Happy 33rd Anniversary!
Or is it the 34th?
Any way you slice it, Happy 3Xnd Anniversary, Mom and Dad!
I must say, I'm glad you got married, and that I am the crowning jewel of your sacred union--you know, as opposed to my sister.
Dad: Take her out for supper tonight, even if she resists till the cows come home and insists over and over again that she DOESN'T WANT TO GO OUT TO EAT!
Mom: Let Dad take you out to eat, you know you'll have fun once you're there.
We love you guys!!!
First, if you really, truly care about choosing an internet alias for Baby Girl Lawson, then you should strongly consider voting on the issue. At last glance Velveeta and Lawlet were within two votes of one another. Very suspenseful. I'm also quite sure that there's no limit to the number of times you're able to vote in a day--so go ahead, tip the scales, it'll be fun.
Second, I've been at my office since six o'friggin clock this morning, and I'm leaving the second this clock strikes ten. I mean it.
And finally, ay yi yi, what a week it's been. I'm so glad it's Friday.
So. Glad. It's Friday.
Since my week officially sucked butt (are Mormons even allowed to say 'sucked butt'?), I'm bound and determined to make this weekend the very best weekend in the history of my life. I've yet to develop a single strategy or activity to accomplish that goal, but really guys, I'm gonna do it.
Well, actually, I take that back. I'm quite sure that my weekend will involve onion rings in some capacity, but aside from those little beauties, and a birthday party on the coast, I'm working with a completely blank slate.
And now that I think about it, Jared has been asked to give a talk to the congregation at church on Sunday, too. But honestly, that's cool.
In all sincerity, I look forward to the rare opportunity to heckle my husband from the pews of our little chapel. For example, when he makes a scriptures reference, I like to purse my lips, sorrily shake my head and mouth the words THAT WAS TOTALLY WRONG.
Or sometimes, when I'm in the right mood, I like to grab his attention with my eyes and hold up four fingers, then three, then four. You should see his face--he's got this totally desperate expression and I know he's thinking, "Why can't I crack this code right now???? It really seems important!!!!"
And obviously, it goes without saying, that when Jared makes a joke I keep the straightest face that I possibly can. I wish you could be there, because that man's confidence drains faster than a jug of kool-aid through through the crotch of my underpants. It's remarkable.
Heck guys, Sunday's looking pretty darn good as an addition to my quest for the perfect weekend...which leads me to wonder, does anyone out there have really, unbelievably, over-the-top fantastic plans for this weekend? If so, I'd definitely like to hear about them (so I can curse you under my breath).
I'd like to hear about sucky upcoming weekends, too.
Either way, I hope you all have an enjoyable one.
The Infamous Egg Incident of 2009
Brotherly Love and Voting
The Verdict Is In
May 21, 2009
You know, actually, I'll just let James tell you.
This was the second take, when I was like, "C'mon buddy! Just pretend to be excited."
And this was the first take:
Oh yeah, the kid is totally thrilled.
The Sanctity of Marriage, Lawson Style
Up here in Maine, there's been a whole lot of talk surrounding gay marriage in recent weeks. And we all know that when there's talk of gay marriage we're also met with a great deal of information that deals with 'preserving the sanctity of marriage.'
Ahh the sanctity of marriage.
"What does that really mean," you might wonder? Or you could be thinking, "I would like more strong examples of the sanctity of marriage in action."
Well, without further ado, I give you:
Last night, when Jared finally came home from work, that man was way beyond cranky. He was irritable and demanding, and if I didn't have a set of working eyes I would have bet money on the fact that I was talking to a constipated 90 year-old with a raging case of gout--not a level-headed 29 year-old who's been blessed with a very delicious backside.
Jared blasted through the side door sometime around 7pm, and before he even thought about putting his bag on its hook he was barking all kinds of commands at me. He was like, "Make me a dang sandwich you useless woman!" and "Get your sorry self to the grocery store this instant you big old thing!"
Or maybe it was like, "Oh bummer, I'm trying to make myself a sandwich but we're all out of turkey. I thought you were planning to grocery shop today, hun. I'm pretty hungry."
I really can't remember, but either way it was completely over the top.
He was grouchy, I was grouchy, and within fourteen minutes my husband was headed back out the door, on his way to my in-law's house--with the obvious intention of spreading nasty, horrible, and untrue rumors all about his wife.
