SHORT TITLE: The New Guy

LONG TITLE: The Post in which I Offend Utah'ns, Exasperate Missionary Moms, and Possibly Earn a Talking-To From My Father-in-Law.

December 31, 2008

There's a set of Mormon missionaries that live a couple of blocks away from our house, so we end up seeing them a lot. Whenever they're cold, hungry, or really have to poop they always seem to find their way to the Lawson house. And conveniently enough, they usually come by when my favorite reality t.v. show is on.

I'm like, "Hey guys, wanna watch Mama's Boys with me?"

And they're like, "Sorry we're not allowed to watch t.v."

So I'm like, "Get out."

And they giggle.

So I'm all, "No. Seriously. Get out."

And they giggle some more.

These nineteen-year-old boys I tell ya, they're not very responsive to subtle hinting--or blatant insults for that matter.

Yesterday, one of the missionaries (or Elders, as we like to call them) was transferred to a different area in the mission, and consequently, a new Elder moved in--and by new, I mean really, really new.

As in this guy just got off the airplane from Salt Lake City yesterday.

Sucker.

This kid, bless is soul, is just about as "Utah Mormon" as it gets--spiked up hair, huge cheesy grin, and I kid you not, he offered a double thumbs-up when I was talking about a co-worker and used the word "Republican."

He was like, "Sweet. Republicans. Are you guys Republicans?"

Jared nodded in the affirmative, swung his head to meet my gaze and offered the classic "And You?" kind of look. Then we both broke out into a snorting fit of laughter, because hot dog, I am most certainly not a Republican. I'm an Independant.

But let's just say that I'm exceedingly jealous of Barack Obama's seamstress. That lucky woman gets to wrap a tape measure around the President Elect's very upper thigh region every time he buys a new suit. When she mysteriously dies from a poisoned cocktail I will absolutely apply for her job. And dodge the FBI.

The new missionary tried his very best to make it appear as though he wasn't feeling anxious. He even went so far as to say, "Nope I'm not nervous to be on my mission at all." Lucky for me, I could see right through his act--that young man wanted to sh** a brick, right there on my kitchen bar stool. Seriously folks, I could see that he was fighting the urge.

This kid's sphincter was hanging by a thread.

As the conversation awkwardly rolled on--and I returned a few emails for work--Elder NewGuy turned toward Jared, looked him in the eye, and asked, "So. What do you do for work?"

"I'm a chiropractor."

"Oh, that's good," he coolly replied. Then, while he maintained eye contact with my husband, Elder NewGuy pointed his finger in my direction and said, "So she does nothing?"

Not So Sister Lawson, what do you do? Or So Brother Lawson, does your wife work?

He assumed that SHE (me) DOES NOTHING!

Two Problems Here:

1) This kid had the nerve to refer to me as "she" while I was sitting four feet away.

2) We were gathered around a table that was topped with finger paintings--obviously not my homemade handiwork. They happened to belong to the child who was sleeping upstairs. The child who knows all of his letters, can count to thirty, and is more than happy to fart on command.

Obviously, I don't do nothing.

On top of that, I have quite a few letters after my name, and a career to boot. While I rarely discuss my work on this blog, I will mention one thing--my job title is Executive Director. And my flexible, part-time schedule? It's strictly due to my awesomeness.

The room fell completely silent as I looked up from my laptop screen and locked eyes with this greenie missionary--who, I would gather from the thoughtfulness of that comment, was far more nervous than he actually let on.

"You know Elder," I calmly said, "you should realize that you're not in Utah anymore. If I were you, I'd never talk to a New England woman like that ever again. Ever. Again."

And then, I'm pretty sure his sphincter actually did let go.

So welcome to New England, young man! Welcome to New England.

It's gonna be a good two years...

Hold Please...

December 30, 2008

Yesterday afternoon, as I was driving home from work, I rounded the corner to find five hollow-headed kids running and jumping all over the semi-frozen lake.

In the dead of the winter, once the cold really sets in, the lake turns into a city of it's own--the snowmobiles carve roads, the ice-fishing shacks pop up next to them, and the drunks make snow angels in the dead of the night. It's all very picturesque.

But not yet.

So far this winter we've watched the lake freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw, only to freeze and thaw again--and after last week's warm spell, the lake is definitely on the thaw. The ice seems to be an inch-or-so thick, covered with thin puddles, and dotted with occasional holes.

It's not ready for walking, it's not ready for running, and earth to all junior high students...IT'S MOST DEFINITELY NOT READY FOR JUMPING!

So I drive by, spot these little dumb-butts, and think to myself, "She-ut. I can't let those crappers just fall through the ice." They were hundreds of feet out, and honestly, I have no idea how a rescue would work when they all plunged through at the very same moment.

What could I do? I pulled into my driveway, grabbed the portable phone and dialed the police.

It rang, and rang, and rang. Finally, on the fifth ring, someone--as in an electronic voice--picked up the phone.

Hello it said. You're reached 911. Please don't hang up.

*Uh yeah, wasn't planning on it,* I say to myself in my head.

And some hold music kicks on.

I wait about twenty seconds, and hear: Hello. You've reached 911. Please don't hang up. And the music continues to play.

*Nothing like a little elevator jazz to hold you over while you're having a heart attack,* I think.

The voice repeated itself twenty seconds later, and again twenty second later. Suddenly it began to dawn on me how lackadaisical and monotone this voice really was--and I started to feel angry.

