July 29, 2009
Last night I had a very restless sleep, and surprisingly enough it wasn't due to the three pound baby in my belly. Actually, it can be attributed to the one-hundred-fifty pound baby who sleeps right next to me.
Yes, I'm kindly referring to my husband.
Sure he elbowed me square in the nose three time last night, but the real piece-de-resistance? That came at 3:13am when he violently shook me awake saying, "Amy! Amy! Amy!"
I woke up instantly, not sure if Jared was having a minor heart attack or had accidentally pooped the bed--either way, it was obvious that he needed me.
"Amy! Amy!" he continued.
I opened my eyes to find him two inches away from my face, eyelids shut, but somehow looking frantic. "What Jared? What's going on," I demanded?
"It's the middle of the night," he said. "And you're sleeping."
Seriously? Was that it?
Yes. It was.
By the time the words, "It's the middle of the night, and YOU'RE DEAD" had the time to flow off my lips in response, he was rolled over, wrapped in the blanket, sleeping like a man in a coma.
My dream of twin beds? It lives on.
The Truth Revealed
July 28, 2009
Welp, I fooled ya, but not by much. Let's recap:
Sammy and the Dress--With the exception of the first name "Sammy" that story is 100% entirely true. What else is there to say?
The Seminary--Also 100% completely true. But I will admit, that after some quick Googling, I realized that Hannibal Hamlin wasn't a former governor of Maine, he was actually Abe Lincoln's Vice President--an infinitely bigger deal. What can I say? History's never been my strong point. Bu-ut thanks to this sexalicious hot pot, I'm fairly well versed in world religions.
The Great American Poop Incident--Unfortunately, it's true. Thank goodness I'm so hopeless when it comes to history, otherwise I know I'd feel ever more ashamed than I already do--which I assure you is a great deal. Please direct all hatemail to Amy_Lawson@sheshatonahero.com. I'll be sure to get right back to you.
Sticky Sweet Revenge--50% false. We all know that Texas real estate agents are in fact that bad. But we also know that my husband doesn't love me nearly that much. I did meet a real estate agent who pulled over, told me I was huge, and handed me a card--but then she drove off. Nothing lost but 83% of my already low self esteem.
So that's that. If you would like verification, feel free to contact my mother--she's great.
Welp, I fooled ya, but not by much. Let's recap:
Sammy and the Dress--With the exception of the first name "Sammy" that story is 100% entirely true. What else is there to say?
The Seminary--Also 100% completely true. But I will admit, that after some quick Googling, I realized that Hannibal Hamlin wasn't a former governor of Maine, he was actually Abe Lincoln's Vice President--an infinitely bigger deal. What can I say? History's never been my strong point. Bu-ut thanks to this sexalicious hot pot, I'm fairly well versed in world religions.
The Great American Poop Incident--Unfortunately, it's true. Thank goodness I'm so hopeless when it comes to history, otherwise I know I'd feel ever more ashamed than I already do--which I assure you is a great deal. Please direct all hatemail to Amy_Lawson@sheshatonahero.com. I'll be sure to get right back to you.
Sticky Sweet Revenge--50% false. We all know that Texas real estate agents are in fact that bad. But we also know that my husband doesn't love me nearly that much. I did meet a real estate agent who pulled over, told me I was huge, and handed me a card--but then she drove off. Nothing lost but 83% of my already low self esteem.
So that's that. If you would like verification, feel free to contact my mother--she's great.
Voting is Open
July 23, 2009
Voting is open until Monday evening in the top right corner of my blog. You Google Reader users will to have to click on over--I know, soooo inconvenient while you're trying to dodge your work!
I'm loving the discussion ad deductive reasoning--it's so funny!!!
Voting is open until Monday evening in the top right corner of my blog. You Google Reader users will to have to click on over--I know, soooo inconvenient while you're trying to dodge your work!
I'm loving the discussion ad deductive reasoning--it's so funny!!!
Three Truths and a Lie: Sticky Sweet Revenge
July 23, 2009
And this concludes the fourth and final day of Three Truths and a Lie, which is still an idea stolen straight from the pages of CJane.
In case you haven't been following along, I've written four stories this week--three are true, and one is a total and complete lie. Voting will commence tomorrow to see if you guys are smart enough to know when I'm fibbing.
And, as always, if you know me in real life, please don't spill the beans...
Back when I was pregnant with James, I had the sweetest little attitude. I have no idea how or why I've morphed into such a hormonal nightmare over the last five years, but I promise, these two pregnancies are totally and completely different.
