August 25, 2009
It's no secret, I've done a lot of questionable things in my life--but I, Amy Lawson, can hold my head high and proudly declare that I have never, ever littered. Not so much as a used Kleenex, a Trident wrapper, or even the sticker off a plum.
(Now where's my award?)
I might swear, and I might drop trou to pee in public on a semi-regular basis, but my garbage? It stays firmly on the floor of my car, right where it should be.
(Uhh seriously folks , there is an award for this, right?)
Get this...I even go out of my way to throw my Gatorade cups into the designated trash cans during road races and marathons. Which, in hindsight, could very well be the reason that I haven't qualified for the Boston Marathon yet--I blame it on my stewardship to Mother Earth (and also on my big, fat ass--but you know, whatever.).
This morning, since one of our cars is going into the shop, Jared and I had to do some ride shuffling. When I met him at the mechanic, he hopped into my car, noticed two little heart-shaped pieces of paper (no more that 1/2" each) and casually brushed them into the parking lot.
I was like, "Jared! Why'd you just do that! You've got to pick those up!"
And he was all, "What? What'd I do?"
"Jared," I nagged, "you just littered. That's not okay, pick those hearts up."
"That wasn't littering," he replied. "Those were way too small to count."
"Nothing's too small to count," I demanded. "Just imagine if everyone in the world went around throwing little paper hearts all willy-nilly like confetti! What would happen then? Huh?"
So he paused. And reflected. And then a really wide smile spread across this face. "Then the world would be a much happier place," he said, nodding his head.
Damn. The man has a point.
Showing posts with label funny enough to write about. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funny enough to write about. Show all posts
Criminal Speeding.
August 20, 2009
I'm happy to say that I'm feeling much, much, much better this morning. The temperature dropped from the mid 90's into the low 60's last night and I only had to wake up twice to empty my tank. Needless to say, I'm feeling pretty rested.
Phew.
Because seriously, I was on the verge of getting myself arrested. For what? I don't know. But I could feel it coming, and it wasn't about to be cute.
I've actually never been arrested, which, I've got to admit, is something I take a great deal of pride in. Now my husband on the other hand? Yeah, he's been bagged by the cops.
It was nothing serious. Well, nothing more serious than driving 100mph in a 65mph zone, but dude, sometimes it feels so frickin' hot to be married to such a bad boy.
Criminal Speeding. Mmm hmmm.
This was long before the days of me--actually, I think he was only 18. He was headed to church, yes church, and decided to open 'er up. He was in a bondo grey truck, the base model, no bumpers, and couldn't believe that he got her going so fast. So obviously, he stuck with it.
Then he got pulled over by an unmarked car (which he happened to be racing), his truck was impounded, Jared got cuffed, and the friendly police officer delivered him to the lobby of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints--all shackled up. Just like you always see in the super sweet commercials.
I should also mention that his family had just moved. This was their first Sunday in the new congregation and man were my in-laws ever proud of their son--because really, that was a first impression that really stuck with the masses.
The Mormon community in Maine is a little bit less than small, so still, to this day, Jared gets comments about the incident. Random strangers will come up to my husband and be like, "Watch your speed Brother Lawson!" And Jared will wag his finger at the person, muster up a hearty fake chuckle, and be all, "Only if you promise to keep your pants on. Ya got that?"
Confuses the shiz out of old people, I can tell ya that much.
Other than the occasional comment at church events, and the fact that Jared needs notarized copies of his court conviction documents every time he applies for a job, I'm happy to say that his arrest seems to have no ill-effect on our day-to-day lives.
His excessive farting on the other hand? Now that's an actual problem.
I'm happy to say that I'm feeling much, much, much better this morning. The temperature dropped from the mid 90's into the low 60's last night and I only had to wake up twice to empty my tank. Needless to say, I'm feeling pretty rested.
Phew.
Because seriously, I was on the verge of getting myself arrested. For what? I don't know. But I could feel it coming, and it wasn't about to be cute.
I've actually never been arrested, which, I've got to admit, is something I take a great deal of pride in. Now my husband on the other hand? Yeah, he's been bagged by the cops.
It was nothing serious. Well, nothing more serious than driving 100mph in a 65mph zone, but dude, sometimes it feels so frickin' hot to be married to such a bad boy.
Criminal Speeding. Mmm hmmm.
This was long before the days of me--actually, I think he was only 18. He was headed to church, yes church, and decided to open 'er up. He was in a bondo grey truck, the base model, no bumpers, and couldn't believe that he got her going so fast. So obviously, he stuck with it.
Then he got pulled over by an unmarked car (which he happened to be racing), his truck was impounded, Jared got cuffed, and the friendly police officer delivered him to the lobby of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints--all shackled up. Just like you always see in the super sweet commercials.
I should also mention that his family had just moved. This was their first Sunday in the new congregation and man were my in-laws ever proud of their son--because really, that was a first impression that really stuck with the masses.
The Mormon community in Maine is a little bit less than small, so still, to this day, Jared gets comments about the incident. Random strangers will come up to my husband and be like, "Watch your speed Brother Lawson!" And Jared will wag his finger at the person, muster up a hearty fake chuckle, and be all, "Only if you promise to keep your pants on. Ya got that?"
Confuses the shiz out of old people, I can tell ya that much.
Other than the occasional comment at church events, and the fact that Jared needs notarized copies of his court conviction documents every time he applies for a job, I'm happy to say that his arrest seems to have no ill-effect on our day-to-day lives.
His excessive farting on the other hand? Now that's an actual problem.
If My Pubic Bone Could Talk
August 13, 2009
If my pubic bone could talk it would be like, "What the hell?"
But since it can't talk I'll speak on behalf of it by saying, "What the hell?"
I never experienced anything like this during my pregnancy with James, but this time around, whenever I exert myself to any degree, five minutes later I'm limping around like a cowboy who just rode his horse all the way across the great state of Texas (and got kicked in the groin with a steel-toed boot somewhere around Amarillo).
This pain-in-the-crotch of which I speak? It's 100% of the reason that I hung up my running shoes a couple weeks ago--I just couldn't stand it anymore. Well that and the teenage spit flying at me, but you know, whatever.
For the last four weeks or so, with the exception of a minute or two here or there (obviously when no one is looking), I've downgraded my running to walking and I'm not gonna lie, it totally blows. Don't get me wrong, I like to walk as much as the next menopausal woman in a terry-cloth sweatsuit, but honestly, I miss feeling the burn.
As a matter of fact, I miss feeling the burn so much, that if it hadn't been for my husband saying something completely assholian, like "Well stick a fork in her vanjango, folks--she's done," every time I limped into the kitchen after a run, I'd probably still be doing it.
But I'm not. So I guess that entire last paragraph is completely inconsequential.
Anywho, yesterday afternoon, James mustered up his very best manners and asked me if I wanted to play tag with him. He was like, "Mommy, may you play tag with me outside for some minutes?"
I couldn't resist his mastery of the English language, so obviously I said yes.
I also said yes on account of the fact that a good game of tag would burn some calories while simultaneously banking some serious super-mom points--but really now, who's keeping count of all the selfishness and ill-intentioned acts in the universe anyhow? (Oh. What's that you say? God is? Whoops.)
So we played tag, at full speed, for forty-five minutes.
This involved running up hills, down hills, around lawn ornaments (I have many), over rock walls, and through hedges without any break to speak of. By the time all was said and done, once I had lured James back to indoor sedentary comfort with the promise of a Kit-Kat bar, my pubic bone was on fire.
Notice I didn't say that my pubic bone felt like it was on fire, but that it was actually on fire. Because it was. On the inside. And that's the honest truth.
It hurt so badly that I actually decided to forgo walking and crawl to my front door--you know, for intense dramatic effect--but that hurt even worse, so I decided to cry like an almost-two-hundred-pound baby and walk the old fashioned way.
When Jared got home from church (yeah, keep that in mind) an hour or so later, he found me sprawled on the bathroom floor, clinging to my lady parts for dear life. As he stepped over my limp body, and unbuttoned his pants for what seemed to be an impending poop he was like, "Dude, what in the crap is wrong with you?"
And I was all, "You wanna know what's wrong with me? I played tag for forty-five minutes, now I'm paralyzed, unable to move, and I'll kill you if you take a dump while I'm incapacitated on this bathroom floor."
And my husband, the one who regularly makes me rethink the meaning of love, was all, "Sorry, Ames. Gotta do a poo whether you're paralyzed on the floor or not."
Apparently death threats mean nothing from a woman in my condition because there he sat, 'working out his issues' shall we say, while I used nothing but my toes to push my very pregnant body across the tile, out of the bathroom, and into the hallway--much like a snake, if a snake had toes.
Then he flushed, stepped over me again, went to the fridge and cracked open an icy cold Coke.
I was like, "Bastard."
And he was all, "Fatty."
And then he helped me up and smacked me on the rear like a baseball coach or something.
I was like, "What was that? Some kind of encouragement or something?"
And he was all, "Nope, just wanted to touch your ass." And that was the end of that.
The flame in my crotch (remember, that's literal, not figurative) continued to flare up for each of seven nocturnal bathroom trips, and still hurts like mother to this very moment.
And that's why, if my pubic bone could talk, if would totally be saying, "What the hell?"
The End.