*Can't they at least find a voice that sounds like it cares* I think? *Can't this robot express a teeny bit of urgency?*

Finally, a real person picks up....

DISPATCHER: 911, what's your emergency?

ME: There are five unsupervised kids playing on thin ice.

DISPATCHER: Seriously!? Oh my gosh, that's so dangerous!

ME: I know, that's why I called.

DISPATCHER: I can't believe how stupid kids can be!

ME: Um, yeah. Do you think you can send an officer by the lake to take care of it?

DISPATCHER: Let me transfer your call.

By this point I was ready to throw some rope over my shoulder, drag my canoe down the road, and execute a solo rescue.

Moral of the story? Try not to get hurt while you're passing through my little town--chances are, you'll die of exposure.

Christmas Recap

December 26, 2008

I hope everyone had an excellent Christmas!

Here in Maine, we took joy in scaring the shiz out of our next door neighbors*...

We practiced the patented Lawson smile...

We played in the snow...

As soon as January 1st rolls around, this snowman is buying a gym membership. And my father? He's resolved to practice his facial expressions in the bathroom mirror for ten minutes every morning.

On Christmas Eve we reenacted the Christmas story, farm animals and all. When James heard we were dressing up, he insisted on wearing his bat costume from Halloween. I said no. He thought for a minute, and decided he'd rather be a ghost. I was like, "Fine. But can we at least settle on the Holy Ghost?"

The final result was breathtaking...

That's right, Joseph's turban was all thanks to me.

Happy Friday, everyone!

*FYI: trigger locked, unloaded, and James was out with Grandma--and yeah, totally kidding about the neighbor thing.

A Christmas Message from James

December 23, 2008

I'm a big believer in allowing kids the freedom to make their own decisions.

Don't count me as crazy here--James doesn't determine his own bedtime, or whether or not we make it to church on Sunday--I let him choose the inconsequential things like birthday cards, and light-up boots, and the flavor of his yogurt.

And that my friends, is precisely why his best friend Sophia recieved a nice array of decorative-faux-fruit for her second birthday. It's also why my kid has quite the fluffy hair-do. What can I say? The child likes his hair when it's high. Why fight it?

I even let James chose the color of his bedroom--which, I should add, was no easy feat. Every time we'd talk about the project, he'd insist that I paint his room 'triangle.' I was like, "Dude. What? Triangle?"

And he'd flattly reply, "Triangle."

Finally, at the suggesstion of my sister, I drove to the hardware store, grabbed a few paint chips that I deemed acceptable and brought them home to James.

"Show me triangle, buddy."

Turns out that it's a happy shade of bright light blue.

Last night James and I sat down to fill out a Christmas card for his teacher. I selected the card on my own, and since it didn't feature a photo of a kitten tangled in a ball of yarn or a cartoon drawing of a naked butt (images that James is typically drawn to), it simply begged for some three-year-old spice.

"James," I said, "We need to write a message to Miss Nancy. You tell me what to write, and I'll put in this Christmas card."

He looked confused.

"We'll write a message to Miss Nancy in this card, and she'll read it and feel happy," I continued.

He still looked confused.

I decided to go at it from a different angle..."What do you want the message to say, Buddy?"

"Nancy," he said, thoughfully scrunching his nose and eyes while looking off to the left. "This is a message," he continued.

"From me, James."

Well okay then. Thank you Captian Literal.

The Joy of Receiving

December 19, 2008

Less than a week to go until Christmas, and I'm finding it next to impossible to concentrate at the office. As immature as this might sound, all I want to do is get presents. Sure I like to give, but I'd be a bold-faced liar if I didn't admit my true preference--which obviously falls on the receiving end of the spectrum.

Jared caved to temptation early this year and let me open my big Christmas present (All Hail The Holy Bread Maker) last week. I screamed, I jumped, we hugged, and within 58 minutes we had a perfect loaf of oatmeal bread to fill the collective void in our lives.

I just love Christmas.

I let Jared have his present last week, too. For all of your country folk out there, I bought my husband a Ruger Red Label Double Barrel Over Under 12-Gauge. In other words, I bought my husband a shot gun--which bears a striking resemblance to Elmer Fudd's.

Seriously.

Please don't hyperventilate. This gun of his has a trigger lock, a barrel lock, and two different padlocks on the case. It stays on the top shelf of a locked closet, and the ammunition is kept in a combination safe. And to put a cherry on top of the gun-safety sundae, all of the keys are in Jared's desk drawer. At his office.

Trust me, it's the plugged-in power tools that we should all be losing sleep over.

If Jared's gun still makes you wary of juvenile play dates at Chez Lawson, then I ask you this: Where do you live, and for how many hours can James stay at your house?

Really folks, this thing will do me absolutely no good against a burglar or an escaped circus lion--I'll just have to handle those type of threats with my brute strength and bare hands thankyouverymuch.

As you might imagine, Jared has been loving his gift far more than he's ever loved his wife--it's quite obvious. Several times a week, my husband will brave the wind, cold, and snow, just to get his jollies blasting skeet at the public shooting range (yes, we have those here in Maine). Trust me guys, he would never dream of "frolicking" with me in a snowbank. Ne. Ver.

But it's fine, I have fifty loaves of rye bread to keep me company. And they wear their butter so well. Sooooo well.