Winter Pictures

January 30, 2009

It's funny, but somehow four degrees doesn't seem to bother me anymore. Sure it's a shock at the beginning of the winter, but by this point it's like "Eh, four? I really don't think I need my pants if it's four outside..."

Okay fine, I usually wear my pants when I go outside. But the mittens and the hat? Not so much. I guess the body just adapts to these things--hot or cold. When we first moved to Dallas, for example, I only felt the need to sit on my porch in my underpants for sixty days or so. After that point I was completely able to cope with a full one-piece bathing suit.

Today I wanted to give you a taste of what winter looks like in my neck of the woods. So, without further ado, please feast your eyes upon my super crappy photography.

This first picture is the snowbank on the left side of our driveway. And let me tell you, I'd happily give Jared's right nut in exchange for a snow blower--we built that thing with our own four hands. If you look to the left of the shovel and up a little bit, that black dot is the top of our lamppost--fer real. And I also took the liberty of measuring the shovel, it's five foot four, almost as tall as me.


This second picture illustrates the fact that this snow bank isn't only tall, but that bad boy is long, too.

Jared and I like to keep these cross county skis conveniently propped in a snowbank next to our side door--simply for the fact that it makes us look cooler than we actually are. When people come to our house they're always like, "Did you just get back from skiing?" And I'm like "Yup," and then I cough the words 'in November' under my breath. Cross county skiing my ass--I'm far too busy watching Biggest Loser reruns to do something cold and ridiculous like that.

And finally, here in Maine, lots of our roofs look like this:

They're metal, the snow slides off on it's own (otherwise you have to shovel your roof), they come in every color of the rainbow (seriously), and they supposedly last forever. My sister thinks they're ugly, which is funny, because I think stinky guy who hangs out at the bus stop in front of her house is kinda ugly, too.

Oh, and I'd like to point out that the roof up there belongs to my neighbor. I'd never let my trim look all raggedy like that--trust me, I'd have my Dad paint it before it ever got to that point.

So there ya have it, a little taste of winter in Maine. Stay tuned for the ice fishing shacks...

Elsewhere

January 29, 2009

If you're looking for some Lawson, you can find me over at Happily Average. It's a guess post all about Rite Aid coupons. Oooooohhhhh....

Something Cleverish

January 28, 2009

I really don't care that we're in the worst credit crisis/recession/national freakout since the Great Depression. Each and every one of you should whip out your overused credit card, forget about the distinct possibility of foreclosure, and order this book immediately.

Don't worry about talking it over with your spouse, I hereby grant you immunity from those silly little household money rules.

The book is called "Something Cleverish," it has an adorable little bird on the cover, and c'mon, it's less than twenty bucks. And think about it--what can you even get for less than twenty dollars these days? A Big Mac will make you chunky, a hamster will drive you insane without offering an ounce of joy, and a cheap hooker? Well, I'll be honest here, a cheap hooker will give you a roaring case of chlamydia.

And geeze-um, you don't want a vintage STD do you?

I didn't think so.

Here are two more reasons you should buy this book:

1) All of the proceeds go to benefit the lovely Mr. & Mrs. Nielson. In case you haven't heard, she's a far better homemaker than I'll ever be, and they were critically injured in a plane crash last August. You can learn more about NieNie and her family here, or here, or here. Or now that Nie is back to writing (as best as she can with hands that are hard to get working), you can read her own blog here.

2) I'm in the book. Actually, I'm the third of forty-two entries, and as long as the editor wasn't going by the "save the best for last" rule, I think that's pretty fantastic. My entry has never been featured on this blog, so if you want to know something new about yours truly--specifically my nipular region--you'll have to buy the book.

And if I haven't convinced you yet, read this little snippet of fan mail I got today:

I couldn't finish reading it I was laughing so hard…so here I am at work with NO MORE MAKE UP ON…cause I cried it all off…you KILL ME…thanks for making me laugh…

That came from a nice, random lady named Miranda. A lady who I've fallen in love with.

Seriously, what are you waiting for?

Knitting. And Other Hopeless Endeavors.

January 27, 2009

Guess what I don't like (aside from the fat, naked, hairy guy who keeps walking out of our refrigerator in my dreams).

Knitting. I really don't like knitting.

But guess what I do like.

Knitting with my friends, at a bar, with a giant plate of french fries, a couple slices of chocolate cake, and a long drawn out conversation about boyfriends. That's what I did last night.

I decided to work on a grey wool scarf for James--mostly because it sounds very small and very easy. Think about it--it's got to be super narrow, and short enough so my three-year-old can't inadvertently suspend himself from the ceiling fan. No problem, right?

Wrong.

When you suck at knitting everything is a problem.

I had three false starts, needles were flying all over that dang restaurant, and in all honesty, I came home with three inches of scarf to speak of. My friends on the other hand, each walked out with--I don't know--a super fancy lace sweater with six colors that was big enough to fit a 600-pound woman?