If my pubic bone could talk it would be like, "What the hell?"
But since it can't talk I'll speak on behalf of it by saying, "What the hell?"
I never experienced anything like this during my pregnancy with James, but this time around, whenever I exert myself to any degree, five minutes later I'm limping around like a cowboy who just rode his horse all the way across the great state of Texas (and got kicked in the groin with a steel-toed boot somewhere around Amarillo).
This pain-in-the-crotch of which I speak? It's 100% of the reason that I hung up my running shoes a couple weeks ago--I just couldn't stand it anymore. Well that and the teenage spit flying at me, but you know, whatever.
For the last four weeks or so, with the exception of a minute or two here or there (obviously when no one is looking), I've downgraded my running to walking and I'm not gonna lie, it totally blows. Don't get me wrong, I like to walk as much as the next menopausal woman in a terry-cloth sweatsuit, but honestly, I miss feeling the burn.
As a matter of fact, I miss feeling the burn so much, that if it hadn't been for my husband saying something completely assholian, like "Well stick a fork in her vanjango, folks--she's done," every time I limped into the kitchen after a run, I'd probably still be doing it.
But I'm not. So I guess that entire last paragraph is completely inconsequential.
Anywho, yesterday afternoon, James mustered up his very best manners and asked me if I wanted to play tag with him. He was like, "Mommy, may you play tag with me outside for some minutes?"
I couldn't resist his mastery of the English language, so obviously I said yes.
I also said yes on account of the fact that a good game of tag would burn some calories while simultaneously banking some serious super-mom points--but really now, who's keeping count of all the selfishness and ill-intentioned acts in the universe anyhow? (Oh. What's that you say? God is? Whoops.)
So we played tag, at full speed, for forty-five minutes.
This involved running up hills, down hills, around lawn ornaments (I have many), over rock walls, and through hedges without any break to speak of. By the time all was said and done, once I had lured James back to indoor sedentary comfort with the promise of a Kit-Kat bar, my pubic bone was on fire.
Notice I didn't say that my pubic bone felt like it was on fire, but that it was actually on fire. Because it was. On the inside. And that's the honest truth.
It hurt so badly that I actually decided to forgo walking and crawl to my front door--you know, for intense dramatic effect--but that hurt even worse, so I decided to cry like an almost-two-hundred-pound baby and walk the old fashioned way.
When Jared got home from church (yeah, keep that in mind) an hour or so later, he found me sprawled on the bathroom floor, clinging to my lady parts for dear life. As he stepped over my limp body, and unbuttoned his pants for what seemed to be an impending poop he was like, "Dude, what in the crap is wrong with you?"
And I was all, "You wanna know what's wrong with me? I played tag for forty-five minutes, now I'm paralyzed, unable to move, and I'll kill you if you take a dump while I'm incapacitated on this bathroom floor."
And my husband, the one who regularly makes me rethink the meaning of love, was all, "Sorry, Ames. Gotta do a poo whether you're paralyzed on the floor or not."
Apparently death threats mean nothing from a woman in my condition because there he sat, 'working out his issues' shall we say, while I used nothing but my toes to push my very pregnant body across the tile, out of the bathroom, and into the hallway--much like a snake, if a snake had toes.
Then he flushed, stepped over me again, went to the fridge and cracked open an icy cold Coke.
I was like, "Bastard."
And he was all, "Fatty."
And then he helped me up and smacked me on the rear like a baseball coach or something.
I was like, "What was that? Some kind of encouragement or something?"
And he was all, "Nope, just wanted to touch your ass." And that was the end of that.
The flame in my crotch (remember, that's literal, not figurative) continued to flare up for each of seven nocturnal bathroom trips, and still hurts like mother to this very moment.
And that's why, if my pubic bone could talk, if would totally be saying, "What the hell?"
The End.
A Lesson in Professionalism
August 4, 2009
Yesterday afternoon I had a long day at work. Usually I'm off the clock by noon, but yesterday I decided to sit at my desk and grind away until 4:30.
I know, you are simply bowled over by the intensity of my work ethic.
Around 1pm, when I started feeling hungry, I decided to take a break and head over to our brand spankin' new grocery store to pick up a couple of things: milk, bread, eggs, Twizzlers, powdered sugar, rainbow-colored sprinkles--you know, only the basics.
When I arrived at the store, kid-free mind you, I instinctively grabbed a cart and hurried up and down the aisles (wanted to get back to work and tie up my loose ends before the Tyra show came on--she's got a bangin' body ya know).
Now I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this, but the population of our town tops out around 6,000. So basically, anytime you set foot outside of your living room, you're bound to run into someone you know.
And sure enough I did. I ran into our neighbor from two houses down (hi, hello, whatever), another parent from James's daycare (damn I hope my hair looks okay), my husband's PR guy (don't let him see my coupons--must act rich), and the president of a local savings bank--who it just so happens I've been trying to finagle $5,000 out of at work (must. act. like a frickin. rock star.).
I didn't want to bother the guy, but truth be told, he said hi to me first. We talked about the Red Sox, we shot the shiz about the weather, and for one-and-a-half seconds we talked about the five grand donation.
I wrapped it up, verbally acknowledging what a wonderfully busy man his is, and strutted away trying, trying, TRYING to make my ass look professional yet fabulous. I don't know, I'm still hashing out this whole working world thing--but I'm sure it couldn't hurt, right?
As I rounded the corner to the checkout, we came face to face again--so I smiled, cocked my head, and let out a delightful yet confident giggle. You know, just to say, "Hello! I'm still here! I'm still charming! I still want $5,000 of your hard earned money!"
As I pulled into the checkout lane I thought to myself, "These damn rocketship carts are so hard to move. Stupid, useless, no good piece of sh*t." I leaned into my turn, and with the rear wheels dragging sideways across the floor, finally got that oversized hunk of crap just where I needed it.
And that's when it dawned on me.
I was pushing a rocketship cart. Without my child present. For five or six lightweight items.
Now seriously Mr. Banker--let me tell you who you can to make that check out to.
Yesterday afternoon I had a long day at work. Usually I'm off the clock by noon, but yesterday I decided to sit at my desk and grind away until 4:30.
I know, you are simply bowled over by the intensity of my work ethic.
Around 1pm, when I started feeling hungry, I decided to take a break and head over to our brand spankin' new grocery store to pick up a couple of things: milk, bread, eggs, Twizzlers, powdered sugar, rainbow-colored sprinkles--you know, only the basics.
When I arrived at the store, kid-free mind you, I instinctively grabbed a cart and hurried up and down the aisles (wanted to get back to work and tie up my loose ends before the Tyra show came on--she's got a bangin' body ya know).
Now I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this, but the population of our town tops out around 6,000. So basically, anytime you set foot outside of your living room, you're bound to run into someone you know.
And sure enough I did. I ran into our neighbor from two houses down (hi, hello, whatever), another parent from James's daycare (damn I hope my hair looks okay), my husband's PR guy (don't let him see my coupons--must act rich), and the president of a local savings bank--who it just so happens I've been trying to finagle $5,000 out of at work (must. act. like a frickin. rock star.).
I didn't want to bother the guy, but truth be told, he said hi to me first. We talked about the Red Sox, we shot the shiz about the weather, and for one-and-a-half seconds we talked about the five grand donation.
I wrapped it up, verbally acknowledging what a wonderfully busy man his is, and strutted away trying, trying, TRYING to make my ass look professional yet fabulous. I don't know, I'm still hashing out this whole working world thing--but I'm sure it couldn't hurt, right?
As I rounded the corner to the checkout, we came face to face again--so I smiled, cocked my head, and let out a delightful yet confident giggle. You know, just to say, "Hello! I'm still here! I'm still charming! I still want $5,000 of your hard earned money!"
As I pulled into the checkout lane I thought to myself, "These damn rocketship carts are so hard to move. Stupid, useless, no good piece of sh*t." I leaned into my turn, and with the rear wheels dragging sideways across the floor, finally got that oversized hunk of crap just where I needed it.
And that's when it dawned on me.
I was pushing a rocketship cart. Without my child present. For five or six lightweight items.
Now seriously Mr. Banker--let me tell you who you can to make that check out to.
Twins Beds are Totally Underrated
July 29, 2009
Last night I had a very restless sleep, and surprisingly enough it wasn't due to the three pound baby in my belly. Actually, it can be attributed to the one-hundred-fifty pound baby who sleeps right next to me.
Yes, I'm kindly referring to my husband.
Sure he elbowed me square in the nose three time last night, but the real piece-de-resistance? That came at 3:13am when he violently shook me awake saying, "Amy! Amy! Amy!"
I woke up instantly, not sure if Jared was having a minor heart attack or had accidentally pooped the bed--either way, it was obvious that he needed me.
"Amy! Amy!" he continued.
I opened my eyes to find him two inches away from my face, eyelids shut, but somehow looking frantic. "What Jared? What's going on," I demanded?
"It's the middle of the night," he said. "And you're sleeping."
Seriously? Was that it?
Yes. It was.
By the time the words, "It's the middle of the night, and YOU'RE DEAD" had the time to flow off my lips in response, he was rolled over, wrapped in the blanket, sleeping like a man in a coma.
My dream of twin beds? It lives on.
