The S.S. Lawson

August 31, 2010

A few weeks ago, as I walked out of a meeting, I powered up my cell phone and instantly noticed that I had seven (seven!) missed calls from my husband.

In keeping with my normal tendencies, my mind went swiftly and directly to the worst case scenario. I was like, "Oh boy, here we go. They took Reno 911 off of Netflix Instant. What'll we watch now?" But fortunately, before I could get too worked up, Jared sent me a text. It was short, it was sweet, and I don't want to make you jealous or anything, but it was absolute dream come true. The text said I JUST BOUGHT A BOAT.

The truth is, no matter how creative I get with cooking the books, we simply can't afford that kind of a splurge. I guess we could sell the family car to bankroll a boat, but let's face it, that would be very impractical for commuting. And besides, I'm not sure where I'd put the car seat.

I immediately called Jared and said, "You bought a boat?"

And he happily replied, "Sure did."

"But Jared," I continued, "How'd you pay for it?"

And in the proudest tone I've ever heard roll out of my husband's mouth he said, "With a 6-pack of Miller Lite."

Now let me just stop right here. You probably think Jared was proud of landing such a screaming deal on such a sweet water craft.

Not so.

Jared was excited because he'd just bought alcohol for the first time in his 31 years.

"Amy," he said. "They carded me, andI feel amazing."

But not nearly as amazing as I felt when Jared pulled into the driveway towing this behind his car:

Isn't she a beaut?

She's suitable for catching bass, lake trout, and communicable diseases. Also suitable for catching nasty glances from the meticulous, well established neighbors.

Throwback Thursday

Last night, Jared and I were sitting on the couch waiting for a phone call. As a way to pass the time, we decided to go over to my sidebar and look at my very first blog post. It was completely "awwwwwww" worthy, with a 17-month-old James wearing my now-extinct purple shoes.

We moved on to some other posts, and I've got to say that while a lot of them were completely lame, this post had us absolutely busting up in laughter.

I don't know, maybe you had to be there. But just in case you didn't, go check it out.

(click on the words 'this post' to read it....)

Rainy Days and YouTube

August 25, 2010

Some things in life just don't need any commentary:

I really, really, really, really love that.

It Came From My Husband's Colon

August 24, 2010

I have no idea how Jared will be able to get through his day at work. Now it's not anything super horrible like a law suit, or a pink slip, or a seven hour conference call without a six foot sandwich, but it's almost as bad.

The man has an incredible case of the farts right now.

Last night, his gas was so intense, that it woke me out of a dead sleep at least three or four times. There I was, floating through a gigantic dreamy room full of helium balloons, when all of the sudden I was startled awake. But instead of screaming, I was like, "Oh, ew. Oh my..... *cough cough* Jared, I think I'm choking!" And I was forced to throw open the sash, stick my head into the cold night air, and fight for my breath--just like the dad in The Night Before Christmas.

Let's just go ahead and file the whole experience under the WRETCHED tab.

This morning, I've got to admit that the insane farting had wandered away from my mind. I was definitely more focused on slapping together a couple of triple decker peanut butter and jelly sandwiches--you know, for my professional health care provider husband. He likes Goldfish crackers and juice boxes, too--but not Capri Suns, I think they're too sugary for his body.

I finished making his lunch and hopped into the shower--and let me just say that I love my morning shower. It's all hot, and steamy (I'm being literal here, so let's just choose the right, okay?), and no one bothers me. It's the eight minutes I have to myself every day, and I will freely admit that I cherish and protect that time above all else.

So there I was, soaping up my undercarriage, when all the sudden, I caught a whiff of something fierce. Something that reminded me all to well of a moldy salami and cheese sandwich, in a cow barn, with poop stacked up to the ceiling. It came from my husband's colon, and it was humid in that bathroom, so the smell just lingered.

The rest of the morning was filled with occasional bursts of that same horrific--and confusing--smell. Jared said he was trying to get it all out of his system since his day is totally stacked with patients. Well, I hope he laid something completely amazing in his station wagon during his morning commute, because I can promise that they weren't getting any milder around the dining room table.


He agreed. If he needs to let one rip, he'll do it in the vault (his office used to be a bank). After all, if once upon a time it safely contained millions of dollars, it should definitely be able wrangle a little ol' fart or two, right?

Man I hope so.


August 18, 2010

This is my Maggie.



Still smiling:

After ten months as my work sidekick extraordinaire, Maggie started part-time daycare this week. It wasn't a decision that was forced by anyone else, I just felt like it was time. Recently, Maggie's grown to absolutely hate my office (huh, wonder where she picked up on that vibe), and I can't remember the last time I actually carried a professional task to completion--so we both shipped out to greener pastures. And her pasture is overflowing with Little Tykes toys.

According to our Most Saintly Daycare Provider of Angle Voices and Heavenly Hosts, Maggie had a good time on her first day. She was super smiley, and just sort of observed the other kids while she sat in the middle of the floor and banged on the top of a plastic barnyard.

