February 25, 2010
I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this before, but I live in the same town as my in-laws. Now before you get all "BOO!, HISS!, MOTHERS-IN-LAW!, EVIL LADIES!, SATAN'S SEX KITTENS!," let me assure you that I love my in-laws.
No, scratch that. I adore my in-laws.
Seriously, my mother and father-in-law are really great people. They invite me for dinner any time they're having pot roast, they courtesy-laugh at every single one of my crude and inappropriate dinner jokes, and they always send me home with the leftovers--every little dripping.
And then? The best part? I keep the Tupperware. Honestly, every last one of my key pieces once said "MEREDITH LAWSON" on the inside of the lid.
Apparently she started labeling her containers in an effort to help them find their way home.
Apparently I also own a Sharpie marker, and it's surprisingly easy to change a capital R to a capital B, and a capital O to a capital P. Trust me folks, that whole "out of sight, out of mind" thing is right on the mark. When your lids say "MEBEPURH HAW8PN" instead of "MEREDITH LAWSON," it reduces the guilt factor by a margin of 100%.
Now don't get me wrong here, I love my in-laws for more than just their [very valuable, name brand] Tupperware. I also love them for their good looks, their big hearts, their superior DNA, and their constant willingness to help.
For example, this morning, when I had a very important work meeting to get to, and a very constipated four-year-old boy on my toilet (as James cared to describe it: my poop is definitely there, but it's definitely unavailable), I called my in-laws in an absolute panic.
I was like, "Hi. Me. Meeting. Commissioner of important state department. In an hour. James can't poop. He's crying. It's unavailable. HELP!"
And my father-in-law, bless his ever-charitable soul, was all, "Oh. Constipation? No problem. Should I come over and sit with him?" Then, as if that weren't enough--because trust me it was--my mother-in-law gifted my son with a gallon-sized Ziploc filled to the brim with prunes.
I made it to my meeting on time, James pooped (a three-footer according to his description), and all is well with the world.
I. Love. These. People.
This afternoon, I was hanging around their house, waiting for the pot roast to cook, when my mother-in-law came home with a really curious looking box. As soon as she turned her back, I lifted the lid and peeked inside--I'm nosy like that. I closed the lid, looked at my sister-in-law and said, "Oh dude. Grammie's got a Blackberry."
When she walked back into the room, my sister-in-law was like, "I didn't know you like to text."
And Meredith, was like, "I don't. But I have this Blackberry, and I have these magnifying glassing, so I'm planning to start."
Well okay then.
An hour or so later, after the pot roast was carefully packed into the latest addition to my Tupperware collection, I moved into the living room and assumed my normal position--on the couch, right between good 'ol Robb & Mere.
Now I know it might seem strange to snuggle up between Robb and Meredith, but you've got to understand, they have a brand new Lazy Boy couch, and the prime real estate (you know, the seats that recline), are on the ends--which leaves me with MIL to the left, and FIL on the right.
And what a night it was to be nestled.
Meredith was like, "Robb! Call me on my new Blackberry!"
And Robb was all, "What?!"
"I said: Use your SMART PHONE to call me on my new BLACKBERRY!"
And he was like, "What're you saying?! I can't hear you, Meredith!!!"
So I leaned over and I was like, "If you call her on her new Blackberry, you guys won't have to scream across the couch at each other."
So he dialed her up.
Her phone rang, she looked at the number and didn't recognize it. Then, she picked up, and in her very sweetest voice she was like, "Hello?"
"Well hi Meredith. I'm calling you from my smart phone. Can you hear me?"
And Meredith goes, "I can hear you just fine. Now who's this?"
I'm not gonna lie--I thoroughly enjoy watching Baby Boomers dabble in technology. Oh, and have I mentioned? I really, really love those people.
Single Ply Toilet Paper
February 23, 2010
This family needs a vacation in a major way.
Since Jared opened his practice the middle of 2008, he's taken one week off.
Since I started my job in early 2008, not counting my six week maternity leave, I've taken one week off.
And get this...our one week each? They weren't even together. Jared used his week to fish with some buddies out West, and I used my week to visit some friends in Texas.
I absolutely need to see this man's face with an exciting, new backdrop. And soon. We can both agree on that--but friends, it's not so easy. It's never so easy.
You see, Jared would like a vacation that revolves around trout. You know--catching trout, throwing trout back, admiring trout, talking about trout. And just to be clear, an outhouse would only enhance his vacation experience.