Or maybe it was something about a Red Sox game, their big screen TV and the availability of sandwich fixins.' Again, raging case of pregnancy brain, I really can't recall.
Either way, upon his leaving, I was quite upset that Jared Lawson had failed to notice the bow in my hair, my adorable new handmade apron, the steaming hot apple pie, and my lacy thong underwear.
(Or was it a freezer burnt brownie and my Tasmanian Devil pajama pants?)
One thing is surely obvious: in this case, the details of this story are completely unimportant. I was angry, and rightfully so.
That's why I made a very difficult decision--to insert one of Jared's muddy hiking boots under the sheets, at the foot of his side of the bed. He passionately hates a set of sandy sheets, and I super hated his attitude, so the moment he slipped into bed, we could be mean and hateful together--you know, as a couple thing.
When he finally nuzzled into bed sometime around 11:30, that man was even angrier. He was all, "Amy! You put a BOOT in the stinkin' BED?! Do you even have any concept of how disgusting that is?!" Then he continued with a passionate "GEEZE!" as he hurled that very substantial piece of footwear far away from his sleeping area.
As if his overreaction alone wasn't too inappropriate to handle, that big, heavy, filthy boot landed right on the side of my face.
Of course I cried. A lot. And Jared was like, "Oh, I'm so sorry Amy. I never wanted that boot to hit you in the face."
And I was all, "Then why did you make it do that?"
And he was all, "I had a bad day, and it's way too dark to see anything. I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I'm really sorry. Really, I'm sorry. Did I mention how dark it is in here?"
And then I fell asleep smiling--because dude, I totally won.
Coupons and Boobs--Almost the Same Thing
I'm all out of excuses--as much as I hate to do it, a trip to the grocery store must occur today.
As far as food goes, we've been in a bad way for almost two weeks now, but I've got to admit, it didn't really hit home until this morning when I sent Jared to work with a brown paper bag containing nothing but an almost black banana, a ten dollar bill, and his overdue parking ticket.
Jared, if you're reading this: Bon appetit, honey! Now pay yer damn parking ticket.
I'm not 100% sure why I harbor such strong, negative feelings toward grocery shopping,but if I had to guess, it has everything to do with my sister. Now I love my sister Katy to the zoo and back, but man oh man, she's intense about her groceries.
She's the type who pulls up to the checkout belt with a mountain of food, four binders filled with coupons, and a pocket full of special cards and secret reward receipts. The cashier rings her up, scratches her head, and says, "Huh, that's funny. It says here that I owe you seventeen dollars." And Katy's like, "Well, according to my calculations, you actually owe me eighteen dollars. But don't worry about it, I wouldn't want to hold up the line."
Like I said, she's intense.
And really, really friendly.
When it comes to shopping, I simply cannot, and will never compare to Katy. When I go to the supermarket I'm usually like, "Get in my cart you stupid bag of four-dollar chips. You'll make me fat AND my sister could get you for free." And then I'm all, "Ugh! I hate you SO MUCH you overpriced pint of Ben & Jerry's! Actually, I hate you so much that you're not even worth taking home. I'm gonna eat you right here in the parking lot of this Hannaford store!"
And then I just keep stomping around, cursing at the cottage cheese, and the people with ugly haircuts and big butts and whatnot.
But I do love it when there are plenty of snacks in the house.
Now seriously Jared, GO PAY YOUR PARKING TICKET!!!!
Did you guys know that some parking tickets double in price when ignored for a month or longer? These things are unbelievably expensive (well for me at least), and of course it's a woman who works in the parking office, so I can't even show her my boobs for a discount.
Boobs are so much cooler than coupons.
The Honor of All Honors
The Pregnancy Diet for HOTTIES!
Last week I made the executive decision that I've been gaining weight a bit too quickly. Now you've got to understand that this wasn't a decision based purely on emotion, I actually ran the numbers. And the results? Not so pretty.
Basically, if I maintain my current rate of weight gain for the next 21 weeks of pregnancy I will ultimately come to outweigh my husband by 73 pounds, outgrow all of my maternity clothes, and have no option but to wear a 55 gallon drum and suspenders to church every Sunday.
And seriously now, what in the hell kind of shoes are you supposed to wear with a 55 gallon drum? Clogs? I don't think so.
