Wenis Waggler

March 27, 2008

This morning I received the sweetest, most ego inflating email from a reader named Julia B. I usually don't share these emails or reply to them in a public forum, but this letter was so uplifting and so complimentary that I really couldn't help it. Here's a snippet for your reading pleasure:

...I love the way you look at life. Nothing seems stressful to you and you manage to make life's little annoyances seem kind of fun. I think I'd be better off if I could be that like. How do you do it?..

Well Julia, your email leads me to believe that I don't spend enough time writing about the regular dose of crrrAZY I dole out to my husband--because honey, he thoroughly disagrees with your sentiments. In all actuality, life's little stressors make me want to pack up the Blazer, drive to Belize, and take up with the orangutans. Trust me when I tell you: It's a rare moment when I kick up my feet and have a genuine har-dee-har-har at my past due electric bill.

That said, I will readily admit that I am the self proclaimed queen of journalistic spin. In other words, I use this blog to transform my day-to-day humiliation into lighthearted humor. And usually, by the time I press the PUBLISH button, I've actually convinced myself that farting or falling (or whatever else happened that day) actually was a bit funny. How simple minded is that?

Emily Sailers, my all time favorite singer/songwriter, says, "You have to laugh at yourself, because you'd cry your eyes out if you didn't." Let me tell you, I'd give Emily a good old fashioned belly bop if I could, because she's hit the nail right on the head. I don't count my blessings and I don't look on the bright side to cope with the vicissitudes of life--instead, I laugh.

Yesterday for example, an extraordinarily enflamed townsperson walked into my office. Before I even had a chance to shake his hand, he approached my desk and started screaming like some sort of an ape on steroids. I work in the highly controversial field of affordable housing, so outraged citizens are not a rarity, but this gentleman--to put it lightly--was in a league of his own.

I understand people's frustrations with affordable housing, and usually I process the criticism well, but when this man strategically backed me into a corner and topped it off by calling "stupid," I was almost reduced to tears. I'm embarrassed to admit, that for a moment or two, he reigned me in with his slick words and I actually believed him. I believed that I was stupid.

When I felt the tears begin to swell in the back of my eyes, I knew the situation had gone too far. I couldn't allow a disrespectful schmuck to capture my control, I wouldn't let him steal my peace. And that's when I realized that I was certainly not the stupid person in the room.

In order to keep myself from crying, I immediately began to look for a touch of humor in a nasty situation, and thanks be to heaven, it wasn't very hard to find. This jack hole's fly was half way unzipped, and with every wave of his arm and pound of his fist, it opened up a teensy bit more. Tooth by tooth, his zipper was letting go, and if he screamed for long enough his wenis would be waggling around for the whole damn office to see.

He'd say, "STUPID!" And I'd think "What's up wenis waggler?"

He'd yell, "IDIOTS!" And I'd think "Waggle away Mr. Wenis!"

Him: WASTE. OF. MONEY!

Me: Wenis. Waggler.

I will admit, when I got into my car yesterday afternoon, I put my head on the steering wheel and cried--I am human after all. But before I knew it, my tears had morphed into a snorty sort of laughter, and I was feeling pretty normal. And today, when I look at the situation--thanks to some very intentional spin--I think it's pretty funny.

Typically, the way you react to uncontrollable situations is nobody's choice by your own, so you may as well spin it into whatever you'd like it to be. And that my friends, is my very own, creative definition of freedom.

Erasmus B. Draggin*

March 26, 2008

Yesterday, when I got home from work around 4:15, I realized that Jared and James were out for the night. That meant that for the first time in four months I was home alone with absolutely nothing pressing on my 'big ass to-do list.'** That's not to say that my list of household action items was blank--there was cereal to buy, underpants to fold, a carpet to vacuum--it simply meant that nothing on the list threatened our lives, our limbs, or our credit rating.

So, I did the only thing that any self respecting mother would do--I changed into my most disgustingly worn out pair of sweat pants, I dished up an extra large bowl macaroni and cheese, sprawled my haggard self across the couch, and planned to watch episode after episode of "Designed to Sell" on HGTV. My plan however, was foiled when I fell asleep mid-bite, three minutes after settling onto the sofa.

