints, that this is the seventh or eighth debate we've watched in the last couple of weeks. After a few minutes of the same old stuff, I stood up and announced that I'd be watching the Idol auditions upstairs.

In retaliation of my viewing selection, Jared informed me that it's not only fun, but it's also my patriotic duty to watch the debates and learn something meaningful. Far be it from me--the professional public servant--to ignore my nationalistic obligations, so I plopped my rear back on the couch and decided to "get something out of it." More specifically, I paid close attention to the candidates' style of interpersonal communication, and sharpened my skills of debate.

Get a load of this.

Jared: Amy, why'd you leave your dish in the sink?
Amy: I don't see why you have a problem with that; after all, YOU left YOUR dishes in the sink for twenty-four straight hours last August.

Jared: Did you eat the rest of the chocolate cake?
Amy: First, let's discuss the fact that YOU ate the rest of the cookie dough ICE CREAM!

Jared: Look at this credit card bill! Did you seriously spend eighty-eight dollars on a pair of jeans?
Amy: I'd watch what you say, Mister three-hundred-dollar-fishing

-pole! And no, you're way off the mark, they were $87.50. Get your facts straight.

Jared: Can you put some gas in the car?
Amy: Can you get a haircut and do a few push-ups?

And that's that, folks--I'm officially off the hook for the rest of the primaries, and probably the rest of my life, too. Next week we're totally watching American Idol.

Sing a Song of Pooping

January 29, 2008

We're in the throws of potty training James, and I hate to say it, but so far not so good. For a child who's mastered all of the developmental milestones at the appropriate times (with virtually no guidance from his lazy-sack-of-a-mother), things are surprisingly different. Even the singing potty doesn't seem to help.

Yes, that's right, it's a singing potty--much different from the coffee cans that we were all trained on. It can sense when the child sits down and it's all like:

HEY THERE BIG KID, WELCOME BACK!
YOU'RE SO SMART, YOU'RE RIGHT ON TRACK!
PEE ON ME something something.
GET A PRIZE yadda yadda yadda.
EXTRA POINTS FOR NUMBER TWO!

You get the idea. It also has a victory song for successful attempts. At least that's what the box says.we haven't heard it yet.

As if the singing isn't cool enough, this potty also has a shiny silver target at the bottom of the bowl, stars that flash and sparkle when you do your business, and an automatic sticker dispenser on the side.

He just doesn't seem to get it.

He'll sit on his potty with a look of bold determination on his face, while his eyes are fixed firmly on the prize--a medium-sized Tupperware container filled to the brim with big, fat, Peanut M&Ms. He'll try with all of his might to make something happen--he'll tap his hands and feet, hum the tune to Eye of the Tiger (I taught him that), and give himself pep talks--but nothing does the trick.

And then, after he gets tired of trying, the same thing happens every time--he'll hop off his potty, pull up his Sponge Bob underoos, and resume playing. Within three minutes we'll hear a chorus of sad sobs coming from his room--after all, it's a real bummer when you pee in the bed of your dump truck.or on your newly built block tower.or in your pet greyhound's ear.

So today my dear readers, I come before you, humbly seeking your advice. One reader has shared her successful potty training technique with me, but what about the rest of you--how did you teach your kids to hit the singing target? How did you get your husband to stop eating the reward M&Ms?

James will be three in April--am I pushing him too hard? Am I letting him off the hook too easily? Should I trade him in the newer model?

I don't care if you're young or old, male or female, a parent or childless--I need some input and ideas, people. Help a girl out.

Drunk Dialing

January 26, 2008

I've been out of college for almost six years, so I haven't thought about drunk dialing in quite some time. In case you're not familiar with the concept of the drunk dial (i.e. you're old, a BYU graduate, boring, a non-phone-user, etc.), then I'll take a moment to explain.