Seriously. They're far more adept than I'll ever be.

Maybe the fries are too distracting. Or maybe I've found the one thing on the planet that I suck at even more that I suck at swimming--and honestly, I never thought I'd see the day.

True story...

When we lived in Dallas, I decided to take a private swimming lesson at the YMCA with an instructor named Salvador. Sal started the lesson like this: So Amy, show me what you can do. So I stood there in the shallow end, blew some bubbles with my lips, splashed around with my arms a little bit, and showed Sal how I can easily pick up a full-grown Italian man when I'm in a swimming pool.

Sal was confused.

By the end of the lesson I was wearing a life vest, using a kick board, a floaty leg device, a pool noodle and I still couldn't swim to the other end of the pool all by myself.

Sal was like, "Kick, Amy, kick!"

And I was like, "Go to hell, Sal, go to hell!"

And well, that pretty much sums up my swimming career.

So last night I got home from knitting with my project hidden deeply in the corner of my bag--you know, the same place where I store all of my gum wrappers and parking tickets. Jared, being the sweet and supportive husband that he is anxiously said, "Soooo....let's see what you made!"

"Oh, it's nothing, I replied. I'll show it to you some other time."

"Oh come on, Amy! I really want to see your project," he continued.

"Fine." And I pulled it out of my bag.

Jared looked at my knitting, kind of squinted his eyes and cocked his head to the right. "Well look at that! It's a moon made out of yarn! That's really cool babe!"

Actually, it wasn't a moon made of out yarn at all.

"Well, it's supposed to be a scarf," I said. "For James."

"Oh, yeah! I can see that now! I love how it looks like a monster took a bite out of the corner down there. James is totally into monsters lately, he'll love that!"

And it wasn't a scarf with a monster bite either. It was supposed to be a rectangle. Just a plain old rectangle.

I explained this to Jared and he pulled me into a hug. "You kind of suck at knitting," he said into my ear.

He's right. But the fries were good!

Grown Up Fun

January 23, 2009

Now that I'm a firm 28 years old, and decidedly past my quarter-life crisis, there are so many things that I completely love about being a grown-up.

For example, one of my closest childhood friends is a dentist right here in Maine. She and her also-a-dentist husband own their own practice and bring home approximately four gazillion dollars a month. They live in an enormous old house with secret rooms and maids'-quarters, and honestly, it's nothing short of radical.

Trust me, there are some raging games of hide n' seek going on in that house--after the kids are sleeping, of course. Now don't you worry about the children feeling left out--they're not coordinated enough to wear the moon shoes anyway.

Much like me, this friend absolutely stinks at managing the responsibility of a cell phone--drops it, kicks it, accidentally wipes with it--you know, the works. So it's almost impossible to get hold of one another--which stinks when you all of the sudden come up with the best idea in the history world.

And last week I did.

So I said, "Screw the cell phone! I'm a grown-up! I'm calling Meghan at work!"

This is how it went down...

RECEPTIONIST: Hello! This is the dentist office! Can I help you?
ME: Yes. This is Amy calling from Dr. Lawson's office. I need to speak with Dr. Baker and it's urgent.
RECEPTIONIST: I'm sorry but Dr. Baker is with a patient, can I take a message?
ME: I said it was urgent.
RECEPTIONIST: Can I put you through to the office manager?
ME: (in an exasperated tone) Fiiiiiine.

So the office manager, who also happens to be Dr. Baker's brother, picks up the line...

OFFICE MANAGER: Hello! This is Brandon!
ME: Bran, it's Amy, your receptionist sucks. I seriously need to talk to your sister right now. Are you dating anyone yet?
OFFICE MANAGER: No, not dating anyone. Hold on.

And then I finally, finally got to speak with the woman in charge...

MEGHAN: Hello, this is Dr. Baker.
ME: Go stand in your supply closet.
MEGHAN: Okay, I'm in.
ME: What's up biiiiiiitch?!
MEGHAN: Oh, not much. You know, doing a root canal biiiiiitch!
ME: So I had this idea. You should come to my house this weekend and pay for my lunch.
MEGHAN: Only if we can take the kids to WalMart and get their pictures taken with the most hideous backgrounds ever.
ME: Only if we leave food on their faces and dress 'em up ugly and make sure they're completely overtired.
MEGHAN: Deal.

Told you it was important.

Things like this make me love being a full fledged grown-up. Back when I was still 23, still struggling with who I was and what I wanted to do with my life, I never would have dreamed of steppeing out of a meeting to text my husband that: WE NEED OLIVES FROM THE STORE. U R HOT. But now that I'm an adult there's simply no question--when you need pizza toppings, you need pizza toppings...even if it is during the middle of an Executive Committee meeting.

I'm no longer intimidated by adults--turns out they're all just as broke and amused by potty humor as I am.

And if they're not? I'll just call them at the office and make fun of 'em for it.

I love being a grown-up.