For the next four hours I proceeded to sleep, and sleep, and snore, and sleep. I finally startled myself awake at 8:05pm when an extra-long, snarfy snore caused the bowl of macaroni and cheese to tumble off my stomach and spill onto my neck.

Unfortunately, that was the last of the mac & cheese. Fortunately, it woke me up just in time to catch the first contestant on American Idol. I was able to fight off sleep for just long enough to critique each of the singers, and then I dragged myself up to bed, hit the pillow like a rock, and didn't emerge until my b****ard of an alarm clock went off at 5:30 this morning.

So what's the moral of this story? Well, it's simple--most moms are tired....really, really tired. An appropriate gift for any mother would probably be a gift certificate to Chuck E. Cheese (with her husband and children's names scrawled across the envelope) attached to a pillow, or a blanket, or any kind of sleeping paraphernalia under the sun. Trust me guys, she'll love you.

Back me up here, moms. Am I right? Or am I right?

*Bonus points to anyone who knows where the title of this post came from.

**I really do have homemade stationary that has that phrase running across the top. Obviously, my coworkers are envious.

Holiday Recap: Extreme Egg Hunting

March 14, 2008

Forgive me for bragging, but I'm pretty much the best egg-hunt planner in the whole entire universe. If you come to my house for Easter you won't find some lame-o setup with eggs dumped all over the lawn, and chocolate bunnies tucked neatly into the bushes. Oh no my friends, at my house you'll find obstacles...big ones.

Yesterday it took a ladder, a screwdriver, a shovel, some work gloves, two helpers, and one hour to construct my masterpiece. Then, after I put all of the tools back in the barn, I let the adults out of the holding pen, discussed the boundaries, and the hunt was on.

Ten or so grown-ups--ranging in age from twenty-one to ninety years--emerged from the kitchen, and paused in the driveway to do a visual scan of the yard. For the first ten seconds, there was silence. My aunts, uncles, and cousins just stood in the yard grasping the handles of their plastic grocery bags, wearing expressions of utter confusion.

Finally, my Aunt piped up. "Amy," she gently laughed. "How are we supposed to get the eggs off the top of the barn? And out of the tops of the trees?!"

I just shrugged my shoulders and happily replied, "That's the fun part. Now get to it!"

"No cheating," I added, as they reluctantly scampered off if a dozen different directions.

I watched with a great sense of satisfaction as a Mormon missionary shimmied up a tree in his formal suit and tie, as my mother cautiously batted at at the gutters with a seven-foot stick, and as the other Mormon missionary (remember, they always come in sets of two) risked electrocution by trying to dismantle an outdoor lighting fixture without the help of tools.

My proudest moment, however, came when my Uncle Bill spotted three candy-filled treasures on the dashboard of my little Toyota station wagon. He tried all four doors, but found each one to be locked---mmmm, too bad. As a last ditch effort he went for the tailgate, and *pop*, it opened right up. Without hesitation, my white-haired uncle crawled through the way back, over the car seat, and stretched his arm just far enough to grab those eggs. His face was distortedly pressed up against the window and he was barely maintaining his balance, but Uncle Bill still paused to give me a thumbs-up through the very foggy glass.

Now that's the kind of spirit and stick-to-itiveness I was hoping for yesterday afternoon.

All in all, it was a wonderful day with the family. Now that the cuts and bruises from Sunday's event have been tended to, I can move on to planning bigger and better events--like James's third birthday party. If you're lucky enough to score an invitation, be sure to plan ahead--it's a BYOH (bring your own helmet) kind of party.

Build Your Own Comment

March 20, 2008

Go ahead and fess up--you're wondering why I haven't commented on your blog in a while. I feel like I can make a bold, blanket statement like that because it's totally true. Well, at least half of that claim is true--I haven't commented on blogs in a darn long time.