Last night I had a very restless sleep, and surprisingly enough it wasn't due to the three pound baby in my belly. Actually, it can be attributed to the one-hundred-fifty pound baby who sleeps right next to me.
Yes, I'm kindly referring to my husband.
Sure he elbowed me square in the nose three time last night, but the real piece-de-resistance? That came at 3:13am when he violently shook me awake saying, "Amy! Amy! Amy!"
I woke up instantly, not sure if Jared was having a minor heart attack or had accidentally pooped the bed--either way, it was obvious that he needed me.
"Amy! Amy!" he continued.
I opened my eyes to find him two inches away from my face, eyelids shut, but somehow looking frantic. "What Jared? What's going on," I demanded?
"It's the middle of the night," he said. "And you're sleeping."
Seriously? Was that it?
Yes. It was.
By the time the words, "It's the middle of the night, and YOU'RE DEAD" had the time to flow off my lips in response, he was rolled over, wrapped in the blanket, sleeping like a man in a coma.
My dream of twin beds? It lives on.
Three Truths and a Lie: Sticky Sweet Revenge
July 23, 2009
And this concludes the fourth and final day of Three Truths and a Lie, which is still an idea stolen straight from the pages of CJane.
In case you haven't been following along, I've written four stories this week--three are true, and one is a total and complete lie. Voting will commence tomorrow to see if you guys are smart enough to know when I'm fibbing.
And, as always, if you know me in real life, please don't spill the beans...
Back when I was pregnant with James, I had the sweetest little attitude. I have no idea how or why I've morphed into such a hormonal nightmare over the last five years, but I promise, these two pregnancies are totally and completely different.
We were new to Dallas at the time--living in a neighborhood that was super manicured, ultra-trendy, and in my opinion, friendly-to-the-point-of-almost-being-creepy. Our neighbor on one side drove an Audi TT, our neighbor on the other side drove a convertible Mercedes Kompressor, we on the other hand, drove an '89 Blazer. It's needless to say that Jared and I didn't fit in as seamlessly as we would have liked to.
We had rented the duplex sight-unseen, while we were still living in Maine, so we really had no idea how lucky we were to be occupying the rattiest, crookedest, crappiest house in a very well-to-do neighborhood.
I was already ten weeks pregnant by the time we made the move, and people were so incredibly kind--bringing plates of cookies while we unpacked, listening (with true interest mind you) to the details of where we'd come from and where we were going, and constantly complimenting my pregnant glow.
We most certainly weren't in New England anymore. And looking back, I think I had no choice but to be super sweet and happy--you know, in a Southern chicken-fried kind of way.
One afternoon, when I was about eight months pregnant, I was walking Gracie down the street when a black Toyota Camry pulled next to me on the side of the road. The window rolled down and a super-coiffed head popped out and said (in a sticky Texas accent), "Ha hun, when er you due?"
"In April," I said. "I've got two more months to go."
"Wow," the woman replied. "Ma sister had twins and I promise she never got nearly that big! Yer cute, but ya sure are big!"
The New England in me wanted to clean her glossy, little clock with my big, fat, pregnant fist--but I resisted, acted like a proper Southern lady and giggled in response to everything she had to say.
Turns out she was a real estate agent, prowling the neighborhood for new clients and new listings. Mmmm yeah, at that time our income consisted of nothing but student loans and my husband's biweekly check from the petfood shop--I'd have to go out on a limb and say that we definitely weren't interested.
She handed me one of her cards, on which her hair appeared even larger than it did in real life that day (nothing short of mind blowing), I thanked her and proceeded on my way.
I managed to make it about three steps before her Toyota lurched forward and stopped next to me again. "Sweetie," she questioned? "Would you mind terribly just runnin' up to that door and stickin' one of ma cards in it?"
"Um, sure. No problem. I can do that," I answered.
"And how 'bout that next house?" Why don't ya just go ahead and get that one, too. Ya know, while you're up there."
"Yeah, that's fine," I said--with the reasoning that pleasing this women might somehow lead to her departure.
Well friends, I was wrong. The woman in the Toyota continued her lurch-beg-con scam for the entirety of the street. Before I knew it, I had been tricked into peppering every single screen door on Valencia Drive with this blow hole's business card--at eight months pregnant, in the eighty degree heat, while her Gucci ass never left the comfort of the cool, leather seats.
I knew what she was doing, I just didn't know how to put my foot down. And just like that, I was a sucker.
When we reached the end of the street, she thanked me profusely, called me a 'sweetheart' over and over again, handed me a chilled bottle of Ozarka saying, "Aw hun, you need this," and promptly sped off.
I walked home, feeling stupid, tired and defeated. By the time I reached my front door, I was sobbing like a preteen--what a mother lovin' ho she was.
When Jared came home later that afternoon, I recounted the story, and it's needless to say that he was angry. "She WHAT," he exclaimed?! "Amy that's horrible, you should call her real estate agency or something."
"No, Jared. I feel stupid, I just want to forget about it."
"Fine," he agreed, not wanting to rock the S.S. Hormonal.
I went to bed early that night, couldn't sleep, and continued to cry in embarrassment when I got out of bed the next morning. I felt so used, so tricked, so dirty, so pregnant--and that my friends, is when Jared pulled into the driveway with the solution to my problem.
My husband, my sweet Jared, had gone to the computer lab at school, taken this lady's picture and contact information off of her website and printed up one-hundred-or-so homemade business cards with the following slogan stamped in bold:
And this concludes the fourth and final day of Three Truths and a Lie, which is still an idea stolen straight from the pages of CJane.
In case you haven't been following along, I've written four stories this week--three are true, and one is a total and complete lie. Voting will commence tomorrow to see if you guys are smart enough to know when I'm fibbing.
And, as always, if you know me in real life, please don't spill the beans...
*****
Sticky Sweet Revenge
Back when I was pregnant with James, I had the sweetest little attitude. I have no idea how or why I've morphed into such a hormonal nightmare over the last five years, but I promise, these two pregnancies are totally and completely different.
We were new to Dallas at the time--living in a neighborhood that was super manicured, ultra-trendy, and in my opinion, friendly-to-the-point-of-almost-being-creepy. Our neighbor on one side drove an Audi TT, our neighbor on the other side drove a convertible Mercedes Kompressor, we on the other hand, drove an '89 Blazer. It's needless to say that Jared and I didn't fit in as seamlessly as we would have liked to.
We had rented the duplex sight-unseen, while we were still living in Maine, so we really had no idea how lucky we were to be occupying the rattiest, crookedest, crappiest house in a very well-to-do neighborhood.
I was already ten weeks pregnant by the time we made the move, and people were so incredibly kind--bringing plates of cookies while we unpacked, listening (with true interest mind you) to the details of where we'd come from and where we were going, and constantly complimenting my pregnant glow.
We most certainly weren't in New England anymore. And looking back, I think I had no choice but to be super sweet and happy--you know, in a Southern chicken-fried kind of way.
One afternoon, when I was about eight months pregnant, I was walking Gracie down the street when a black Toyota Camry pulled next to me on the side of the road. The window rolled down and a super-coiffed head popped out and said (in a sticky Texas accent), "Ha hun, when er you due?"
"In April," I said. "I've got two more months to go."
"Wow," the woman replied. "Ma sister had twins and I promise she never got nearly that big! Yer cute, but ya sure are big!"
The New England in me wanted to clean her glossy, little clock with my big, fat, pregnant fist--but I resisted, acted like a proper Southern lady and giggled in response to everything she had to say.
Turns out she was a real estate agent, prowling the neighborhood for new clients and new listings. Mmmm yeah, at that time our income consisted of nothing but student loans and my husband's biweekly check from the petfood shop--I'd have to go out on a limb and say that we definitely weren't interested.
She handed me one of her cards, on which her hair appeared even larger than it did in real life that day (nothing short of mind blowing), I thanked her and proceeded on my way.
I managed to make it about three steps before her Toyota lurched forward and stopped next to me again. "Sweetie," she questioned? "Would you mind terribly just runnin' up to that door and stickin' one of ma cards in it?"
"Um, sure. No problem. I can do that," I answered.
"And how 'bout that next house?" Why don't ya just go ahead and get that one, too. Ya know, while you're up there."
"Yeah, that's fine," I said--with the reasoning that pleasing this women might somehow lead to her departure.
Well friends, I was wrong. The woman in the Toyota continued her lurch-beg-con scam for the entirety of the street. Before I knew it, I had been tricked into peppering every single screen door on Valencia Drive with this blow hole's business card--at eight months pregnant, in the eighty degree heat, while her Gucci ass never left the comfort of the cool, leather seats.
I knew what she was doing, I just didn't know how to put my foot down. And just like that, I was a sucker.
When we reached the end of the street, she thanked me profusely, called me a 'sweetheart' over and over again, handed me a chilled bottle of Ozarka saying, "Aw hun, you need this," and promptly sped off.
I walked home, feeling stupid, tired and defeated. By the time I reached my front door, I was sobbing like a preteen--what a mother lovin' ho she was.
When Jared came home later that afternoon, I recounted the story, and it's needless to say that he was angry. "She WHAT," he exclaimed?! "Amy that's horrible, you should call her real estate agency or something."
"No, Jared. I feel stupid, I just want to forget about it."
"Fine," he agreed, not wanting to rock the S.S. Hormonal.
