May 18, 2011
I've changed.
Last night, I was standing in the bathroom, mulling over a question that all American women occasionally (or obsessively) ponder throughout their lives...
If I could magically change one part of my body what would it be?
Fifteen years ago, or maybe even five years ago, I would have had a list a mile long: thinner thighs, a firmer butt, silkier hair, a clearer complexion, a super flat stomach, and so on and so forth. But not last night.
Last night, the answer came to me like a flash of lightening. If I could magically change one thing about my body, I would...beyond the shadow of a doubt...heal this damn freaking hemorrhoid that's been plaguing my existence for the entire last decade.
That's it. That's all.
That hemorrhoid is quite literally the only think I'd change about my body. Hitting thirty has either provided me with exceptionally solid self esteem, launched me into an unfixable slump, or both.
My hair's frizzy? So what! My stretch marks make my stomach look like a road map of Boston? Who cares?! It feels like I'm pooping out shards of glass every time I hit the pot? OH PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!
Now Jared on the other hand, has had the same, unwavering answer for the entirety of his adult life. If he could change one thing about his body, he'd give himself a super penis. Fair enough.
James, hearing this conversation through the vent hole in his bedroom floor piped in and told us that if he could change one thing about his body, he'd have, "six heads on the top, four legs on the bottom, and six eyes tossed all over the place." Not surprising in the least.
What would you change?
I Will Bow Down to Bud White
May 10, 2011
Did I tell you guys that I'm running the Vermont City Marathon at the end of the month? Because I am, and I have three twenty-milers down, and one long run to go. I'm officially at the point where I have a continuousI cycle of thoughts running through my head like, I hate running, and I hate running, and I really think I hate running.
I don't actually hate running.
My main goal is to not have to take any walk breaks, like I've done during my last two marathons. My second goal this time around is to run a personal best, which would put me under 3:48. And my third goal is to run a 3:40. Since Boston's qualification process is all changed up, I'm not even thinking about it right now. 3:40 would give me the right to try to register, and I'd be okay with that. So let's say that it's number four on my list.
My plan this time--which is my plan every time, which I end up thinking I'm way too cool for and blowing it--is to stick with a pace group like glue. I don't care if the pace feels like a bunch of nursing-home turtles at the beginning, I'm sticking with Bud White like we're duct taped together. Bud White is my Buddha. Jared told me, that if the pace still feels too slow at mile twnety-two, then I can run ahead. I don't think any pace could ever feel too slow at mile twenty-two, so I agreed to the plan.
Jared is my rock, Twizzlers are my motivation, and Bud White is the guru unto whom I'm a faithful follower.
I even made this Bud White prayer card:
Bud White has no idea what he volunteered for.
If you're a runner, and you ever think about running a marathon, you should definitely consider Vermont City. The streets are lined with fans the entire way, the scenery is awesome, the hippies are so encouraging, there's a little church service before the race (which I'm totally into as it's 99% effective in elimating Sabbath Day guilt), and there's bread and butter at the finish line. It was my first marathon in 2004, and it's my favorite by a long shot.
I ran 18 miles this past weekend, and took an enormous digger right on the side of the biggest road that runs through my neck of this state. If I had to guess, twenty cars saw it. Thankfully, no one beeped and no one stopped to ask if I was okay--because clearly, I would have had no choice but to cuss them out.
In my world, there's A) Nothing funnier and more satisfying to the soul than watching someone fall, and B) Nothing more embarrassing and soul crushing that being the one who falls.
Isn't it funny how that works?
So that's what I've been up to lately. I've been running, I've been grocery shopping, and I've been working. It's a damn shame I don't write about work on this blog, because work has been Дали всушност само пребарување на интернет за македонски преведувач? Се колнам дека ќе те вработи на генијалност, ако имав секаков вид на авторитет as of late.
(I wrote that part in Macedonian, just to protect my professional integrity.)
Is anybody else out there training for any races right now?
Did I tell you guys that I'm running the Vermont City Marathon at the end of the month? Because I am, and I have three twenty-milers down, and one long run to go. I'm officially at the point where I have a continuousI cycle of thoughts running through my head like, I hate running, and I hate running, and I really think I hate running.
I don't actually hate running.