Drunk dialing occurs when a person has consumed too much alcohol and has the strong and sudden urge to call every person on his or her cell phone contact list--excluding parents, of course. The calls almost always serve one of three distinct purposes:

1) To express feelings of strong, undying love to a friend or ex-love.
2) To express feelings of strong, undying dislike to a friend or ex-love.
3) To be honest with a friend by letting them know that they looked awful today and should lose seven pounds immediately.

I've rarely witnessed a drunk dial phone call that's conveyed an idea that isn't listed above--and yesterday, my friends, was no exception.

Allow me to explain...

Yesterday afternoon, my eighteen-year-old brother-in-law had oral surgery, and Jared and I were lucky enough to be in town for the whole extravaganza. Why did he have surgery you ask? Well, a few years ago Bryan knocked out one of his front teeth in a ski jumping accident, and for the last little while he's been forced to think about the consequences of that event every time he wears his retainer with the fabulous fake tooth attachment.

Poor kid.

Bryan was voted "Best Dressed" in his senior class by an overwhelming margin, so he obviously takes some concern in how he looks. Whenever he gets ready for a date with his girlfriend he'll stand in front of the full length mirror and be like, "I've got my trendy hat, my awesome jeans, my sexy new sweater from American Eagle, and my faux tooth is firmly in place. I think I'm ready to pick her up." Yesterday, much to his relief, Bryan was able to undergo the first step of having a permanent fake tooth--a bone graft in his mouth.

Apparently, a bone graft is no small deal--because as far as I could tell, it required approximately sixty-seven gallons of heavy duty anesthesia to put this child under. After the procedure...well, I should rephrase that...right after Bryan proceeded to call every member of the medical staff a bastard, my mother-in-law dropped him off at home and headed to the pharmacy to pick up the pain medication.

As soon as she pulled out of the driveway, Bryan decided to watch some television. I observed with great interest as he tried again and again to change the channel with the butt end of the remote control. When I suggested that he should turn the clicker around, Bryan looked at me with a set of crazed, piercing eyes and snapped, "Shut up, Monica. I can do it myself. I can do it MYSELF." Then he tossed the remote across the room, rolled over dramatically, and began snoring like my '89 Blazer.

Fifteen minutes later, when he came to, I noticed that Bryan was fiddling around with his cell phone. I was like, "Dude, what are you doing?"

"I'm calling people," he moaned. "I'm calling my girl."

At that moment, I was overcome with a great deal of joy and anticipation. I COULDN'T FREAKING WAIT to hear what he had to say. When his girlfriend finally picked up, Bryan was all, "Ha Emmmmmmmmma. I. I. I. I. I. I just luff you. I just luff you. And my skis. Yer so pretty and very much hot. Later." And he hung up on her.

Then he called her again, and said something like, "My mouth hurts like a....I don't know...never mind." And he hung up on her again.

He dialed her up one more time and rambled for a few minutes about NASCAR, basketball, and some other senseless shiz. At that point, for the sake of Emma, I decided to confiscate his phone. Consequently, I was quickly added his expanding list of bastards.

"Just for that," I replied, "I'm gonna take your picture." But before I could steal a photo, my mother-in-law pulled into the driveway with a bag full of narcotics.

Damn.

So I threw the camera under the coach, and the moment I heard the front door open, I knelt by Bryan's side, began to stroke his hair and said something sweet like, "Oh friend, I'd like to ease your pain. What can I get for you?"

Meredith was all, "Oh, thanks for being so great, Amy. Thanks for taking care of my boy. I'm going to get his medication ready."

"Great," I replied. "He really needs it."

After he took the meds, I patiently waited for the codeine to kick in, positioned the phone back into his limp, lifeless fist and said, "Ummm...Emma called, she wants you to call her back."

Let me tell you--It was awesome.

Freedom on Wheels

January 24, 2008

I don't know about you, but in the midst of my daydreams, I often find myself planning the intricate details of my retirement years. Not the financial details of course, only the fun parts.

When I graduated from college a few years back, everyone seemed to ask the very same question, "So... now that you've graduated what are your plans?" And I'd usually give the same reply, "I’m planning to skip the work thing all together and head straight for the golden years of retirement." For some reason, most of my friends and family members thought I was joking around—definitely not the case.