I went to bed early that night, couldn't sleep, and continued to cry in embarrassment when I got out of bed the next morning. I felt so used, so tricked, so dirty, so pregnant--and that my friends, is when Jared pulled into the driveway with the solution to my problem.
My husband, my sweet Jared, had gone to the computer lab at school, taken this lady's picture and contact information off of her website and printed up one-hundred-or-so homemade business cards with the following slogan stamped in bold:
I hate everyone, I suck at my job, and if you hire me I'll steal your money.
At least I think that's what they said--something to that effect.
I was beyond touched by his loving gesture. And even more touched when he raced up and down three blocks, sticking the cards in every doorway before our neighbors began to filter in from work.
I'd have to say we won the war. In our three-and-a-half years of living in that neighbor, not once did we see a real estate sign bearing her name.
And still, to this day, that was nicest thing that my husband has ever done for me. What a guy!
Three Truths and a Lie: The Great American Poop Attack of '98
July 22, 2009
Day three of Three Truths and a Lie--idea curtosy of the lovely CJane.
If you need to know the rules, check yesterday's post. Or Monday's.
If you know me, don't spoil it.
Back in the fall of 1998 I headed over to Washington DC for the annual Marine Corps Marathon. Although I was a super serious runner at the time, I wasn't actually participating in the marathon--my roommate and I were only going to the race to watch.
If you really want to get picky about the details, we were going to watch a guy named Jim, who I found to be pretty frickin' hot.
I met Jim on a random Saturday evening, while I was hauling ass on a solo training run down a farm road in western Virginia. I was running up and over a hill, we met at the crest, waved, and continued to go our separate ways.
Forty minutes later, we met up again. This time we passed each other on opposite sides of a fairly busy overpass. We repeated the casual wave, and I feel like it's very important to note that I was still hauling ass--and markedly faster than Jim.
Then, about thirty minutes later, we met up once more--this time on campus, in front of Norris Hall, the same place where that really horrible shooting spree happened at Virginia Tech a few years back.
I ran past Jim, smiled, waved, and kept on trucking. This time however, he stopped and yelled, "Hey!"
I stopped, turned around, wiped my sweaty hair out of my eyes and said, "Hi."
Jim was like, "You're fast. Are you on the cross country team?"
And doing my very best to sound smooth and sexy I replied, "Why yes. Yes I am." Okay fine, that was a lie, I'm pretty sure I said something more along the lines of "Yup," while I picked at a moderate-to-severe wedgie.
We pounded out three-or-so more miles that night and chatted about nothing too important. Turns out Jim was training for the upcoming Marine Corps Marathon with hopes of qualifying for Boston.
Over the next five or six weeks, we met up for a couple more runs together. I'd tag along for ten of his Sunday twenty-miler, or we'd run a quick six on a Wednesday night.
In October, when his marathon finally rolled around, he invited me to come and watch. Never passing up the opportunity to impress an older member of the opposite sex, my roommate and I jumped on the chance.
The Marine Corps Marathon is widely known as one of the most spectator friendly on the planet, so Allison and I managed to see Jim five or six times during the first eighteen miles of the race. At mile eighteen, Jim was obviously beginning to struggle. He ran over to us on the side of the road, put his hands on his knees and huffed, "Can you meet me at mile twenty and run me in? I don't think I can finish. I need someone to run me in."
"Can I run your sexy ass to the finish line," I thought to myself? "Um, it would be my pleasure!!!!"
I was excited. So excited that I nearly shat my shorty-shorts right then and there.
And that last sentence? I meant that literally.
As soon as Jim took off for mile nineteen, the contents of my colon began taking off for daylight. I had to poop, and I had to poop immediately. At once. If not sooner.
Still to this day, through pregnancy, travel, and all manners of illness, it was most severe fecal attack of my entire life.
According to my calculations I had approximately fourteen minutes to get to mile twenty, and fourteen seconds before I had a load swimming around in my underpants. Scoping out an appropriate, legal place to relieve myself was simply not an option--my friends, there was absolutely no time.
So, in my moment of pure and absolute desperation, I found a clump of beautifully manicured bushes--which technically speaking, I'd have to call landscape features. Landscape features of a prominent, highly photographed national monument that is.
Honestly, it hurts my very patriotic heart to type the next half of this sentence, but guys, I Amy Lawson, took an emergency poo on a national landmark--about twelve inches from the actual structure if you want to be precise about it.
I can't tell you which wheelchair-bound leader this particular monument paid homage to, I'm far too ashamed. He was a tremendous man, and it's far too painful to admit that I took a doodie on his well deserved legacy. Far too painful. Seriously.
Fear not fellow Americans, these landmarks seem to very well monitored. I'm quite sure that monument defication is a very rare event, because before I even had the chance to get out from behind that little bush, I spotted a security guard, and he was approaching quickly.
I walked away, he followed. I walked a little faster, he sped up. I broke into a jog, he broke into a light run. I hopped the plastic, orange fence onto the marathon course, merged in with the oncoming runners, and thankfully he stayed behind.
I was clear. No arrests for me. And to this day, I still maintain a squeaky clear legal record--I take a lot of pride in that.
Eventually I did meet up with Jim at mile twenty, and oh my word, he had all but given up. He was groaning and shuffling, draping his sweaty self all over my shoulders, and at times he even slowed to a walk. A walk!
What a friggin' pansy.
I dragged his sorry ass to the finish line, where he missed the cutoff for Boston by three and a half minutes--so not sexy.
And a relationship? Yeah, nothing like that ever panned out. I needed a man who could run like a man. And Jim? Well, he needed a woman with a little more colon control than I had to offer.
Obviously, it was never meant to be.
Day three of Three Truths and a Lie--idea curtosy of the lovely CJane.
If you need to know the rules, check yesterday's post. Or Monday's.
If you know me, don't spoil it.
*****
The Great American Poop Attack of '98
Back in the fall of 1998 I headed over to Washington DC for the annual Marine Corps Marathon. Although I was a super serious runner at the time, I wasn't actually participating in the marathon--my roommate and I were only going to the race to watch.
If you really want to get picky about the details, we were going to watch a guy named Jim, who I found to be pretty frickin' hot.
I met Jim on a random Saturday evening, while I was hauling ass on a solo training run down a farm road in western Virginia. I was running up and over a hill, we met at the crest, waved, and continued to go our separate ways.
Forty minutes later, we met up again. This time we passed each other on opposite sides of a fairly busy overpass. We repeated the casual wave, and I feel like it's very important to note that I was still hauling ass--and markedly faster than Jim.
Then, about thirty minutes later, we met up once more--this time on campus, in front of Norris Hall, the same place where that really horrible shooting spree happened at Virginia Tech a few years back.
I ran past Jim, smiled, waved, and kept on trucking. This time however, he stopped and yelled, "Hey!"
I stopped, turned around, wiped my sweaty hair out of my eyes and said, "Hi."
Jim was like, "You're fast. Are you on the cross country team?"
And doing my very best to sound smooth and sexy I replied, "Why yes. Yes I am." Okay fine, that was a lie, I'm pretty sure I said something more along the lines of "Yup," while I picked at a moderate-to-severe wedgie.
We pounded out three-or-so more miles that night and chatted about nothing too important. Turns out Jim was training for the upcoming Marine Corps Marathon with hopes of qualifying for Boston.
Over the next five or six weeks, we met up for a couple more runs together. I'd tag along for ten of his Sunday twenty-miler, or we'd run a quick six on a Wednesday night.
In October, when his marathon finally rolled around, he invited me to come and watch. Never passing up the opportunity to impress an older member of the opposite sex, my roommate and I jumped on the chance.
The Marine Corps Marathon is widely known as one of the most spectator friendly on the planet, so Allison and I managed to see Jim five or six times during the first eighteen miles of the race. At mile eighteen, Jim was obviously beginning to struggle. He ran over to us on the side of the road, put his hands on his knees and huffed, "Can you meet me at mile twenty and run me in? I don't think I can finish. I need someone to run me in."
"Can I run your sexy ass to the finish line," I thought to myself? "Um, it would be my pleasure!!!!"
I was excited. So excited that I nearly shat my shorty-shorts right then and there.
And that last sentence? I meant that literally.
As soon as Jim took off for mile nineteen, the contents of my colon began taking off for daylight. I had to poop, and I had to poop immediately. At once. If not sooner.
Still to this day, through pregnancy, travel, and all manners of illness, it was most severe fecal attack of my entire life.
According to my calculations I had approximately fourteen minutes to get to mile twenty, and fourteen seconds before I had a load swimming around in my underpants. Scoping out an appropriate, legal place to relieve myself was simply not an option--my friends, there was absolutely no time.
So, in my moment of pure and absolute desperation, I found a clump of beautifully manicured bushes--which technically speaking, I'd have to call landscape features. Landscape features of a prominent, highly photographed national monument that is.
Honestly, it hurts my very patriotic heart to type the next half of this sentence, but guys, I Amy Lawson, took an emergency poo on a national landmark--about twelve inches from the actual structure if you want to be precise about it.
I can't tell you which wheelchair-bound leader this particular monument paid homage to, I'm far too ashamed. He was a tremendous man, and it's far too painful to admit that I took a doodie on his well deserved legacy. Far too painful. Seriously.