I, on the other hand, would like a vacation the centers around, I don't know, anything other than trout? And for me, clean, indoor plumbing is absolutely non-negotiable. According to Jared, the whole indoor plumbing thing makes me 'high maintenance.' I disagree. I believe the desire to wipe with toilet paper rather than vegetation classifies me as 'first world.'
I'm not requiring turquoise water and white sand, but single-ply toilet paper. Singly. Ply. Toilet paper. Is that really too much to ask?
According to Jared? Yes. Yes it is.
This family needs a vacation in a major way.
Since Jared opened his practice the middle of 2008, he's taken one week off.
Since I started my job in early 2008, not counting my six week maternity leave, I've taken one week off.
And get this...our one week each? They weren't even together. Jared used his week to fish with some buddies out West, and I used my week to visit some friends in Texas.
I absolutely need to see this man's face with an exciting, new backdrop. And soon. We can both agree on that--but friends, it's not so easy. It's never so easy.
You see, Jared would like a vacation that revolves around trout. You know--catching trout, throwing trout back, admiring trout, talking about trout. And just to be clear, an outhouse would only enhance his vacation experience.
I, on the other hand, would like a vacation the centers around, I don't know, anything other than trout? And for me, clean, indoor plumbing is absolutely non-negotiable. According to Jared, the whole indoor plumbing thing makes me 'high maintenance.' I disagree. I believe the desire to wipe with toilet paper rather than vegetation classifies me as 'first world.'
I'm not requiring turquoise water and white sand, but single-ply toilet paper. Singly. Ply. Toilet paper. Is that really too much to ask?
According to Jared? Yes. Yes it is.
You're Right. (did I really just say that?)
February 17, 2010
So. Have you been watching the Olympics? I've got to admit, I'm over it. It's not that the athletes aren't amazingly-incredible-dedicated-better-than-I'll-ever-be people--because they totally are. I just have a short attention span.
Trust me, I want to find myself snowed in with Bode Miller just as much as the girl next door--I've just had enough with all the skiing.
By day three I was like, "The Winter Olympics boil down to three things: skating, skiing, and sledding." Sure I forgot about curling until one fourth of a second ago, but I kind of have a point...don't I?
I know, I'm killing the party over here. And usually that's my husband's job. You know how men are--if it's not a trout or a boob or an Italian sausage, they want no part of it.
Last night, since The Biggest Loser was off the air, Jared and I watched the men's figure skating competition. Let me just say, in no uncertain terms, that my husband absolutely detests men's figure skating. Actually, he's offended by it.
Me? I can tolerate it.
But Jared I'll tell ya, he just sits in his recliner, thinking about submarine sandwiches, pointing his root beer bottle at the television, saying things like, "If you're SOOO talented, and SOOO athletic that you can nail all these impossible, crazy-butt tricks, then why on earth are you wearing puffy sleeves???!!!!??? PUFFY SLEEVES? REALLY BOYS?!?!"
Even for me, a non-lover of the Winter Games, his howling is just too much.
Last night, I'd finally had it. I was like, "Jared. Enough. Once you reach the point where you can do a quadruple anything, you're free to say whatever you want about these guys. You're jealous."
And he was all, "Jealous of what?"
So I pointed to the television just in time for Mr. Puff Sleeves to jump eight feet into the air, twirl around four times, and stick the landing with all kinds of grace. Then, one second later, I kid you not, the guy was pretending to ride a pony.
Pretending. To ride. A pony.
And that's when I said it, the magic phrase I've kept locked away in my woman-vault for eight long years of marriage.
I said, "Jared, you're right."
I also stand offended.
So. Have you been watching the Olympics? I've got to admit, I'm over it. It's not that the athletes aren't amazingly-incredible-dedicated-better-than-I'll-ever-be people--because they totally are. I just have a short attention span.
Trust me, I want to find myself snowed in with Bode Miller just as much as the girl next door--I've just had enough with all the skiing.
By day three I was like, "The Winter Olympics boil down to three things: skating, skiing, and sledding." Sure I forgot about curling until one fourth of a second ago, but I kind of have a point...don't I?
I know, I'm killing the party over here. And usually that's my husband's job. You know how men are--if it's not a trout or a boob or an Italian sausage, they want no part of it.
Last night, since The Biggest Loser was off the air, Jared and I watched the men's figure skating competition. Let me just say, in no uncertain terms, that my husband absolutely detests men's figure skating. Actually, he's offended by it.
Me? I can tolerate it.