Obviously things haven't fallen into place exactly as I’d hoped, but I've crunched some numbers and we've adapted the dream accordingly.

Here's a rundown of the updated plan:

At age 62, Jared and I will sell our house, our Blazer, and our dog. We'll use the profits from our house to do the only sensible thing—buy a gently used RV. And we'll use the profits from our car to do the only other sensible thing—commission an airbrush aficionado to trick out the exterior with a custom piece of artwork. We're talking six-foot-tall caricatures of Jared and me, arm wrestling our ‘lil cartoon hearts out, while we wear matching t-shirts that boast the slogan "FREEDOM ON WHEELS." And finally—last but certainly not least—we'll use the profits from the sale of the dog to eat at the Cracker Barrel five or six times.

Our outfits have been well thought out, too. We will have seven matching his & hers wind suits (one for each day of the week), bright white Reebok sneakers, and sensible haircuts that are oh-so-easy to maintain. We'll live in the rig full time, and drive that beauty from coast to coast as we visit grandchildren, ride every roller coaster in the continental United States, and stop at a Will Ferrell movie every chance we get.

I just started this job, and I like it pretty well, so you’re probably wondering why I have retirement on the brain this afternoon. The answer my friends, is very simple—I just finished chatting with our local electrical inspector, Joe. Joe works four days a week, in two different towns, inspecting the electrical systems in new and renovated buildings, and get this—Joe is eighty-eight years old!!! According to our conversation, he's retired three different times, he has pensions coming at him from four different sources, and he just can't stand the thought of sitting around at home. Obviously, he’s one hell of a guy.

So tell me this...Are you an Amy or are you a Joe? Do you dream about work or do you dream about play? If you tend toward the side of sweat and toil, feel free to spare me the details. But if you dream about shuffleboard at the senior center, then I want to hear all about it. What do you plan to do with your golden years?

A Few Items of Business

January 23, 2008

I’ve got a few items of business to cover on this lovely winter morning.

First, I’d like to say hello to all of my new readers and commenters out there. It’s really very nice to see a few new faces in those tiny little boxes next to the comments. I’ve noticed that you all have exceptionally nice hair. Keep up the good work.

Second, I’d like to say hello to all of my old cyber friends out there. I’m sorry if it seems like I’ve lost touch lately—I have. Tragically, I’m without an internet connection at home these days. It’s absolutely horrible and I can barely believe it myself. In order to read and post blogs I’ve been sitting in my station wagon, in the dead of winter, in the parking lot of a Chinese restaurant, poaching their wireless signal. To top it all off, my laptop battery carries about thirty-three minutes on a full charge.

Before you get carried away with your crying, I’m happy to inform you that there is hope—we found a house, and our offer has been accepted. It’s a nice house, suitable for grown-ups, and we’re very excited about it. This place has a dishwasher that works, windows that open and close, and enough wall space for my impressive collection of Beyonce posters—because she really is bootylicious. It also has a nice, sturdy garage that will suitably protect my ’89 Blazer from the harsh winter elements, and a finished basement that tends to bring Hell to mind. You know—dark wood paneling from the ‘70’s, bright red carpet, and the creepiest looking wood stove you’ve ever seen. When we were looking at the house, the agent was like, “What do you think of the woodstove?” And I was all, “Uuummmm. It looks like something out of the scary part of a Disney movie. Like you could throw all of the misbehaving furniture into it.” He looked at me with a very confused expression and replied, “So you don’t like it then?” And I was like, “No. Why would you think that? I totally like it.”

And finally, this is the last item of business on my list today. Please note, that even in the most casual of offices, it is never appropriate to sign emails to your boss’s boss with the terms “Stay Cool” or “Over and Out.” Although I haven’t received confirmation on this, I feel it’s safe to assume that you should avoid the phrase “Smell Ya Later” as well.

Have a great one, troops!