Fear not fellow Americans, these landmarks seem to very well monitored. I'm quite sure that monument defication is a very rare event, because before I even had the chance to get out from behind that little bush, I spotted a security guard, and he was approaching quickly.
I walked away, he followed. I walked a little faster, he sped up. I broke into a jog, he broke into a light run. I hopped the plastic, orange fence onto the marathon course, merged in with the oncoming runners, and thankfully he stayed behind.
I was clear. No arrests for me. And to this day, I still maintain a squeaky clear legal record--I take a lot of pride in that.
Eventually I did meet up with Jim at mile twenty, and oh my word, he had all but given up. He was groaning and shuffling, draping his sweaty self all over my shoulders, and at times he even slowed to a walk. A walk!
What a friggin' pansy.
I dragged his sorry ass to the finish line, where he missed the cutoff for Boston by three and a half minutes--so not sexy.
And a relationship? Yeah, nothing like that ever panned out. I needed a man who could run like a man. And Jim? Well, he needed a woman with a little more colon control than I had to offer.
Obviously, it was never meant to be.
Three Truths and a Lie: The Seminary
July 21, 2009
Here we go with day two of Three Truths and a Lie--which, of course, is an idea that I stole (without permission) from CJane.
Remember, Monday through Thursday I'll post stories from my life. Three will be true, one will be made up. On Friday everyone can vote on which story they believe to be the lie.
And really now, if you know me in real life, please fight the urge to spill the beans with a comments. We're having fun over here!
Did you know that I spent a year and a half in theological school? I'm not talking about bible college or BYU, I'm talking about a full-on Protestant seminary where people go to become ordained ministers--UCC, Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopal--that type of thing.
You couldn't major in finance or biology at this institution. Hell, you couldn't even focus on philosophy. There were only two degree tracks, Divinity or Theology, and to be quite honest, I still don't understand what the difference is.
I was eighteen years old when I enrolled at the school, and yes, for eighteen months, this was my full-time college experience. No football team, no keg parties, no furry mascot, and definitely no hot guys.
Well, actually, I take that back. My World Religions professor was bangin' hot--his name was Dana Somethingorother, he had long brown hair, and I spent hours upon hours fantasizing about trekking across India by his rippled, muscly side. He drove a purple Toyota Tacoma, and oh my word, it gets me all hot and bothered just reflecting on the memory of beautiful, enlightened him.
Anywho, this was certainly not a traditional college experience by any stretch of the imagination. In total, there were one-hundred-and-thirty students with an average age of forty-seven. I was the second youngest student at the school, as a kid named Shawn was one month my junior--and trust me, I whipped that guy around harder than a kid brother.
During my time at the Seminary I learned Greek (very well, mind you), I sang in the church choir (against my will), and I was the worst player on our school's bowling team--which I proudly named "The Holy Rollers." And dude, the old people loved it--thought it was a friggin' hoot.
The campus consisted of a very New England church building with classrooms on top, a cafeteria/meeting hall, a library, four or five old apartment houses, and for some reason--I'm still not sure why--a big old mansion that had belonged to Hannibal Hamlin, a former governor of the State of Maine.
Shawn lived in the Hannibal Hamlin House. Well, he actually lived in an apartment that was attached to the side of the mansion--we think it had been the maid's quarters way back in the day.
One night, after a box of doughnuts and a-dozen-or-so wine coolers (sorry, Mom), Shawn and I somehow discovered that we could get into the museum part of the Governor's Mansion by jiggling the handle on a teeny-tiny connecting door in the back of Shawn's linen closet.
We took turns wriggling through the little entrance, and made it in without a trace. The idea of a security alarm never crossed our minds, and apparently that was okay because we peered through cabinets, sat on the roped off furniture, and rolled around on the old feather beds (not with each other get your mind out of the gutter), without ever calling it to any one's attention.
And then we did it again the next night.
And then the next weekend.
And then eventually, we started sneaking into the old governor's mansion every single weekend to sit at his expansive dining room table, sip on brandy (Shawn, not me), and play poker in our best colonial accents. Some nights, when we were feeling particularly crazy, we'd climb through the master bedroom closet, to the top of the widow's walk and smoke cigars in the purplish. moonlight.
I know. How weird can you get?
Eventually, my lack of an age appropriate social life started to weigh on my soul and I transferred up the road to the University of Maine. I had had it with the age difference--If I saw one more can of Ensure, I swear I was going to lose my mind. This young girl need cans of Bud in her sight line, and trust me when I tell you, they were flowing at the University.
Of course I was sad to say goodbye to my wealth of post-menopausal friends, and almost none of my credits transferred, but really, I wasn't sure how I'd ended up at that school in the first place.
Here we go with day two of Three Truths and a Lie--which, of course, is an idea that I stole (without permission) from CJane.
Remember, Monday through Thursday I'll post stories from my life. Three will be true, one will be made up. On Friday everyone can vote on which story they believe to be the lie.
And really now, if you know me in real life, please fight the urge to spill the beans with a comments. We're having fun over here!
*****
The Seminary
Did you know that I spent a year and a half in theological school? I'm not talking about bible college or BYU, I'm talking about a full-on Protestant seminary where people go to become ordained ministers--UCC, Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopal--that type of thing.
You couldn't major in finance or biology at this institution. Hell, you couldn't even focus on philosophy. There were only two degree tracks, Divinity or Theology, and to be quite honest, I still don't understand what the difference is.
I was eighteen years old when I enrolled at the school, and yes, for eighteen months, this was my full-time college experience. No football team, no keg parties, no furry mascot, and definitely no hot guys.
Well, actually, I take that back. My World Religions professor was bangin' hot--his name was Dana Somethingorother, he had long brown hair, and I spent hours upon hours fantasizing about trekking across India by his rippled, muscly side. He drove a purple Toyota Tacoma, and oh my word, it gets me all hot and bothered just reflecting on the memory of beautiful, enlightened him.
Anywho, this was certainly not a traditional college experience by any stretch of the imagination. In total, there were one-hundred-and-thirty students with an average age of forty-seven. I was the second youngest student at the school, as a kid named Shawn was one month my junior--and trust me, I whipped that guy around harder than a kid brother.
During my time at the Seminary I learned Greek (very well, mind you), I sang in the church choir (against my will), and I was the worst player on our school's bowling team--which I proudly named "The Holy Rollers." And dude, the old people loved it--thought it was a friggin' hoot.
The campus consisted of a very New England church building with classrooms on top, a cafeteria/meeting hall, a library, four or five old apartment houses, and for some reason--I'm still not sure why--a big old mansion that had belonged to Hannibal Hamlin, a former governor of the State of Maine.
Shawn lived in the Hannibal Hamlin House. Well, he actually lived in an apartment that was attached to the side of the mansion--we think it had been the maid's quarters way back in the day.
One night, after a box of doughnuts and a-dozen-or-so wine coolers (sorry, Mom), Shawn and I somehow discovered that we could get into the museum part of the Governor's Mansion by jiggling the handle on a teeny-tiny connecting door in the back of Shawn's linen closet.
We took turns wriggling through the little entrance, and made it in without a trace. The idea of a security alarm never crossed our minds, and apparently that was okay because we peered through cabinets, sat on the roped off furniture, and rolled around on the old feather beds (not with each other get your mind out of the gutter), without ever calling it to any one's attention.
And then we did it again the next night.
And then the next weekend.
And then eventually, we started sneaking into the old governor's mansion every single weekend to sit at his expansive dining room table, sip on brandy (Shawn, not me), and play poker in our best colonial accents. Some nights, when we were feeling particularly crazy, we'd climb through the master bedroom closet, to the top of the widow's walk and smoke cigars in the purplish. moonlight.
I know. How weird can you get?
Eventually, my lack of an age appropriate social life started to weigh on my soul and I transferred up the road to the University of Maine. I had had it with the age difference--If I saw one more can of Ensure, I swear I was going to lose my mind. This young girl need cans of Bud in her sight line, and trust me when I tell you, they were flowing at the University.
Of course I was sad to say goodbye to my wealth of post-menopausal friends, and almost none of my credits transferred, but really, I wasn't sure how I'd ended up at that school in the first place.
Three Truths and a Lie: Sammy and the Dress
July 20, 2009
This week I'm shamelessly swiping an idea from the fabulous CJane, and we're gonna have some fun playing Three Truths and a Lie.
For the next four days, I'll post a story about my life--three will be true, and one will be a big, fat, fabricated lie. Then, on the fifth day you'll all get to vote for the story you believe was pulled straight out of the darkness of my arse.
To prevent any bean spillage from those of you who are familiar with my real life business, please, please, please refrain from commenting.
So here we go. Story numero uno:
One zillion years ago, I sold a never-used wedding dress on FirstClass for $50. FirstClass was my college's email system, and in a lot of ways, it resembled a stripped down Craig's List. It was the place to sell heavily-used furniture, adopt frat dogs, and find random, non-committal hookups on a lonely Friday night.
Not that I ever did that--because seriously, I really never did that.
In all honestly, I wasn't that type of girl. My style was far more akin to lasting devotion and long-term commitment. I suppose that's how I found myself engaged, at the age of 19, to a promising young chef.
This was no joke you guys. We're talking diamond ring, wedding dress, wedding date, church, reception site, the works.