I cannot, I repeat, CANNOT let this happen to myself.
Therefore, I have taken the initiative to change my life for the better and I've officially instituted the The Pregnancy Diet for HOTTIES! And yes, when you say it out loud, the word "HOTTIES!" should be enunciated with all sorts of pizazz. You're also encouraged to show the world your boobies...no matter what word you're saying.
This revolutionary new diet was developed in my in-house laboratory.
Yes, exactly. I made it up myself.
Over the last 4 years I've made up a number of diets, and honestly, it's been almost too much fun to handle.
First there was The Bowl Diet. Basically, I was allowed to eat anything I wanted as long as it could fit into a cereal bowl, with a 5 bowl limit per day. Let me tell you, with a little bit of drive and innovation, you'd be absolutely astonished by how many garlic & butter chicken wings fit into a bowl. I gained 6 pounds.
Then we had The Letter C Diet. In short, I could eat as much of anything I wanted as long as it started with the letter C. Take a moment and reflect on that. I gained another 6 pounds.
And then, of course there was The Low Sodium Generic V8 Dietary Supplementation Program. My most devoted readers might remember it. All you other beauties are cordially invited to click on that link up there (where you'll also learn about The Prune Diet, The Ice Water Diet, and The Jalapeno Diet).
But today, I'm not here to reflect upon past fun and failures, I'm here to forge ahead. So, without further ado, I give you The Pregnancy Diet for HOTTIES!
Step 1: Take a prenatal vitamin every day.
Step 2: Take 2 Flintstones gummy vitamins every day.
Step 3: Construct The Official Diet Chart for HOTTIES! as pictured below:
(I never said this wouldn't be technical)
Step 4: Eat whatever you want, as long as you can squeeze the description into the corresponding box. Yes, it's okay to write small. Yes, it's okay use abbreviations. No, it's absolutely never okay to write outside of the lines.*
*This is a diet you douchehead. Think hard--do you want to wear maternity jeans or the big, blue barrel we talked about? If you're not serious about this, then go get yourself a Super Value Big n' Tasty Burger with cheese, extra pickles and extra ketchup (far too long to fit inside of a box), shut yer pie hole, and be super fat. It' fine with me.
So far, by strict adherence to the plan, I've limited my weight gain to 1 pound in 2 weeks. I also managed to eat 3 whoopie pies for yesterday's afternoon snack, ingest up to 3,400 calories in a 24 hour period, and improve my overall happiness without bending a single rule.
What can I say? This plan works.
She's Skinny, She's Crafty, and No Matter How Hard I Try, I Just Can't Hate Her
How's that for a long and detailed title?I'll be around today, so check back later. I'm too hungry to post right now.
In the mean time, never forget how much I love you--yes, I mean you Vanessa.
Vanessa Christenson is a woman who, according to that picture up there, has absolutely no trace of love handles. She is also my spicy Latina crafting muse. If you currently have (or ever did have) a uterus, you should click on over to her site. Men, don't bother--she rarely posts any bikini pics.
What can I say? That biz-natch can sew. And craft. And successfully make average women--including me--look and feel like big, fat, steaming piles of horse poo.
One thing I'll never understand about Vanessa is her love of thrift store sheets. I think I emailed her once and was like, "If you want to dress your kids in fabric that hairy old men might have had sex on top of, then that's your personal business. But dude, you're disgusting."
She emailed back saying something to the effect of, "Don't sell me short, I make clothes for myself out of those sheets, too."
I'd have to say, that was the magical moment where our e-friendship officially began.
Happy Friday everyone! I don't know about you, but for me, this has been one of the longest weeks ever. From our annual meeting at work, to a super emotional hearing at the Statehouse, to my greyhound letting her bladder loose in the entryway of my office building, I'm straight up done.
Yesterday afternoon, when James and I took Gracie for a walk, he ran twenty paces ahead of me proclaiming, "My Mom es in a bad move! My Mom es in a bad move!" to the entire neighborhood. I was like, "It's MOOD James! With a D at the end!" as I casually waved to our golden-aged neighbor folk.
Thankfully, thankfully, Jared and I have a date tonight. My friend Jennifer--bless her glowing and generous soul-- is watching James, while Jared and I drive to the big city to redeem our free grilled chicken meal coupons from KFC.