My main goal is to not have to take any walk breaks, like I've done during my last two marathons. My second goal this time around is to run a personal best, which would put me under 3:48. And my third goal is to run a 3:40. Since Boston's qualification process is all changed up, I'm not even thinking about it right now. 3:40 would give me the right to try to register, and I'd be okay with that. So let's say that it's number four on my list.
My plan this time--which is my plan every time, which I end up thinking I'm way too cool for and blowing it--is to stick with a pace group like glue. I don't care if the pace feels like a bunch of nursing-home turtles at the beginning, I'm sticking with Bud White like we're duct taped together. Bud White is my Buddha. Jared told me, that if the pace still feels too slow at mile twnety-two, then I can run ahead. I don't think any pace could ever feel too slow at mile twenty-two, so I agreed to the plan.
Jared is my rock, Twizzlers are my motivation, and Bud White is the guru unto whom I'm a faithful follower.
I even made this Bud White prayer card:
Bud White has no idea what he volunteered for.
If you're a runner, and you ever think about running a marathon, you should definitely consider Vermont City. The streets are lined with fans the entire way, the scenery is awesome, the hippies are so encouraging, there's a little church service before the race (which I'm totally into as it's 99% effective in elimating Sabbath Day guilt), and there's bread and butter at the finish line. It was my first marathon in 2004, and it's my favorite by a long shot.
I ran 18 miles this past weekend, and took an enormous digger right on the side of the biggest road that runs through my neck of this state. If I had to guess, twenty cars saw it. Thankfully, no one beeped and no one stopped to ask if I was okay--because clearly, I would have had no choice but to cuss them out.
In my world, there's A) Nothing funnier and more satisfying to the soul than watching someone fall, and B) Nothing more embarrassing and soul crushing that being the one who falls.
Isn't it funny how that works?
So that's what I've been up to lately. I've been running, I've been grocery shopping, and I've been working. It's a damn shame I don't write about work on this blog, because work has been Дали всушност само пребарување на интернет за македонски преведувач? Се колнам дека ќе те вработи на генијалност, ако имав секаков вид на авторитет as of late.
(I wrote that part in Macedonian, just to protect my professional integrity.)
Is anybody else out there training for any races right now?
Listen Up!
May 9, 2011
There's a small possibility that this blog could suddenly switch to private access for a little while. If it does, and you're not expecting it, just send a request to LawsonAmyB @ yahoo.com. I'll let you in, I swear I will. So write that email address down somewhere. If I'm able to give you a heads up, I will.
I'm not planning to mention why it might go private, but it might. And if it does, you should all be excited for me. If it doesn't go private, that means I'm crying myself to sleep. Kidding. Kind of. But for now, no more details. And believe me, you wouldn't be able to guess this if I gave you thirty-two thousand tries.
In other exciting news....
I passed a Hunter's Safety class, and now I'm licensed to shoot anything from a crow to a bear. So watch the hell out. In reality, I probably won't shoot anything at all. Jared has trained Coach to be a really excellent bird dog, so I want to be able to tromp around the woods with those two. Plus, I love to fire off a round every now and again. Okay fine, maybe I'll shoot something...but probably just a bird. Or a moose.
I'm coaching a Couch to 5k kind of class in Maine this summer. My runners will get to learn everything they'll ever need to know about my sport of choice. From choosing the right shoes, to properly taking a whiz in the woods, it'll be covered. Send me an email if you're local and interested in hanging out with me on Saturday mornings.
On Friday, James, my six year old worked up the courage to tell me that I'm not giving him the life he wants for himself. Well kid, it's either this or farm labor....take a pick.
I have a book review and giveaway coming on Friday.
And finally, I need parenting advice. Should I let James practice his beat boxing while he's in time out or should he have to sit quietly? I'm really conflicted over this...
There's a small possibility that this blog could suddenly switch to private access for a little while. If it does, and you're not expecting it, just send a request to LawsonAmyB @ yahoo.com. I'll let you in, I swear I will. So write that email address down somewhere. If I'm able to give you a heads up, I will.
I'm not planning to mention why it might go private, but it might. And if it does, you should all be excited for me. If it doesn't go private, that means I'm crying myself to sleep. Kidding. Kind of. But for now, no more details. And believe me, you wouldn't be able to guess this if I gave you thirty-two thousand tries.
In other exciting news....