Trust me friends, if you had tasted this man's lobster bisque, you would have said 'yes,' too. I don't care if you're male, female, gay or straight--you most definitely would've let him put the ring on your hungry little, food loving finger. His soup was that good.
(Do you think it'd be overly tacky to call him 9 years later, and ask him to whip up a quick batch for my husband and me?)
If you do the math, and consider the fact that I married Jared at the fresh, young age of 21, you'll come to realize that this engagement didn't last so long. Within a matter of months the ring was returned, the date on the calendar was scratched off, and all kinds of deposits were rightfully refunded.
But the dress? Oh my word that dress stuck around.
For the first couple of years it hung around in my childhood closet, taking up 60% of the available space with its many cubic yards of tulle and organza. And then, 3 or so years later, when Jared and I bought our first house (which coincidentally, we later sold on FirstClass), my mom wrestled that dress into the back seat of her Jetta, drove it up to Maine, plopped it on my bed and said, "Congratulations on the house. Now take this."
This house--all two stories of it--boasted just over 800 square-feet and was set on a lovely .09 acre lot. Our master bedroom literally measured 7x11, so it's needless to say that storing a 62 square-foot dress from a called off wedding was completely out of the question. Even the backyard couldn't have handled this thing.
So up it went, on FirstClass. It was listed above a ratty apartment for rent and under an advertisement for keg-stand coaching.
I'm dead serious.
Within 48 hours, I had gotten two inquiries. One from a super sweet, size 24 girl, who was hoping to be a size 8 by her wedding day in August, and the second was from a person named Samuel. The email was signed by "Sammy," and according to the text, Sammy was a wedding dress collector.
Okay.
I replied to both emails, setting up times for each person to come and see the dress.
Cara, the plus-sized sweetheart, came to see the dress on Monday. As soon as I unzipped the garment bag, tears welled up in her eyes. By the time the dress was out of the bag, she was engulfed in full on sobs. A few minutes later we were sitting at my kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate, discussing Cara's lifelong battle with her weight. An hour later we hugged, and she drove off. Without the wedding dress.
Damn.
The next day, Sammy came to see the dress, and sure enough, Sammy was a man dressed as a woman. Actually, he was a college guy dressed up as a college girl. He was obviously in the beginning stages of his transition wearing female clothing and press-on nails with a giant men's watch. High heels and long hair with very manly glasses.
Whatever. I didn't care. I just wanted someone, anyone, to buy the damn dress.
Sammy stepped into the privacy of our bedroom and quietly worked himself into the dress. He came out a few minutes later asking for help with the zipper.
No problem.
"Suck it in," I said.
He did.
I yanked up on the zipper and Sammy said, "You've got to be kidding me! This is so tight! I can hardly breath!"
"But it looks beautiful," I replied.
"But I can hardly stand it," he retorted.
"Listen," I said. "Sammy, being a man is all about the comfort. But being a woman? It's all about the beauty, and you look beautiful in this dress."
"Really," he asked?
"Really," I said. "If you're serious about this, you've got to get used to not breathing."
And apparently he did. He bargained me down by $10, bought the dress, and a few weeks later he emailed me a couple pictures of himself sporting the dress at a sorority formal.
Sure he was overdressed, but damn he looked goooood.
These days, Sammy and I still keep in touch on Facebook and she looks a heck of a lot better than I do--perfect hair, perfect nails, and slammin' legs in a miniskirt.
Every now and then I'll find myself feeling jealous of her looks. But then I have to remind myself--I've had a baby, Sammy hasn't.
This week I'm shamelessly swiping an idea from the fabulous CJane, and we're gonna have some fun playing Three Truths and a Lie.
For the next four days, I'll post a story about my life--three will be true, and one will be a big, fat, fabricated lie. Then, on the fifth day you'll all get to vote for the story you believe was pulled straight out of the darkness of my arse.
To prevent any bean spillage from those of you who are familiar with my real life business, please, please, please refrain from commenting.
*****
So here we go. Story numero uno:
One zillion years ago, I sold a never-used wedding dress on FirstClass for $50. FirstClass was my college's email system, and in a lot of ways, it resembled a stripped down Craig's List. It was the place to sell heavily-used furniture, adopt frat dogs, and find random, non-committal hookups on a lonely Friday night.
Not that I ever did that--because seriously, I really never did that.
In all honestly, I wasn't that type of girl. My style was far more akin to lasting devotion and long-term commitment. I suppose that's how I found myself engaged, at the age of 19, to a promising young chef.
This was no joke you guys. We're talking diamond ring, wedding dress, wedding date, church, reception site, the works.
Trust me friends, if you had tasted this man's lobster bisque, you would have said 'yes,' too. I don't care if you're male, female, gay or straight--you most definitely would've let him put the ring on your hungry little, food loving finger. His soup was that good.
(Do you think it'd be overly tacky to call him 9 years later, and ask him to whip up a quick batch for my husband and me?)
If you do the math, and consider the fact that I married Jared at the fresh, young age of 21, you'll come to realize that this engagement didn't last so long. Within a matter of months the ring was returned, the date on the calendar was scratched off, and all kinds of deposits were rightfully refunded.
But the dress? Oh my word that dress stuck around.
For the first couple of years it hung around in my childhood closet, taking up 60% of the available space with its many cubic yards of tulle and organza. And then, 3 or so years later, when Jared and I bought our first house (which coincidentally, we later sold on FirstClass), my mom wrestled that dress into the back seat of her Jetta, drove it up to Maine, plopped it on my bed and said, "Congratulations on the house. Now take this."
This house--all two stories of it--boasted just over 800 square-feet and was set on a lovely .09 acre lot. Our master bedroom literally measured 7x11, so it's needless to say that storing a 62 square-foot dress from a called off wedding was completely out of the question. Even the backyard couldn't have handled this thing.
So up it went, on FirstClass. It was listed above a ratty apartment for rent and under an advertisement for keg-stand coaching.
I'm dead serious.
Within 48 hours, I had gotten two inquiries. One from a super sweet, size 24 girl, who was hoping to be a size 8 by her wedding day in August, and the second was from a person named Samuel. The email was signed by "Sammy," and according to the text, Sammy was a wedding dress collector.
Okay.
I replied to both emails, setting up times for each person to come and see the dress.
Cara, the plus-sized sweetheart, came to see the dress on Monday. As soon as I unzipped the garment bag, tears welled up in her eyes. By the time the dress was out of the bag, she was engulfed in full on sobs. A few minutes later we were sitting at my kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate, discussing Cara's lifelong battle with her weight. An hour later we hugged, and she drove off. Without the wedding dress.
Damn.
The next day, Sammy came to see the dress, and sure enough, Sammy was a man dressed as a woman. Actually, he was a college guy dressed up as a college girl. He was obviously in the beginning stages of his transition wearing female clothing and press-on nails with a giant men's watch. High heels and long hair with very manly glasses.
Whatever. I didn't care. I just wanted someone, anyone, to buy the damn dress.
Sammy stepped into the privacy of our bedroom and quietly worked himself into the dress. He came out a few minutes later asking for help with the zipper.
No problem.
"Suck it in," I said.
He did.
I yanked up on the zipper and Sammy said, "You've got to be kidding me! This is so tight! I can hardly breath!"
"But it looks beautiful," I replied.
"But I can hardly stand it," he retorted.
"Listen," I said. "Sammy, being a man is all about the comfort. But being a woman? It's all about the beauty, and you look beautiful in this dress."
"Really," he asked?
"Really," I said. "If you're serious about this, you've got to get used to not breathing."
And apparently he did. He bargained me down by $10, bought the dress, and a few weeks later he emailed me a couple pictures of himself sporting the dress at a sorority formal.
Sure he was overdressed, but damn he looked goooood.
These days, Sammy and I still keep in touch on Facebook and she looks a heck of a lot better than I do--perfect hair, perfect nails, and slammin' legs in a miniskirt.
Every now and then I'll find myself feeling jealous of her looks. But then I have to remind myself--I've had a baby, Sammy hasn't.
Marsha and the Grumpy Old Man
June 22, 2009
Welp, it's been raining for one week straight, and according to the almighty internet, this weather's not planning to go anywhere for the next eight days.
The rain's fine. Honestly, it doesn't bother me much--hopefully it'll help my grass seed sprout. But the people? Ay yi yi, welcome to the world of cranky old New Englanders. They're elderly, they're salty, and when they weather fails to meet their specifications, they'll give you the finger in the grocery store just because they feel like it.
Earlier this morning, I stopped at our little, local bank. I was standing in a line of three, waiting to return a key (no seriously, the banks here loan out keys to their back doors for after hours use of the conference rooms), when a 80-something man hobbled in with his walker.
He cut straight to the front of the line, leaving a pregnant girl (me), a super old woman (my neighbor), and a middle-aged lady with a very antsy child in the dust of his orthopedic shoes. Again, no big deal. For all I know, this guy could have fought off Nazi forces on the beaches of Normandy, and if that's the case--and I just decided to assume that it was--he can cut me in line all day long.
And really, I would have sent him ahead of me anyway. Not only does it make me look like an exemplary citizen and score me a handful of heaven points, but that man probably would have limped out of there and taken a leak in my gas tank if I had the nerve to do my banking ahead of him.