James let me know that Maggie likes toys and friends much, much more than she likes file cabinets and my fax machine.

And me? Well, I'm just proud that I finally got her out of pajamas. Milestones all around.

Gigantic Onions

August 12, 2010

Whatever, already know that we joined a CSA this year--but trust me when I tell you that you have absolutely no idea how huge these local onions are!

This picture will give you a good point of reference:

I know! It's unbelievable! Check 'em out from this angle:

On Self Acceptance

August 11, 2010

I'm not thirty yet. I've got a few more months until that happens.

Earlier this year, when I'd think about aging out of my twenties, I'd literally feel like I was about vomit. But lately, something's shifted and I can't wait to turn thirty--and possibly get some kind of middle age looking haircut.

I'm not 100% sure where this excitement stems from, but I do know that the closer I edge to the end of the twenties, the less I care about what other people think of me.

I used to walk around with thoughts swirling around in my head like, "Am I too fat? Am I too thin? Do I look artsy enough? Maybe I'm too sporty? Is my job too boring? Am I dull? WHAT DO THEY THINK OF ME?"

Now I'm more like, "Does that taste good? Is that on sale? Oh my word, why won't you behave?"

Trust me, it's a far more comfortable place to be.

Mormons have this thing--we worry way too much about what people might think of our day to day habits. You hear it every Sunday in church, "Well I was at a wedding last weekend, and when I said 'no' to the waiter who was pouring wine, no one could believe it. They all asked why I don't drink and when I explained it, they thought I was so ridiculous! It was an awkward situation to say the least."

Um, okay. Trust me when I tell you that those people don't give half a crap whether or not you drink coffee, or wine, or goat piss from a sippy cup--they're wondering whether or not you stumbled across their I'M OBSESSED WITH ANIMAL HUSBANDRY fan site on Facebook.

Most people aren't overthinking your 'out of the ordinary' or 'far too ordinary' life--they're thinking about theirs.

I'm probably ten years late coming to a realization like this, but that's fine, because it's so ridiculously freeing.

Last weekend, Jared and I went out for our anniversary. We spent way too much cash on dinner and then walked around town, popping in to all kinds of art gallery openings. We walked to the back of one gallery and spotted this crazy upholstered animal head thing (seriously, follow that link and click on number 1) by Breon Dunigan.

I was dying over that piece, you guys. Dy. Ing.


I kid you not when I say that If I had 3,000 extra dollars crumpled up under my mattress, there'd most definitely be an upholstered ox head hanging above my bed.

Anyhoo, the gallery was packed. All kinds of beautiful people in circle-shaped tortoise framed glasses were milling around, vying for price lists, and there I was, wearing flip flops, a cotton skirt from Target and literally eating a Snickers bar while I died dead over Breon's creation.

Seriously, if you want a healthy dose of amazing in your life, go ahead and mix some nougat with some flawless art and salted peanuts. I think the Buddhists call it Nirvana. And the rednecks? They just call it a real good time.

I looked over at Jared, with my eyes super wide and said, "I'm having so. much. fun."

Because I was. I really, really was. I didn't notice their snack choices, they didn't notice mine, and a funtastic time was had by all.

Sometimes I think about the fact that I a completely crappy housekeeper--like I can't remember the last time I changed my sheets, I haven't put laundry away in over a month, and there's a very slippery fungus creeping up behind my bathroom faucet. It's not something I'm proud of, but it is what it is.

I used to talk about it all the time, to anyone who stepped within a 100-foot radius of my house. I'd be like, "I'm sorry it's so messy. I'm so embarrassed. I should do a better job. Really, I'm sorry."

Then one day my eighty year old neighbor stopped me mid-sentence and said, "Why do you think I care about your house? I didn't come to see if you dusted, I came to see your baby."

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh snap.

The truth is, no one and I mean NO ONE wants to hear me drone on and on about my horrible, messy house and how it makes me feel like a horrible messy person, and how I think my inability to clean is rooted in some deep seeded childhood trauma that I may or may not remember.

So, instead of putting people in the awkward and totally unenjoyable position of listening to my insecurities, I made the decision that I could either

A) learn to be okay with with my messy nature, or

B) change my disheveled ways, or

C) at the very least, I could stop talking about it all the damn time.

I've gone for a combination of A and C. And you know what? I'm willing to bet, that when people step into my house, 90% of the time they're like, "Phew, I'm not the only one." And as far as the other 10% go? Well, as long as it doesn't actually smell like poo and trash, I guess I don't really care what they think.

I'm not really sure why I'm writing this post today. Deep down, I guess I hope my kids stumble across it someday. Maybe when they're eighteen and fourteen, and they come to me complaining that they're the only Mormons in the entire school system, we'll read this entry and I'll follow it up with something amazing and wise like, "Listen, Sarah has two moms, Eleanor's covered in zits, Jason just got dumped by his girlfriend, Chris is the only Chinese kid in the State of Maine, and Zoe's dad drives a 1992 Caravan. You've all got your mountains."