We were new to Dallas at the time--living in a neighborhood that was super manicured, ultra-trendy, and in my opinion, friendly-to-the-point-of-almost-being-creepy. Our neighbor on one side drove an Audi TT, our neighbor on the other side drove a convertible Mercedes Kompressor, we on the other hand, drove an '89 Blazer. It's needless to say that Jared and I didn't fit in as seamlessly as we would have liked to.
We had rented the duplex sight-unseen, while we were still living in Maine, so we really had no idea how lucky we were to be occupying the rattiest, crookedest, crappiest house in a very well-to-do neighborhood.
I was already ten weeks pregnant by the time we made the move, and people were so incredibly kind--bringing plates of cookies while we unpacked, listening (with true interest mind you) to the details of where we'd come from and where we were going, and constantly complimenting my pregnant glow.
We most certainly weren't in New England anymore. And looking back, I think I had no choice but to be super sweet and happy--you know, in a Southern chicken-fried kind of way.
One afternoon, when I was about eight months pregnant, I was walking Gracie down the street when a black Toyota Camry pulled next to me on the side of the road. The window rolled down and a super-coiffed head popped out and said (in a sticky Texas accent), "Ha hun, when er you due?"
"In April," I said. "I've got two more months to go."
"Wow," the woman replied. "Ma sister had twins and I promise she never got nearly that big! Yer cute, but ya sure are big!"
The New England in me wanted to clean her glossy, little clock with my big, fat, pregnant fist--but I resisted, acted like a proper Southern lady and giggled in response to everything she had to say.
Turns out she was a real estate agent, prowling the neighborhood for new clients and new listings. Mmmm yeah, at that time our income consisted of nothing but student loans and my husband's biweekly check from the petfood shop--I'd have to go out on a limb and say that we definitely weren't interested.
She handed me one of her cards, on which her hair appeared even larger than it did in real life that day (nothing short of mind blowing), I thanked her and proceeded on my way.
I managed to make it about three steps before her Toyota lurched forward and stopped next to me again. "Sweetie," she questioned? "Would you mind terribly just runnin' up to that door and stickin' one of ma cards in it?"
"Um, sure. No problem. I can do that," I answered.
"And how 'bout that next house?" Why don't ya just go ahead and get that one, too. Ya know, while you're up there."
"Yeah, that's fine," I said--with the reasoning that pleasing this women might somehow lead to her departure.
Well friends, I was wrong. The woman in the Toyota continued her lurch-beg-con scam for the entirety of the street. Before I knew it, I had been tricked into peppering every single screen door on Valencia Drive with this blow hole's business card--at eight months pregnant, in the eighty degree heat, while her Gucci ass never left the comfort of the cool, leather seats.
I knew what she was doing, I just didn't know how to put my foot down. And just like that, I was a sucker.
When we reached the end of the street, she thanked me profusely, called me a 'sweetheart' over and over again, handed me a chilled bottle of Ozarka saying, "Aw hun, you need this," and promptly sped off.
I walked home, feeling stupid, tired and defeated. By the time I reached my front door, I was sobbing like a preteen--what a mother lovin' ho she was.
When Jared came home later that afternoon, I recounted the story, and it's needless to say that he was angry. "She WHAT," he exclaimed?! "Amy that's horrible, you should call her real estate agency or something."
"No, Jared. I feel stupid, I just want to forget about it."
"Fine," he agreed, not wanting to rock the S.S. Hormonal.
I went to bed early that night, couldn't sleep, and continued to cry in embarrassment when I got out of bed the next morning. I felt so used, so tricked, so dirty, so pregnant--and that my friends, is when Jared pulled into the driveway with the solution to my problem.
My husband, my sweet Jared, had gone to the computer lab at school, taken this lady's picture and contact information off of her website and printed up one-hundred-or-so homemade business cards with the following slogan stamped in bold:
And this concludes the fourth and final day of Three Truths and a Lie, which is still an idea stolen straight from the pages of CJane.
In case you haven't been following along, I've written four stories this week--three are true, and one is a total and complete lie. Voting will commence tomorrow to see if you guys are smart enough to know when I'm fibbing.
And, as always, if you know me in real life, please don't spill the beans...
*****
Sticky Sweet Revenge
Back when I was pregnant with James, I had the sweetest little attitude. I have no idea how or why I've morphed into such a hormonal nightmare over the last five years, but I promise, these two pregnancies are totally and completely different.