I passed a Hunter's Safety class, and now I'm licensed to shoot anything from a crow to a bear. So watch the hell out. In reality, I probably won't shoot anything at all. Jared has trained Coach to be a really excellent bird dog, so I want to be able to tromp around the woods with those two. Plus, I love to fire off a round every now and again. Okay fine, maybe I'll shoot something...but probably just a bird. Or a moose.
I'm coaching a Couch to 5k kind of class in Maine this summer. My runners will get to learn everything they'll ever need to know about my sport of choice. From choosing the right shoes, to properly taking a whiz in the woods, it'll be covered. Send me an email if you're local and interested in hanging out with me on Saturday mornings.
On Friday, James, my six year old worked up the courage to tell me that I'm not giving him the life he wants for himself. Well kid, it's either this or farm labor....take a pick.
I have a book review and giveaway coming on Friday.
And finally, I need parenting advice. Should I let James practice his beat boxing while he's in time out or should he have to sit quietly? I'm really conflicted over this...
A Touch of Clarification
May 3, 2011
Since a few of you asked...
The missionaries come to seminary on Mondays--I forgot to tell them that it was cancelled. And anyone who comes to seminary is instructed to walk right in the door and down the basement stairs. If they ring the doorbell and wake up my family, I punch them in the teeth, really, I do.
As far as locking the door at night goes, I swear I'll start doing that.
Since a few of you asked...
The missionaries come to seminary on Mondays--I forgot to tell them that it was cancelled. And anyone who comes to seminary is instructed to walk right in the door and down the basement stairs. If they ring the doorbell and wake up my family, I punch them in the teeth, really, I do.
As far as locking the door at night goes, I swear I'll start doing that.
Early Morning Wake Up Call
May 2, 2011
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: My husband's sky-high level of oblivion will never cease to amaze me. Never.
Last night, I decided to cancel my early-morning religion class. For those of you who don't remember, every morning, from 6:05 until 6:55, ten teenagers come to my house to fart, complain, and learn about the Gospel. Most Mormons call it 'Seminary.' I call it, 'Holy hell, you're asking me to volunteer to do what?!?!'
Anyhoo, I drove to Connecticut for my cousin's baby shower this past weekend, and I got back into town a whole lot later than I though I would. Always being one to look for a good (or bad) reason to cancel seminary, I called it off. I texted the kids who text, I called the kids who've lost their texting privileges, and I snuggled in for a sweet night of sleep.
As a side note, but a side note that's completely relevant to this little story, springtime in Maine arrived about a week ago--and even now, it still gets pretty cold at night. Being me--a girl who's never on top of anything--our bed is still sporting its winter layers.
Sometime during the night, the combination of extra blankets, pajamas, and spring air made me hot--like sweating out of every pore hot. As such, sometime around 3am, I stripped down to nothingness and got back into bed, happy to enjoy a perfect combination of nudity and wool blankets.
It was flawless. I slept like a baby/log/my father.
Around 6 o'clock in the morning, I heard a very disheartening noise--my front door opening, and the terrible sound of laughing young-adult voices. I shook Jared awake...."Jared, Jared. One of the seminary kids showed up and they just let themselves in!! I'm totally naked!!!! You need to get up and tell them it's cancelled!"
"Oh, you get up," he huffed.
"Jared," I said in no uncertain terms, "I'm NAKED!!!!" And just to drive the point home, I threw all the covers down to my feet, and puffed out my belly so I'd look six-months pregnant and wicked hot. Sometimes I just like to do that. It's fun.
Finally, Jared pieced it all together and realized that he needed to get up and tell the teenagers to GO HOME! Because they're NOT WELCOME HERE! So he jumped out of bed, walked out of our room and left the door hanging 100%, completely, all the way open. And I was 100%, completely, all the way naked. With the covers 100%, completely, all the way at my feet.
And here, just to give you some perspective, is the view when you step in to my house through the mudroom door:
Jared walked down the hall, in what actually proved to be slow motion, allowing me the time to think thoughts including, but not limited to, the following:
What kid could that be?...Who didn't I get it touch with?...Did I remember to do my crunches last night?
As Jared got closer, a few things became glaringly apparent. This was a boy...no, wait...two boys. The two boys had let themselves in and were already standing in the dining room. And according to their accents, these weren't local boys, these boys were from the West.
In other words, these were Mormon missionaries. And they were standing right about where that picture was taken from.