Then they'll call me stupid. And I'll say, "Oh yeah? We'll talk about it when you're thirty."

Hanger Management

August 10, 2010

It's no secret--I have a very severe hanger issue. In case you're not familiar with this ailment, hunger + anger = hanger.

Make sure you pronouce the G.

It's a nasty, nasty way to be. Hanger symptoms include, but are certainly not limited to tantrums, swearing, whining, booing, hissing, and a swift kick to the husband's nut sack. It gets even worse on road trips.

Now my husband? He doesn't suffer from the same kind of hanger that I do. In fact, he could cross the Sahara for forty days and forty nights on an elephant's back, eat three cashew nuts along the way, and complain that he might have diarrhea because he's too stinking full.

Jared actually suffers from hhanger. To break that one down, heat + humidity + anger = hhanger, and my goodness is it ever ugly.

Me? I don't mind the heat one bit. I regularly sit in our living room, completely unable to open my eyes from the sting of mug induced sweat, singing show tunes from the 1940s. No matter how hard it tries, humidity just cannot steal my joy.

When I really think back on our years in Texas, I have to wonder if it was actually the weather that brought us to the brink of divorce, and not the whole oopsiaccidentallyjusttriedtorunyouoverwiththisstationwagononpurpose incident that we usually blame it on.

Either way, Jared is one hhangry man.

Last night, our house was so muggy that Jared decided to give me the silent treatment.

Now I get the silent treatment all time time--but usually it's reserved for thos instaces when I put poop on my husband's toothbrush (true story), or when I overdraw the checking account with an irresponsible bacon purchase. But now, Jared is officially holding me responsible for the crappy, uncomfortable weather.

I hate it when I feel like I'm married to myself.

A Smaller Small

August 9, 2010

So I'm back from a ten day vacation, and I can't even begin to tell you how hard it was to convince myself to check my work email this morning. None of my professional contacts ever go out of their way to send me a coupon for a half-priced burrito or a free Frosty, they only email me to ask questions and demand things. It's not polite.

Do you know what else was totally not polite? The snot-ass tone of voice from the girl in front of me at the marathon packet pick-up.

For those of you who haven't run a road race (and if you haven't--why not?), before the race starts, you walk over to a table, you tell them your name, and you pick up a packet with your race number, your t-shirt, and a big bag of free condoms.

Okay fine, I've never gotten a complimentary condom at a race--but really now, how fun would that be?

Once you get your packet, you pin the number onto your shirt, you silently decide whether the t-shirt is fabulous or offensive, and then you head over for an hour-long wait in the port-o-potty line. Or if you're me, you pee behind the row of port-o-potties. Dead serious.

So I'm waiting in line behind this girl, who seems to believe that she's heaven's own gift to the marathon. Clearly not the case--Pepto Bismal is heaven's gift to the marathon. Anyhoo, she steps up to the table, takes her packet, and immediately starts in with complaints about the t-shirt. She

A) doesn't like the design,

B) doesn't care for the fabric, and

C) feels quite strongly that the size small is way too big.

Plus, she wanted to see a detailed map of the marathon course--even though the marathon course was eight identical loops around the same frikking lake.

It was the kind of situation where everyone falls silent, spins on their heels toward the scene-maker, and stares. It's like someone sent out a mental message to say, "Hey, let's all work together so we don't miss a speck of this drama, okay?"

And believe you me, we didn't.

She holds her t-shirt up to the volunteer and goes, "This is a small? It's huge. I need an extra-small."

"Sorry, we don't have any extra-smalls. Small is the smallest we have."

And she was like, "This small is big, not small.  I run marathons, I don't sit around all day, I need a smaller small."

"It's the smallest we have."

"Well this won't work," she ranted. "I need to have a smaller shirt."

So the volunteer goes, "Maybe you can find another small friend to hop in there and help you fill it out. That would be cute. And small."

If I could, I'd give one hundred billion points to the volunteer.

Back to Reality

August 9, 2010

In case you didn't put two and two together, I was on vacation.

Now I'm home. Poop.


August 1, 2010

Here's the short report:

Qualifying for Boston is a total and complete bastard.

I was perfectly on pace until mile 23, and all of the sudden I had a hamstring cramp that could have only come from the devil himself. I wouldn't even call it a cramp, my leg pretty much just quit working--maybe what a pirate's peg leg would feel like?

Anyhoo, I stretched 'er out, jogged to the 25 mile mark, walked to the 25.5 mile mark, and ran it in to a time of 3:51.

Not a BQ. Not a PR. Still a pretty respectable time.

I have no idea how something can be so torturous and so freaking fun at the very same time. Man I love/hate the marathon.

And Boston? You'll be my bitch at Bay State on October 17th. No more of these games.

Longer report coming soon...