We were new to Dallas at the time--living in a neighborhood that was super manicured, ultra-trendy, and in my opinion, friendly-to-the-point-of-almost-being-creepy. Our neighbor on one side drove an Audi TT, our neighbor on the other side drove a convertible Mercedes Kompressor, we on the other hand, drove an '89 Blazer. It's needless to say that Jared and I didn't fit in as seamlessly as we would have liked to.
We had rented the duplex sight-unseen, while we were still living in Maine, so we really had no idea how lucky we were to be occupying the rattiest, crookedest, crappiest house in a very well-to-do neighborhood.
I was already ten weeks pregnant by the time we made the move, and people were so incredibly kind--bringing plates of cookies while we unpacked, listening (with true interest mind you) to the details of where we'd come from and where we were going, and constantly complimenting my pregnant glow.
We most certainly weren't in New England anymore. And looking back, I think I had no choice but to be super sweet and happy--you know, in a Southern chicken-fried kind of way.
One afternoon, when I was about eight months pregnant, I was walking Gracie down the street when a black Toyota Camry pulled next to me on the side of the road. The window rolled down and a super-coiffed head popped out and said (in a sticky Texas accent), "Ha hun, when er you due?"
"In April," I said. "I've got two more months to go."
"Wow," the woman replied. "Ma sister had twins and I promise she never got nearly that big! Yer cute, but ya sure are big!"
The New England in me wanted to clean her glossy, little clock with my big, fat, pregnant fist--but I resisted, acted like a proper Southern lady and giggled in response to everything she had to say.
Turns out she was a real estate agent, prowling the neighborhood for new clients and new listings. Mmmm yeah, at that time our income consisted of nothing but student loans and my husband's biweekly check from the petfood shop--I'd have to go out on a limb and say that we definitely weren't interested.
She handed me one of her cards, on which her hair appeared even larger than it did in real life that day (nothing short of mind blowing), I thanked her and proceeded on my way.
I managed to make it about three steps before her Toyota lurched forward and stopped next to me again. "Sweetie," she questioned? "Would you mind terribly just runnin' up to that door and stickin' one of ma cards in it?"
"Um, sure. No problem. I can do that," I answered.
"And how 'bout that next house?" Why don't ya just go ahead and get that one, too. Ya know, while you're up there."
"Yeah, that's fine," I said--with the reasoning that pleasing this women might somehow lead to her departure.
Well friends, I was wrong. The woman in the Toyota continued her lurch-beg-con scam for the entirety of the street. Before I knew it, I had been tricked into peppering every single screen door on Valencia Drive with this blow hole's business card--at eight months pregnant, in the eighty degree heat, while her Gucci ass never left the comfort of the cool, leather seats.
I knew what she was doing, I just didn't know how to put my foot down. And just like that, I was a sucker.
When we reached the end of the street, she thanked me profusely, called me a 'sweetheart' over and over again, handed me a chilled bottle of Ozarka saying, "Aw hun, you need this," and promptly sped off.
I walked home, feeling stupid, tired and defeated. By the time I reached my front door, I was sobbing like a preteen--what a mother lovin' ho she was.
When Jared came home later that afternoon, I recounted the story, and it's needless to say that he was angry. "She WHAT," he exclaimed?! "Amy that's horrible, you should call her real estate agency or something."
"No, Jared. I feel stupid, I just want to forget about it."
"Fine," he agreed, not wanting to rock the S.S. Hormonal.
I went to bed early that night, couldn't sleep, and continued to cry in embarrassment when I got out of bed the next morning. I felt so used, so tricked, so dirty, so pregnant--and that my friends, is when Jared pulled into the driveway with the solution to my problem.
My husband, my sweet Jared, had gone to the computer lab at school, taken this lady's picture and contact information off of her website and printed up one-hundred-or-so homemade business cards with the following slogan stamped in bold:
I hate everyone, I suck at my job, and if you hire me I'll steal your money.
At least I think that's what they said--something to that effect.
I was beyond touched by his loving gesture. And even more touched when he raced up and down three blocks, sticking the cards in every doorway before our neighbors began to filter in from work.
I'd have to say we won the war. In our three-and-a-half years of living in that neighbor, not once did we see a real estate sign bearing her name.
And still, to this day, that was nicest thing that my husband has ever done for me. What a guy!
Three Truths and a Lie: The Great American Poop Attack of '98
July 22, 2009
Day three of Three Truths and a Lie--idea curtosy of the lovely CJane.
If you need to know the rules, check yesterday's post. Or Monday's.
If you know me, don't spoil it.
Back in the fall of 1998 I headed over to Washington DC for the annual Marine Corps Marathon. Although I was a super serious runner at the time, I wasn't actually participating in the marathon--my roommate and I were only going to the race to watch.