I know at least a few of you have taken note of my recent streak of serious slackage. After all, I've received a number of emails pointing out my lack of participation (thanks), my sister-in-law asked me if I was mad at her (no), and my very own mother called me last night to say, "You never comment on my blog anymore." I guess that's the new, softer way of saying, "Don't forget about me when I'm in a nursing home someday."

If you have received a comment from me in the last, oh I don't know, four months, then you might want to paint yourself gold and run around the town square yelping, because you my friend, are the exception. In the next few weeks--once my blogging den is painted, decorated, and inspiring--I hope to resume my previous internet habits. You know--whispering sweet nothings into my laptop's speaker, ignoring the laundry pile as it mildews, and tossing an electrical appliance to my toddler every now and again to keep him happy and occupied.

In the mean time, I'd like to let you know that I've been keeping up with my blog reading as much as I possibly can. To prove it to you, I'm releasing a build-your-own-comment section in response to all of your recent posts. You'll find that it's vaguely reminiscent of the chose-your-own-ending books we adored in elementary school. It's simple to use--just pick one line from section A, section B, and section C, piece them together and *bam,* you've got a comment from my heart to yours. Go ahead and give it a whirl...

Section A

Congratulations on...

I'm sorry about...

Oh! Look at that...

Wow...

Section B

(s)he's walking...

your recent race time...

your new appliances...

the house...

your significant other...

picture...

your rear end...

you're covered in mud...

your weight gain...

your weight loss...

your kid...

Section C

is adorable!

how cute!

is awesome!

is nasty.

sucks!

that sucks!

look(s) fantastic!

that's priceless!

Ok friends, go hog wild. Play around with those phrases, and I'm sure at least one of the combinations will apply to you. Next time you get the urge to email me about my lack of recent commenting, come back to this post, consider your current circumstances, and rebuild your own. For example:

Oh! Look at that, your significant other sucks!

or

Wow. Your weight gain looks fantastic!

Call me crazy, but this is the best idea I've come up with in ages. Play along with me guys, which comment applies to you?

Chez Lawson

March 18, 2007

Today is a pretty significant day for the Lawson family. Today, you see, is the day that we finally get to close on our house. It will be a few more weeks before we're actually living in it full time, but that doesn't squelch my excitement even one fraction of an iota. Does it really matter if my new walk in closet smells like a men's locker room? Not to me it doesn't--because this afternoon I get an extra key and a brand new garage door opener to throw into my black hole of a purse. Two more items to lose and find, lose and find, lose and find--it's like the heartbeat of my life.

As you can see by the picture posted in the upper right hand corner, the house could use a coat of paint or four. That's a picture of James's room, and no, don't adjust the color settings on your monitor, it really is that shade of purple. The carpet in basement is also that shade of red, we have more than our fair share of wood paneling to contend with, and last but certainly not least, we found a "well used" pair of men's tighty whities sitting in our fire place. I say, "Dude, if your client sharted his shorts that badly, do us all a favor and light the match--let's turn those underbritches into forgotten history." Seriously, I'm gonna write that on a post-it note, crumple it up into a tiny ball, and roll that message to the seller's agent at the closing this afternoon.

This place is also loaded with some very cool features that I never ever dreamed of having in my very own house. For example:

The tree house is wired for electricity. I hope James enjoys his new wilderness themed room.

There's a bathroom in the basement, which means I will no longer have to mess myself while waiting for my towels to fluff in the dryer.

The house has a workshop in the basement. Finally, Jared will have a place to put his tool (no, that is not meant to be plural).

There are two large picture windows on the front of the house. Lucky for the neighbors, they'll get to see the crack of my a** on a day-to-day basis.

There is also a den for blogging, a garage for parking, a loft with a trap door for jumping out of, a roof for skiing down, a garden for killing, and one front lawn with the full potential to grow as high as my knees. Gosh, we haven't even moved in yet, and I already love this house.

I kind of hate to say this, but we've worked our tails off in the last few years, and I honestly think we've earned ourselves a permanent place to settle in--home sweet home. Also, I'm completely sick of using my brother-in-law's tooth brush. I've made it a priority to unpack my own.