But Jared I'll tell ya, he just sits in his recliner, thinking about submarine sandwiches, pointing his root beer bottle at the television, saying things like, "If you're SOOO talented, and SOOO athletic that you can nail all these impossible, crazy-butt tricks, then why on earth are you wearing puffy sleeves???!!!!??? PUFFY SLEEVES? REALLY BOYS?!?!"
Even for me, a non-lover of the Winter Games, his howling is just too much.
Last night, I'd finally had it. I was like, "Jared. Enough. Once you reach the point where you can do a quadruple anything, you're free to say whatever you want about these guys. You're jealous."
And he was all, "Jealous of what?"
So I pointed to the television just in time for Mr. Puff Sleeves to jump eight feet into the air, twirl around four times, and stick the landing with all kinds of grace. Then, one second later, I kid you not, the guy was pretending to ride a pony.
Pretending. To ride. A pony.
And that's when I said it, the magic phrase I've kept locked away in my woman-vault for eight long years of marriage.
I said, "Jared, you're right."
I also stand offended.
Corral Your Horses
February 16, 2010
Corral your horses, hit the friggin' deck, and repent my friends!
Between the worldwide natural disasters, the unseasonable weather patterns, and the fact that we now have a semi-decent family picture, I'm convinced (CONVINCED!) that the end is near.
I know--James has that crazy thing going on with his tie, Maggie's looking down, and we've got some Bakugans in the shot, but folks, when you're as unphotogenic as we are, this is as good as it's ever gonna get:
Corral your horses, hit the friggin' deck, and repent my friends!
Between the worldwide natural disasters, the unseasonable weather patterns, and the fact that we now have a semi-decent family picture, I'm convinced (CONVINCED!) that the end is near.
I know--James has that crazy thing going on with his tie, Maggie's looking down, and we've got some Bakugans in the shot, but folks, when you're as unphotogenic as we are, this is as good as it's ever gonna get:
Happy Holiday?
February 15, 2009
So I guess today is some kind of holiday. President's Day maybe?
Jared's working, I'm working, and James is on school vacation, so I didn't realize it was a federal holiday until I walked into a locked, dark, quiet office building this morning. You see, I have a random, little oddball office sandwiched between a bunch of state workers. I've gotta say, it works out pretty well.
They scoff at me when I'm like, "Welp, it's 2 o'clock and if I sit at this desk for another second I swear my hair'll set on fire. I'm so outta here." And I scoff at them when they're all, "Achoo! I sneezed! My goodness I better get that checked out by a specialist--you know, since I have excellent health benefits and all."
Basically, they're all ankle-chained to their desks, and I get my pap-smears in a storage unit--any way you slice it, work is work is work.
I have no idea what I had in mind when I started writing this post, but I'll tell ya, working alone is really blah--mixed with a dash of creepy. The only redeeming point is the fact that every time I have to pee (or poop), I do it with the doors hanging wide open.
Oh my word, it's completely freeing--the stall door flapping in the breeze, staring at the long, dark hallway while I take care of business. I bet this is why everyone wants to be the president. If anyone was ever like, "Mrs. President, you should close the door when you urinate," I could be all, "No. You should shut your MOUTH while I urinate. You're fired."
A girl can dream.
So I guess today is some kind of holiday. President's Day maybe?
Jared's working, I'm working, and James is on school vacation, so I didn't realize it was a federal holiday until I walked into a locked, dark, quiet office building this morning. You see, I have a random, little oddball office sandwiched between a bunch of state workers. I've gotta say, it works out pretty well.
They scoff at me when I'm like, "Welp, it's 2 o'clock and if I sit at this desk for another second I swear my hair'll set on fire. I'm so outta here." And I scoff at them when they're all, "Achoo! I sneezed! My goodness I better get that checked out by a specialist--you know, since I have excellent health benefits and all."
Basically, they're all ankle-chained to their desks, and I get my pap-smears in a storage unit--any way you slice it, work is work is work.
I have no idea what I had in mind when I started writing this post, but I'll tell ya, working alone is really blah--mixed with a dash of creepy. The only redeeming point is the fact that every time I have to pee (or poop), I do it with the doors hanging wide open.
Oh my word, it's completely freeing--the stall door flapping in the breeze, staring at the long, dark hallway while I take care of business. I bet this is why everyone wants to be the president. If anyone was ever like, "Mrs. President, you should close the door when you urinate," I could be all, "No. You should shut your MOUTH while I urinate. You're fired."
A girl can dream.
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