The Holiday Aftermath

January 6, 2008

I was really proud of myself last year--after all, I paid for all of my Christmas presents with cash.

The GeoTrax? Cash.

The shotgun? Cash.

The bread machine? Cay-ash.

Every time the woman at TJ Maxx would so thoughtfully ask, "Would you like to save 10% off your purchase today?" I'd interrupt her right there, and snicker as I pulled the cash out of my coat pocket. "Um, no," I'd reply with all of the attitude I could muster. "I'm using cash." Then I'd entertain an overly snarky thought about all of those half-brained raving lunatics who charge all of their Christmas crap.

Hoo boy, I was feeling pretty darn good.

And then I opened my credit card statement.

And suffered from a mild heart attack as I spit the phrase, "OH SH**!" right out of my soft and innocent lips. Oh, and it was the real word, not some cheap imitation.

James cocked his head in my direction, and over a table full of PlayDoh (purchased with cash I might add), he curiously repeated my explanation, "Sh**? Is dat what you said, Mommy?"

"Yup. That's right. Sh**."

I generally restrict my credit card use to three purposes...1) It automatically pays our phone bills, 2) It pays for my website at work, and 3) I use it for emergencies.

Well, apparently I had EIGHT HUNDRED AND THIRTY SIX DOLLARS worth of emergencies during the month of December and now Bank of America is asking me to pay it all back with interest (those heartless beasts).

In sifting through the transactions on my statement, I quickly came to notice that the bulk of my "emergencies" occurred at the Blue Canoe gas station and Shaw's Supermarket. I also had an emergency when Happy Town Fuel topped off our tank with kerosene, and another one at my local garage.

As a result of that fine story, my financial tip of the day is as follows: If you use all of your grocery money to buy Christmas presents, you'll probably still get hungry and want to eat something later that day. And I don't care how innovative you are, it's almost impossible to commute to work on a GeoTrax train.

So plan ahead, people. The last thing the world needs is a bunch of toddlers running around, saying the word sh** over and over and over again.

Maine, The Way Life Should Be

January 4, 2009

As far as I remember, my sister and I were raised by the same parents, under the same roof, with nothing but a thin wall between our beds. But in the last ten years, since we've both been on our own, we've taken two very different paths in life.

I, on the one hand, am a successful young (and beautiful) working mother. My sister, on the other hand, is hopelessly addicted to Day of Our Lives and methamphetamines.

Okay fine. That was a lie.

We actually have the exact same taste in music, clothing (frumpy), make-up (none), snacks (lots), and swear words (the really bad ones). We both have twenty-zillion on-line friends, we both complain about our husbands, and we both wretch about our weight as we pull through the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru to order a jelly-filled.

Aside from practicing different religions--she likes to drink Merlot, while I prefer to drink up the sweet promises contained in the Book of Mormon--we're like photocopies of each other. Except for one thing: I'm a little bit country, she's a little bit rock n' roll.

In other words, she lives in Boston and I live in Maine.

I honestly cannot imagine this woman ever leaving that traffic-laden city. She's like, "Sometimes I get mugged on my way to play-group, my car's been stolen twice, I can see seventy other houses and thirteen billboards from my front steps, and I LOVE IT HERE!"

Then there's me. I'm all, "I lost my dog in a snowbank, my nipple in an unfortunate rifle accident, and I LOVE IT HERE!...Now get the hell off my 40-acres."

This past weekend my sister and her family came to visit us here in Maine, and the visit started in standard fashion--with my sister calling from her cell phone, shrieking, "Uhhh!!! Amy!!! I'm not gonna see a dead deer tied to the top of someone's car, am I?!"

I'm telling you, the girl is absolutely ridiculous--deer hunting season ended a month ago. It's squirrel and crow season now, and those little vermin can easily fit inside of someone's glovebox--no need for bungees or a roof rack.

This time, when Katy and Rob visited, Jared and I were determined to show those two a good time. On Saturday afternoon, we babysat their two kids while we sent them off to a nice little trail system to do some snow shoeing. As they were layering up and preparing to go, my brother-in-law started emptying his bag and rummaging through the gear he'd packed for their little outing. The man had--and I kid you not--two compasses, a head lamp, a mylar warming blanket, a set of walkie talkies, a box of water proof matches, and (seriously) a small mirror to be used for signaling an airplane if they should happen to find themselves hopelessly lost in the wilderness.

I was like, "Dude. If you get lost, just call me from your cell phone. I'll come and pick you up."

They returned three hours later, safe and sound, and never even had to use that signaling mirror thank goodness.

Later that night, Jared and I decided to take Katy an Rob out for a night on the town--Maine style. We settled on our favorite little place for local music, The Solid Ground. It's the same place my husband and I end up every time we hire a babysitter. It's a funky coffee shop during the day and a quirky bar at night--not your typical Mormon hangout, but then again I'm not your typical Mormon. Got that fat ass?!

Okay fine, I'll admit it, I scrapbook. But let me make this unmistakeably clear--my layouts are totally edgy with captions like "This is right before I ravaged my husband in the restroom of the cruise ship gift shop" and titles like "The Day I Came Dangerously Close to Leaving my Three-Year-Old in a Dog Crate at Petco."

Seriously edgy.

So there we were, sitting at a table at the bar--my brother-in-law was drinking a Sam Adams, Jared was drinking in the atmosphere, and I was dipping my tongue in my sister's wine glass, desperately hoping to get a buzz off three drops of Shiraz, osmosis, and a keen sense of smell. No luck.

Anywho...we're sitting around, shooting the shiz, when two sixty-something people at the next table over start making out like crazy. Like crazy. In all seriousness, I saw that man touch that woman's booby, more than once.

I'm 99% certain that their thirty-something-year-old son was sitting with them at their little tiny table--and let me tell you, he looked uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as my sister looked when I yelled "OH NO HE DIDN'T!" when I caught the old dude copping a feelio in a very public setting.

When we finally decided to leave, my sister was like, "Okay, so I still think you live in the strangest place on Earth."

And I just smiled and said, "A-yup."

Boston be damned--I love it here.

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.