If you really want to get picky about the details, we were going to watch a guy named Jim, who I found to be pretty frickin' hot.
I met Jim on a random Saturday evening, while I was hauling ass on a solo training run down a farm road in western Virginia. I was running up and over a hill, we met at the crest, waved, and continued to go our separate ways.
Forty minutes later, we met up again. This time we passed each other on opposite sides of a fairly busy overpass. We repeated the casual wave, and I feel like it's very important to note that I was still hauling ass--and markedly faster than Jim.
Then, about thirty minutes later, we met up once more--this time on campus, in front of Norris Hall, the same place where that really horrible shooting spree happened at Virginia Tech a few years back.
I ran past Jim, smiled, waved, and kept on trucking. This time however, he stopped and yelled, "Hey!"
I stopped, turned around, wiped my sweaty hair out of my eyes and said, "Hi."
Jim was like, "You're fast. Are you on the cross country team?"
And doing my very best to sound smooth and sexy I replied, "Why yes. Yes I am." Okay fine, that was a lie, I'm pretty sure I said something more along the lines of "Yup," while I picked at a moderate-to-severe wedgie.
We pounded out three-or-so more miles that night and chatted about nothing too important. Turns out Jim was training for the upcoming Marine Corps Marathon with hopes of qualifying for Boston.
Over the next five or six weeks, we met up for a couple more runs together. I'd tag along for ten of his Sunday twenty-miler, or we'd run a quick six on a Wednesday night.
In October, when his marathon finally rolled around, he invited me to come and watch. Never passing up the opportunity to impress an older member of the opposite sex, my roommate and I jumped on the chance.
The Marine Corps Marathon is widely known as one of the most spectator friendly on the planet, so Allison and I managed to see Jim five or six times during the first eighteen miles of the race. At mile eighteen, Jim was obviously beginning to struggle. He ran over to us on the side of the road, put his hands on his knees and huffed, "Can you meet me at mile twenty and run me in? I don't think I can finish. I need someone to run me in."
"Can I run your sexy ass to the finish line," I thought to myself? "Um, it would be my pleasure!!!!"
I was excited. So excited that I nearly shat my shorty-shorts right then and there.
And that last sentence? I meant that literally.
As soon as Jim took off for mile nineteen, the contents of my colon began taking off for daylight. I had to poop, and I had to poop immediately. At once. If not sooner.
Still to this day, through pregnancy, travel, and all manners of illness, it was most severe fecal attack of my entire life.
According to my calculations I had approximately fourteen minutes to get to mile twenty, and fourteen seconds before I had a load swimming around in my underpants. Scoping out an appropriate, legal place to relieve myself was simply not an option--my friends, there was absolutely no time.
So, in my moment of pure and absolute desperation, I found a clump of beautifully manicured bushes--which technically speaking, I'd have to call landscape features. Landscape features of a prominent, highly photographed national monument that is.
Honestly, it hurts my very patriotic heart to type the next half of this sentence, but guys, I Amy Lawson, took an emergency poo on a national landmark--about twelve inches from the actual structure if you want to be precise about it.
I can't tell you which wheelchair-bound leader this particular monument paid homage to, I'm far too ashamed. He was a tremendous man, and it's far too painful to admit that I took a doodie on his well deserved legacy. Far too painful. Seriously.
Fear not fellow Americans, these landmarks seem to very well monitored. I'm quite sure that monument defication is a very rare event, because before I even had the chance to get out from behind that little bush, I spotted a security guard, and he was approaching quickly.
I walked away, he followed. I walked a little faster, he sped up. I broke into a jog, he broke into a light run. I hopped the plastic, orange fence onto the marathon course, merged in with the oncoming runners, and thankfully he stayed behind.
I was clear. No arrests for me. And to this day, I still maintain a squeaky clear legal record--I take a lot of pride in that.
Eventually I did meet up with Jim at mile twenty, and oh my word, he had all but given up. He was groaning and shuffling, draping his sweaty self all over my shoulders, and at times he even slowed to a walk. A walk!
What a friggin' pansy.
I dragged his sorry ass to the finish line, where he missed the cutoff for Boston by three and a half minutes--so not sexy.
And a relationship? Yeah, nothing like that ever panned out. I needed a man who could run like a man. And Jim? Well, he needed a woman with a little more colon control than I had to offer.
Obviously, it was never meant to be.
Day three of Three Truths and a Lie--idea curtosy of the lovely CJane.
If you need to know the rules, check yesterday's post. Or Monday's.
If you know me, don't spoil it.