So he pushed his way to the front of the line and slowly began his transaction. A minute later, I could hear the teller wrapping it up:
"Anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Smith," she asked? (I didn't catch his name)
"No."
"Well I hope you enjoy your day," she replied with a smile.
"A day like today," he demanded? "Kiss my ass, Marsha."
Marsha didn't flinch. He must be a regular customer. And as for me? It's two hours later and I'm still snickering about the incident in my office.
It's official, my day has been made!
Welp, it's been raining for one week straight, and according to the almighty internet, this weather's not planning to go anywhere for the next eight days.
The rain's fine. Honestly, it doesn't bother me much--hopefully it'll help my grass seed sprout. But the people? Ay yi yi, welcome to the world of cranky old New Englanders. They're elderly, they're salty, and when they weather fails to meet their specifications, they'll give you the finger in the grocery store just because they feel like it.
Earlier this morning, I stopped at our little, local bank. I was standing in a line of three, waiting to return a key (no seriously, the banks here loan out keys to their back doors for after hours use of the conference rooms), when a 80-something man hobbled in with his walker.
He cut straight to the front of the line, leaving a pregnant girl (me), a super old woman (my neighbor), and a middle-aged lady with a very antsy child in the dust of his orthopedic shoes. Again, no big deal. For all I know, this guy could have fought off Nazi forces on the beaches of Normandy, and if that's the case--and I just decided to assume that it was--he can cut me in line all day long.
And really, I would have sent him ahead of me anyway. Not only does it make me look like an exemplary citizen and score me a handful of heaven points, but that man probably would have limped out of there and taken a leak in my gas tank if I had the nerve to do my banking ahead of him.
So he pushed his way to the front of the line and slowly began his transaction. A minute later, I could hear the teller wrapping it up:
"Anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Smith," she asked? (I didn't catch his name)
"No."
"Well I hope you enjoy your day," she replied with a smile.
"A day like today," he demanded? "Kiss my ass, Marsha."
Marsha didn't flinch. He must be a regular customer. And as for me? It's two hours later and I'm still snickering about the incident in my office.
It's official, my day has been made!
Late Night Musings
June 19, 2009
Happy Friday, everyone. I don't know how the weather's holding up in your neck of the woods, but it's pouring buckets up here, and it's not slated to stop until Sunday.
Please understand that the previous statement wasn't meant to be taken as a complaint, but merely as a statement of fact. Regular old rain is nothing--you won't hear me complain until the sky opens up and starts dropping cat poo or flavored cream of wheat. I really hate cream of wheat.
Last night, it was raining so hard that I was startled awake in a super confused stupor--which is more common than I care to admit these days. Last week for example, I startled myself awake when I became frustrated with our sticky deadbolt lock. Apparently I was on my way to check in on our elderly neighbors. Huh.
So last night, I woke up to the sound of the rain, I turned to Jared and said, "I hate big cats. If I ever see a mountain lion walking through our yard, I swear I'll kill it."
"No you wouldn't."
"Yes I would," I spat back. "I don't care if it's lying around licking its paws, I'll shoot it."
"No you wouldn't."
"Jared," I said, "If it could kill James, and it's in my yard, then I'm shooting it."
"What about a bear," he asked? "What would you do if a bear walked through our yard?"
"A bear," I repeated? "I'd probably tie a giant bow around its neck and hug it for an hour."
It was the middle of the night, it made perfect sense.
Happy Friday, everyone. I don't know how the weather's holding up in your neck of the woods, but it's pouring buckets up here, and it's not slated to stop until Sunday.
Please understand that the previous statement wasn't meant to be taken as a complaint, but merely as a statement of fact. Regular old rain is nothing--you won't hear me complain until the sky opens up and starts dropping cat poo or flavored cream of wheat. I really hate cream of wheat.
Last night, it was raining so hard that I was startled awake in a super confused stupor--which is more common than I care to admit these days. Last week for example, I startled myself awake when I became frustrated with our sticky deadbolt lock. Apparently I was on my way to check in on our elderly neighbors. Huh.
So last night, I woke up to the sound of the rain, I turned to Jared and said, "I hate big cats. If I ever see a mountain lion walking through our yard, I swear I'll kill it."
"No you wouldn't."
"Yes I would," I spat back. "I don't care if it's lying around licking its paws, I'll shoot it."
"No you wouldn't."
"Jared," I said, "If it could kill James, and it's in my yard, then I'm shooting it."
"What about a bear," he asked? "What would you do if a bear walked through our yard?"
"A bear," I repeated? "I'd probably tie a giant bow around its neck and hug it for an hour."
It was the middle of the night, it made perfect sense.
Screw You, Murphy
June 8, 2009
Just so you know, if your car ever happens to get towed in Portland, Maine, it's $95 to get it out of the impound lot. And they only take cash. In exact amounts.
The price stands firm whether or not there were signs indicating that it was, in fact, a tow-away zone. The guessing keeps it interesting, I suppose--kind of like playing Russian Roulette with your weekly grocery money.
While you wait for your husband to retrieve the vehicle at 9pm on a Saturday night, your overtired 4-year-old might just stand on top of a table at a Subway restaurant, play dead behind the sandwich artists' station, and hug a very boisterous homeless woman tightly around the waist (with his head resting comfortably at her crotch).
Meanwhile, at home, your dog--you know, the one with a severe case of canine IBS?--is likely to be losing the contents her intestines all over your kitchen, den, and the 100% genuine wool rug on your living room floor. Really now, who can blame her? You are, after all, running an hour or two late.
The next morning, your child will probably wake up with a nasty, nasty hacking cough that sounds remarkably similar to the homeless woman's (not that there's anything wrong with that). You'll scrub your rug for at least 90 minutes, deem it unsalvagable, and your husband will leave on an overnight fishing trip because hello cruel world!, he needs to get away from it all.
Chances are, you'll eat 9 brownies before dinner because honestly, IS THERE A FREAKING POINT TO TRYING TO STAY SKINNY THESE DAYS? Since you're an above-average mother, you'll decide to share one of those treats with your 4-year-old boy, only to realize that he just ate the mocha one, flavored with 100% genuine Colombian dark roast coffee.
He will stay up until 10:30pm rearranging the artwork on his walls, changing his bedding (twice), and reorganizing the contents of his dresser drawers--all the while, wearing nothing but rubber underpants and a Christmas tie.
Eventually he will fall asleep, you will fall asleep, and your dog will have an acute intestinal flare-up at 2:15 in the morning. At least it's a beautiful night for a walk.
How was your weekend?
Just so you know, if your car ever happens to get towed in Portland, Maine, it's $95 to get it out of the impound lot. And they only take cash. In exact amounts.
The price stands firm whether or not there were signs indicating that it was, in fact, a tow-away zone. The guessing keeps it interesting, I suppose--kind of like playing Russian Roulette with your weekly grocery money.
While you wait for your husband to retrieve the vehicle at 9pm on a Saturday night, your overtired 4-year-old might just stand on top of a table at a Subway restaurant, play dead behind the sandwich artists' station, and hug a very boisterous homeless woman tightly around the waist (with his head resting comfortably at her crotch).
Meanwhile, at home, your dog--you know, the one with a severe case of canine IBS?--is likely to be losing the contents her intestines all over your kitchen, den, and the 100% genuine wool rug on your living room floor. Really now, who can blame her? You are, after all, running an hour or two late.
The next morning, your child will probably wake up with a nasty, nasty hacking cough that sounds remarkably similar to the homeless woman's (not that there's anything wrong with that). You'll scrub your rug for at least 90 minutes, deem it unsalvagable, and your husband will leave on an overnight fishing trip because hello cruel world!, he needs to get away from it all.
Chances are, you'll eat 9 brownies before dinner because honestly, IS THERE A FREAKING POINT TO TRYING TO STAY SKINNY THESE DAYS? Since you're an above-average mother, you'll decide to share one of those treats with your 4-year-old boy, only to realize that he just ate the mocha one, flavored with 100% genuine Colombian dark roast coffee.
He will stay up until 10:30pm rearranging the artwork on his walls, changing his bedding (twice), and reorganizing the contents of his dresser drawers--all the while, wearing nothing but rubber underpants and a Christmas tie.
Eventually he will fall asleep, you will fall asleep, and your dog will have an acute intestinal flare-up at 2:15 in the morning. At least it's a beautiful night for a walk.
How was your weekend?
Bye Bye Happiness
June 4, 2009
If I happen to seem a little extra cranky this week, it's all because of Mister Market. Actually, it's all because of the lack of Mister Market. Yes, that's right, my local grocery store has closed its doors and the replacement won't be opening until the very end of July.
This is freaking torture.
Sure we have one drug store and a convenience store in town, but for the next two months the closest actual grocery store is just over ten miles away--and when you're knocked-up, overly demanding, and hungry like a hippo (as I am), that's just too darn far.
Back in the good old days, when I wanted to eat an entire rotisserie chicken all by myself, I'd hop in the car, drive two miles round trip, bring that sucker back to my office, and that was that. But now, now, it's a twenty mile ordeal--and not just for precooked chicken, that goes for Cool Whip and Mediterranean Olives and Croutons, too.
Dang. It.