FUN FACT: Did you know that the biscuits from KFC radiate glimmering beams of hope? And the cole slaw improves overall mental health? Really, it's true.
If we're up for it, we'll probably cap off the meal with some primo people watching at the local WalMart. I'm not lying, I honestly can't wait--my husband Jared Lawson is so much fun to bum around with!
A perfect date, with my perfect friend, for the perfect price--$FREE.
And now I'm just curious--what do you usually like to do with your Friday night?
Happy weekend, everyone!!!
Well that was some tricky post I wrote yesterday, huh?
It's true, I'm pregnant again. Eighteen weeks and thirteen pounds pregnant to be exact. And I'm happy to say that so far everything is so good--the baby has a nice strong heartbeat, my weight gain is pretty reasonable (at least that's what my midwife told me while I was sobbing into her shoulder last week), and the pregnancy brain is in full effect. All positive signs.
Speaking of pregnancy brain, this morning I arrived at work twelve minutes late, settled into my office chair, and immediately began attending to important, pressing business (facebook updates, personal email check, a quick visit to dairyqueen.com, etc). Approximately three minutes later I was struck with the strong and sudden urge to urinate.
I leapt up from my chair and began to awkwardly jog down the hallway when I thought to myself, "Huh. My shoes don't usually make a slapping sound like that. Weird." So I looked down at my feet, and was struck with the firm realization that I wore my slippers to work today.
I guess it's not a huge deal in the grand scheme of things--after all, they're understated. You know--pink with purple flowers, lined with fuzz, huge. Slippers schmippers, it's nothing. Really.
Just so you know, I tried and tried and tried to hold off on announcing my condition until the twenty week ultrasound. I thought it would be fun to say, "It's a boy!" or "It's a girl!" and leave everyone scratching their heads. I even considered waiting until the kid was born, posting a picture, and saying, "Look! It's a baby!" But, as with most things in my life, whoopie pies included, I broke down and gave in to temptation. I'm so weak like that.
I'm officialy vowing to be less secretive about my pregnancy this time around--why not have fun with it, right? So, without further ado, I give you the vital statistics:
DUE DATE: October 8, 2009
SEX: Too tired.
SEX: We don't know yet, we'll find out two weeks from today.
HOPING FOR: Either a boy or a girl--not a mix.
JAMES WANTS: A brother. Or a sister. Or a German Shorthaired Pointer.
STARTING WEIGHT: 114 (lie)
CURRENT WEIGHT: 127 (lie, lie, lie)
EXERCISE: Surprisingly good! Still running (well run/walking), getting my jumping jacks on with Jillian's Shred, and lots and lots of yard work. (not a lie)
BABY'S HEARTBEAT: 145 bpm
STATE OF MIND: 75% thrilled, 25% terrified
So there ya go. It's official! Prayers, positive thoughts, and sun salutations on our behalf are always appreciated.
And by the way, is that a boy heartbeat or a girl heartbeat? I have no idea.
Three Things I'm Good At: Secrets, Hiding, and Misrepresentation
Most nights, before I go to bed, I pop my head into James's room. You know, just to make sure that he's still breathing, that he's still super cute, and that he hasn't shimmied down the drain pipe and stolen my car.
Here was the scene I walked into last night:
Spway Dat Dog
As James approached the weird looking animal, an overly cautious look came across his face. He looked up at the female owner and suspiciously asked, "What dog is dis?"
I believe he was asking for the breed, but since the dog obviously had none the owner happily replied, "This is Rufus."
James pursed his lips and nodded. "Uh huh."
"What's your dog," she asked?
"She es a heyground," he replied. "Her name es Gracie and she es a heyground."
The woman giggled because, you know, greyhound...heyground, it's beyond cute if you ask me (and if you disagree, it's probably because your private parts are East of Russia and you're all worked up and cranky about it).
Then, in all seriousness, James looked up at me, pointed toward Rufus--who was panting, wagging, and I swear he was smiling--and said, "Spway dat dog, Mommy. You gotta spway dat dog."
That's right. James wanted me to give old Rufus a blast with my pepper spray--just for being ugly.
As we continued down the trail, I explained to James that pepper spray is only to be used on very angry animals or real life bad guys--not an innocent dog who could benefit from a box of hair dye and a set of braces.
He still hasn't wrapped his mind around the concept.