*****
The Great American Poop Attack of '98
Back in the fall of 1998 I headed over to Washington DC for the annual Marine Corps Marathon. Although I was a super serious runner at the time, I wasn't actually participating in the marathon--my roommate and I were only going to the race to watch.
If you really want to get picky about the details, we were going to watch a guy named Jim, who I found to be pretty frickin' hot.
I met Jim on a random Saturday evening, while I was hauling ass on a solo training run down a farm road in western Virginia. I was running up and over a hill, we met at the crest, waved, and continued to go our separate ways.
Forty minutes later, we met up again. This time we passed each other on opposite sides of a fairly busy overpass. We repeated the casual wave, and I feel like it's very important to note that I was still hauling ass--and markedly faster than Jim.
Then, about thirty minutes later, we met up once more--this time on campus, in front of Norris Hall, the same place where that really horrible shooting spree happened at Virginia Tech a few years back.
I ran past Jim, smiled, waved, and kept on trucking. This time however, he stopped and yelled, "Hey!"
I stopped, turned around, wiped my sweaty hair out of my eyes and said, "Hi."
Jim was like, "You're fast. Are you on the cross country team?"
And doing my very best to sound smooth and sexy I replied, "Why yes. Yes I am." Okay fine, that was a lie, I'm pretty sure I said something more along the lines of "Yup," while I picked at a moderate-to-severe wedgie.
We pounded out three-or-so more miles that night and chatted about nothing too important. Turns out Jim was training for the upcoming Marine Corps Marathon with hopes of qualifying for Boston.
Over the next five or six weeks, we met up for a couple more runs together. I'd tag along for ten of his Sunday twenty-miler, or we'd run a quick six on a Wednesday night.
In October, when his marathon finally rolled around, he invited me to come and watch. Never passing up the opportunity to impress an older member of the opposite sex, my roommate and I jumped on the chance.
The Marine Corps Marathon is widely known as one of the most spectator friendly on the planet, so Allison and I managed to see Jim five or six times during the first eighteen miles of the race. At mile eighteen, Jim was obviously beginning to struggle. He ran over to us on the side of the road, put his hands on his knees and huffed, "Can you meet me at mile twenty and run me in? I don't think I can finish. I need someone to run me in."
"Can I run your sexy ass to the finish line," I thought to myself? "Um, it would be my pleasure!!!!"
I was excited. So excited that I nearly shat my shorty-shorts right then and there.
And that last sentence? I meant that literally.
As soon as Jim took off for mile nineteen, the contents of my colon began taking off for daylight. I had to poop, and I had to poop immediately. At once. If not sooner.
Still to this day, through pregnancy, travel, and all manners of illness, it was most severe fecal attack of my entire life.
According to my calculations I had approximately fourteen minutes to get to mile twenty, and fourteen seconds before I had a load swimming around in my underpants. Scoping out an appropriate, legal place to relieve myself was simply not an option--my friends, there was absolutely no time.
So, in my moment of pure and absolute desperation, I found a clump of beautifully manicured bushes--which technically speaking, I'd have to call landscape features. Landscape features of a prominent, highly photographed national monument that is.
Honestly, it hurts my very patriotic heart to type the next half of this sentence, but guys, I Amy Lawson, took an emergency poo on a national landmark--about twelve inches from the actual structure if you want to be precise about it.
I can't tell you which wheelchair-bound leader this particular monument paid homage to, I'm far too ashamed. He was a tremendous man, and it's far too painful to admit that I took a doodie on his well deserved legacy. Far too painful. Seriously.
Fear not fellow Americans, these landmarks seem to very well monitored. I'm quite sure that monument defication is a very rare event, because before I even had the chance to get out from behind that little bush, I spotted a security guard, and he was approaching quickly.
I walked away, he followed. I walked a little faster, he sped up. I broke into a jog, he broke into a light run. I hopped the plastic, orange fence onto the marathon course, merged in with the oncoming runners, and thankfully he stayed behind.
I was clear. No arrests for me. And to this day, I still maintain a squeaky clear legal record--I take a lot of pride in that.
Eventually I did meet up with Jim at mile twenty, and oh my word, he had all but given up. He was groaning and shuffling, draping his sweaty self all over my shoulders, and at times he even slowed to a walk. A walk!
What a friggin' pansy.
I dragged his sorry ass to the finish line, where he missed the cutoff for Boston by three and a half minutes--so not sexy.
And a relationship? Yeah, nothing like that ever panned out. I needed a man who could run like a man. And Jim? Well, he needed a woman with a little more colon control than I had to offer.
Obviously, it was never meant to be.
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