Let's take yesterday for example, when I was asked to bake eight pans of my famous brownies from scratch. I happily drove the twenty miles, swung by the grocery store, and came home with enough cocoa powder and margarine to give an elephant the runs. I fastened my apron, dusted off my KitchenAid, and as I began to sort my ingredients I almost fainted from the horror of my unwelcome discovery--I was completely out of salt.
Not a mother lovin' speck of it in the entire house.
Usually, I'd calm down, take a pee, and drive to Mister Market, but there was NO MORE MISTER MARKET TO DRIVE TO!!! So I did the next best thing--I drove to my mother-in-law's house, tiptoed in through the side door, stole three sandwich bags (I put the extra two in my purse), and siphoned her salt for my own personal use.
Unfortunately, I was caught.
My mother-in-law was like, "Amy, what're you doing?"
And I was all, "Who? Me? Hi? I need some salt for a recipe."
"Oh," she replied, "just take the whole container."
"No," I insisted! "I couldn't take your provisions at a time like this!" Then I put my right hand on her left shoulder, looked her bang in the eye, and said, "Mister Market has closed, this is no time time be hoarding supplies. I'll only take what I need."
She agreed.
Now everyone here knows full well that I steal groceries from my in-law's pantry on a regular basis--everything from peppercorns to twelve-pound turkeys--but in the past I've only stolen those items for the adrenaline rush, never out of necessity. And let me tell you, necessity is a beyotch.
I mean seriously, which of these scenarios is more humiliating?
Scenario A...
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Amy, why is that pork loin in James's backpack?
ME: Because I want it in there.
or
Scenario B...
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Amy, I think a jar of Fluff just fell out of the leg of your pants.
ME: I'm so sorry! We need that Fluff or else we'll starve and die! Please forgive me!
Um yeah, definitely the second one.
Please--you know who you are--spare me the comments that say things like, "Try living FIFTY miles from the grocery store!" or "Do you know how many miles I have to ride my horse to buy a box of generic Tampons? It's even farther for the name brand kind!"
You did that to yourself, ladies. We bought a house that was one mile away from Mister Market on purpose--I know myself.
My grocery store was ripped out from under me, and my joy went right along with it.
I'm hungry.
If I happen to seem a little extra cranky this week, it's all because of Mister Market. Actually, it's all because of the lack of Mister Market. Yes, that's right, my local grocery store has closed its doors and the replacement won't be opening until the very end of July.
This is freaking torture.
Sure we have one drug store and a convenience store in town, but for the next two months the closest actual grocery store is just over ten miles away--and when you're knocked-up, overly demanding, and hungry like a hippo (as I am), that's just too darn far.
Back in the good old days, when I wanted to eat an entire rotisserie chicken all by myself, I'd hop in the car, drive two miles round trip, bring that sucker back to my office, and that was that. But now, now, it's a twenty mile ordeal--and not just for precooked chicken, that goes for Cool Whip and Mediterranean Olives and Croutons, too.
Dang. It.
Let's take yesterday for example, when I was asked to bake eight pans of my famous brownies from scratch. I happily drove the twenty miles, swung by the grocery store, and came home with enough cocoa powder and margarine to give an elephant the runs. I fastened my apron, dusted off my KitchenAid, and as I began to sort my ingredients I almost fainted from the horror of my unwelcome discovery--I was completely out of salt.
Not a mother lovin' speck of it in the entire house.
Usually, I'd calm down, take a pee, and drive to Mister Market, but there was NO MORE MISTER MARKET TO DRIVE TO!!! So I did the next best thing--I drove to my mother-in-law's house, tiptoed in through the side door, stole three sandwich bags (I put the extra two in my purse), and siphoned her salt for my own personal use.
Unfortunately, I was caught.
My mother-in-law was like, "Amy, what're you doing?"
And I was all, "Who? Me? Hi? I need some salt for a recipe."
"Oh," she replied, "just take the whole container."
"No," I insisted! "I couldn't take your provisions at a time like this!" Then I put my right hand on her left shoulder, looked her bang in the eye, and said, "Mister Market has closed, this is no time time be hoarding supplies. I'll only take what I need."
She agreed.
Now everyone here knows full well that I steal groceries from my in-law's pantry on a regular basis--everything from peppercorns to twelve-pound turkeys--but in the past I've only stolen those items for the adrenaline rush, never out of necessity. And let me tell you, necessity is a beyotch.
I mean seriously, which of these scenarios is more humiliating?
Scenario A...
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Amy, why is that pork loin in James's backpack?
ME: Because I want it in there.
or
Scenario B...
MOTHER-IN-LAW: Amy, I think a jar of Fluff just fell out of the leg of your pants.
ME: I'm so sorry! We need that Fluff or else we'll starve and die! Please forgive me!
Um yeah, definitely the second one.
Please--you know who you are--spare me the comments that say things like, "Try living FIFTY miles from the grocery store!" or "Do you know how many miles I have to ride my horse to buy a box of generic Tampons? It's even farther for the name brand kind!"
You did that to yourself, ladies. We bought a house that was one mile away from Mister Market on purpose--I know myself.
My grocery store was ripped out from under me, and my joy went right along with it.
I'm hungry.
The Lawsons do Church
June 1, 2009
If you ever happen to be passing through Maine in search of a deep, spiritual experience, please, please, please do your best to satiate the urge by hugging a tree or something--not by sitting behind us in church. I don't know what it is, but my little family possesses the uncanny ability to send the Holy Spirit running from a room faster than the devil himself on propane powered roller blades.
Take this past Sunday for example, when James slyly inserted a yellow highlighter and a bic pen into each of his nostrils, stood on the pew, faced backwards, and displayed his accessories for approximately 70% of the congregation to take in.
Most of them seemed to enjoy the show. Some of them clearly did not.
This, I should mention, all happened after James piped up during the preliminary meditative part asking, "Mom? Can I pee on dat pwant over dere?"
"No," I whispered. "If you need to pee, I'll take you to use the potty."
"Well," he half-shouted, "is it okay if I poop on dat pwant instead?"
To which I replied, "James, do you know what a spanking is?"
To which he replied, "Don't spank me, Mommy. Spank my monkey instead," as he held up the miniature plush monkey from his Noah's Ark playset.
Really now, please don't sit behind us. For the benefit of everyone, we seem to need our space.
If you ever happen to be passing through Maine in search of a deep, spiritual experience, please, please, please do your best to satiate the urge by hugging a tree or something--not by sitting behind us in church. I don't know what it is, but my little family possesses the uncanny ability to send the Holy Spirit running from a room faster than the devil himself on propane powered roller blades.
Take this past Sunday for example, when James slyly inserted a yellow highlighter and a bic pen into each of his nostrils, stood on the pew, faced backwards, and displayed his accessories for approximately 70% of the congregation to take in.
Most of them seemed to enjoy the show. Some of them clearly did not.
This, I should mention, all happened after James piped up during the preliminary meditative part asking, "Mom? Can I pee on dat pwant over dere?"
"No," I whispered. "If you need to pee, I'll take you to use the potty."
"Well," he half-shouted, "is it okay if I poop on dat pwant instead?"
To which I replied, "James, do you know what a spanking is?"
To which he replied, "Don't spank me, Mommy. Spank my monkey instead," as he held up the miniature plush monkey from his Noah's Ark playset.
Really now, please don't sit behind us. For the benefit of everyone, we seem to need our space.
The Infamous Egg Incident of 2009
May 27, 2009Let me tell you how my day started off. Actually, scratch that. Let me tell you how my day at work started off--you know, after James took thirteen minutes to put his crocs on this morning and then decided that he'd rather wear his rain boots.
So I walked into my office building eating a hard boiled egg, because hello, I'm totally classy like that. As I greeted the cleaning woman (who was shining the baseboards because she's incredible), I noticed a tag sticking out of the front of my skirt. Upon further inspection I confirmed my suspicion that yes, I was in fact wearing my clothing backwards.
With the egg in one hand and my bag in the other, I grabbed my waistband and gave it a sharp tug in an effort to rotate the skirt 180 degrees in one not-so-graceful swoop.
Yes, I successfully turned my skirt. Bu-ut, my quick flick of the wrist launched the hard boiled yolk out of my egg, off the wall and onto the floor where I promptly proceeded to step on it with my big ol' heavy body and mash it into the carpet fibers.
All of this in front of the superhuman cleaning lady. Who had just finished freshening the carpets.
And then, THEN, when I hastily bent down in an attempt to clean my mess (or at least show how much I cared), a king-sized package of peanut butter cups, one small can of prune juice, and my beloved tube of hemorrhoidal ointment rolled out of my bag and onto the floor.
All in all, I'd have to say that the egg fiasco has been the best part of my day so far. Really, things are that good over here.
Call me crazy, but it's a nice day for hiding.
The Verdict Is In
May 21, 2009
It's a....
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
May 20, 2009Up 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:
The Sanctity of Marriage, Lawson Style
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.
THE NERVE!
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.
-THE END-
You know, after writing that story I've come to realize that maybe there is some measure of truth to the whole 'sanctity' argument.
You see, there is absolutely no way that two men could ever possibly achieve that level of sanctity in a marriage relationship. They're way too calm and forgiving--and it's all due to the lack of estrogen.
(And no, I will not share my actual opinion regarding gay marriage on this blog. But c'mon--you already knew that! I don't do controversy.)
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