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.
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