The last thing I wanted to do was call attention to myself, so I wasn't sure what to do next. Grabbing for the covers, rolling off the bed and hitting the floor, or screaming something like WHY ME?????, were all solid attention grabbers in my estimation.
What could I do? What could I do? What could I do?
All I could do was call upon my inner-Animal Planet senses, and play dead. I froze like nobody's ever froze before. No breathing, no blinking, no wiggling, no nothing. I pretended to be a body pillow--a deceased body pillow.
Finally, the missionaries wrapped up their conversation with my #1 husband, and vacated the mudroom.
Jared tromped back into the bedroom and said, "It was the missionaries."
And I said, "I know. You left the door wide open."
And he said, "Lucky guys.....you're way hotter than any of the naked girls I stumbled upon when I was a missionary."
How was your morning?
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: My husband's sky-high level of oblivion will never cease to amaze me. Never.
Last night, I decided to cancel my early-morning religion class. For those of you who don't remember, every morning, from 6:05 until 6:55, ten teenagers come to my house to fart, complain, and learn about the Gospel. Most Mormons call it 'Seminary.' I call it, 'Holy hell, you're asking me to volunteer to do what?!?!'
Anyhoo, I drove to Connecticut for my cousin's baby shower this past weekend, and I got back into town a whole lot later than I though I would. Always being one to look for a good (or bad) reason to cancel seminary, I called it off. I texted the kids who text, I called the kids who've lost their texting privileges, and I snuggled in for a sweet night of sleep.
As a side note, but a side note that's completely relevant to this little story, springtime in Maine arrived about a week ago--and even now, it still gets pretty cold at night. Being me--a girl who's never on top of anything--our bed is still sporting its winter layers.
Sometime during the night, the combination of extra blankets, pajamas, and spring air made me hot--like sweating out of every pore hot. As such, sometime around 3am, I stripped down to nothingness and got back into bed, happy to enjoy a perfect combination of nudity and wool blankets.
It was flawless. I slept like a baby/log/my father.
Around 6 o'clock in the morning, I heard a very disheartening noise--my front door opening, and the terrible sound of laughing young-adult voices. I shook Jared awake...."Jared, Jared. One of the seminary kids showed up and they just let themselves in!! I'm totally naked!!!! You need to get up and tell them it's cancelled!"
"Oh, you get up," he huffed.
"Jared," I said in no uncertain terms, "I'm NAKED!!!!" And just to drive the point home, I threw all the covers down to my feet, and puffed out my belly so I'd look six-months pregnant and wicked hot. Sometimes I just like to do that. It's fun.
Finally, Jared pieced it all together and realized that he needed to get up and tell the teenagers to GO HOME! Because they're NOT WELCOME HERE! So he jumped out of bed, walked out of our room and left the door hanging 100%, completely, all the way open. And I was 100%, completely, all the way naked. With the covers 100%, completely, all the way at my feet.
And here, just to give you some perspective, is the view when you step in to my house through the mudroom door:
That thing, all the way at the end of the hall is a bed. I don't know, maybe you can't really tell it's a bed? Could you tell it was a bed if someone was sprawled out in the nude?
No seriously, I really need to know.
Jared walked down the hall, in what actually proved to be slow motion, allowing me the time to think thoughts including, but not limited to, the following:
What kid could that be?...Who didn't I get it touch with?...Did I remember to do my crunches last night?
As Jared got closer, a few things became glaringly apparent. This was a boy...no, wait...two boys. The two boys had let themselves in and were already standing in the dining room. And according to their accents, these weren't local boys, these boys were from the West.
In other words, these were Mormon missionaries. And they were standing right about where that picture was taken from.
The last thing I wanted to do was call attention to myself, so I wasn't sure what to do next. Grabbing for the covers, rolling off the bed and hitting the floor, or screaming something like WHY ME?????, were all solid attention grabbers in my estimation.
What could I do? What could I do? What could I do?
All I could do was call upon my inner-Animal Planet senses, and play dead. I froze like nobody's ever froze before. No breathing, no blinking, no wiggling, no nothing. I pretended to be a body pillow--a deceased body pillow.
Finally, the missionaries wrapped up their conversation with my #1 husband, and vacated the mudroom.
Jared tromped back into the bedroom and said, "It was the missionaries."
And I said, "I know. You left the door wide open."
And he said, "Lucky guys.....you're way hotter than any of the naked girls I stumbled upon when I was a missionary."
How was your morning?
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