You've gotta love it when the President of the Board is sitting in your office, and the following picture scrolls across your screen saver:
Yes, he noticed. Yes, he commented.Most excellent.
Showing posts with label just another thing I regret. Show all posts
Showing posts with label just another thing I regret. Show all posts
Woops!
August 25, 2009
You've gotta love it when the President of the Board is sitting in your office, and the following picture scrolls across your screen saver:
Yes, he noticed. Yes, he commented.
Most excellent.
You've gotta love it when the President of the Board is sitting in your office, and the following picture scrolls across your screen saver:
Yes, he noticed. Yes, he commented.Most excellent.
A Giant Sack of Crap
August 19, 2009
If you were to meet me in real life and ask me a question like, "So how are you feeling?," there's only one way I'd respond. I'd smile, shrug my shoulders and say something like, "Great! A little bit tired, but honestly, I couldn't find a reason to complain if I tried."
That my friends, is widely known as "keeping up appearances." In other words, LIE! LIE! LIE!
I know it's wrong to fib, but every single woman in my neighborhood seems to have given birth during the days of push-carts and woolly mammoths, so somehow, in these days of air conditioning and Bagel Bites, it just feels wrong to complain.
All I can say is thank goodness for this website, my secret place where I can be honest with the masses--because dude, I totally feel like crap. You're welcome to think whatever you'd like in regards to my whining. Judge me, whip me, tell me I'm not grateful enough--chances are, I don't know you anyway.
Oh the freedom.
So anywho, this is where I'm at...
If pregnancy were a marathon, I'd have to say that I'm at mile 22. It goes like this--you've been running forever, you still have a long ass way to go, and that whole "hitting the wall thing?" Yeah, it's not just some crazy idea.
Amy Lawson has hit the wall. And crapping my pants could very well be right around the corner.
I'm now to the point where I'm carrying 30ish extra pounds, Jared has to tie my shoes, and generally speaking, I cry 3 to 5 times daily. Almost anything can spark the tears these days--a radio commercial for auto glass, the movie Flushed Away, a craving for macaroni & cheese, anything.
For example, yesterday evening, when I returned from my nightly waddle, I walked into the kitchen to find the missionaries chatting with Jared. Sure I'm already Mormon, it's not like they were trying to convert me or anything--but when all you want to do is scratch your crotch, pull the curtains, and walk around wearing nothing but nature's glory, unexpected visitors can really put a damper on your evening.
So I breezed right past them, sat my ass on the living room couch, and commenced with the sobbing.
Jared came in and he was like, "Amy, oh my word, are you okay? What's wrong?"
So I was all, "Jared, the only thing I want to do right now is take a shower, sing some Bon Jovi, and air-dry my crack--but they're here. I can't do any of that while they're here."
"Amy," he said, "I can't ask them to leave, that would be rude."
So I cleared my throat, muted the television and said as loudly and clearly as I possibly could, "ASK THEM TO LEAVE, JARED! ASK THEM TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW."
Apparently they showed themselves out.
And then I cried again, because holy crap, I felt shame like I've never felt shame before.
So you see? This 33-weeks pregnant thing? It's complicated.
And me? I feel like a really big sack of crap.
The end.
If you were to meet me in real life and ask me a question like, "So how are you feeling?," there's only one way I'd respond. I'd smile, shrug my shoulders and say something like, "Great! A little bit tired, but honestly, I couldn't find a reason to complain if I tried."
That my friends, is widely known as "keeping up appearances." In other words, LIE! LIE! LIE!
I know it's wrong to fib, but every single woman in my neighborhood seems to have given birth during the days of push-carts and woolly mammoths, so somehow, in these days of air conditioning and Bagel Bites, it just feels wrong to complain.
All I can say is thank goodness for this website, my secret place where I can be honest with the masses--because dude, I totally feel like crap. You're welcome to think whatever you'd like in regards to my whining. Judge me, whip me, tell me I'm not grateful enough--chances are, I don't know you anyway.
Oh the freedom.
So anywho, this is where I'm at...
If pregnancy were a marathon, I'd have to say that I'm at mile 22. It goes like this--you've been running forever, you still have a long ass way to go, and that whole "hitting the wall thing?" Yeah, it's not just some crazy idea.
Amy Lawson has hit the wall. And crapping my pants could very well be right around the corner.
I'm now to the point where I'm carrying 30ish extra pounds, Jared has to tie my shoes, and generally speaking, I cry 3 to 5 times daily. Almost anything can spark the tears these days--a radio commercial for auto glass, the movie Flushed Away, a craving for macaroni & cheese, anything.
For example, yesterday evening, when I returned from my nightly waddle, I walked into the kitchen to find the missionaries chatting with Jared. Sure I'm already Mormon, it's not like they were trying to convert me or anything--but when all you want to do is scratch your crotch, pull the curtains, and walk around wearing nothing but nature's glory, unexpected visitors can really put a damper on your evening.
So I breezed right past them, sat my ass on the living room couch, and commenced with the sobbing.
Jared came in and he was like, "Amy, oh my word, are you okay? What's wrong?"
So I was all, "Jared, the only thing I want to do right now is take a shower, sing some Bon Jovi, and air-dry my crack--but they're here. I can't do any of that while they're here."
"Amy," he said, "I can't ask them to leave, that would be rude."
So I cleared my throat, muted the television and said as loudly and clearly as I possibly could, "ASK THEM TO LEAVE, JARED! ASK THEM TO LEAVE RIGHT NOW."
Apparently they showed themselves out.
And then I cried again, because holy crap, I felt shame like I've never felt shame before.
So you see? This 33-weeks pregnant thing? It's complicated.
And me? I feel like a really big sack of crap.
The end.
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.
Adventures in Emotional Eating
August 5, 2009
Well friends, it's official. I, Amy Lawson, am an emotional eater in the most serious sense of the phrase.
Let me back up.
Have you ever come across a new person and you instantly fall in love? I'm not talking romantic love or girl-crush kind of love, more of a if-I-happen-to-die-on-my-next-drive-home-will-you-raise-my-kids-for-me-and-oh-yeah-wanna-be-my-new-best-friend kind of love. I'm sure you've all experienced it.
It's deep, it's instant, it's magical, on oh my heavens, I have it with my midwife. The woman has a magnetic personality, a bedside manner that can't be beat, she's smart, she's funny, and I won't mince words here--her boobs are simply out of this world. On average, Jared and I spend seven to eight minutes discussing the fantasticness of her cans after every single appointment.
See? Love.
The first time I met her, I literally had to restrain myself from nuzzling up in her lap, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, and crying the words, "You'll take care of me, right? Right?" Instead, I opted to kind of tilt my head, lazily gaze into her eyes and say, "You're great," eight or nine times in a row.
Perfectly normal.
Well guys, today, I'm very sad to let you all know that there's been a bit of a rift in our provider-patient-soulmate relationship. I guess I can refer to this little bump in the road as "West Virginia."
As in, my midwife is moving to West Virgina. In two weeks.
She broke the news this morning, at my 31 week appointment. She was like, "Sit down Amy, I need to tell you something important."
And in my mind I was thinking, *Aw crap, does 180-pounds really look that bad in these skinny jeans?*
Yes in fact, it does--but this news had nothing to do with my wardrobe choices, nothing at all. Instead, it had everything to do with twice the money, half the hours, student loan repayment, and some kind of a dream job in West Virginia.
I'm very proud to say that I more than kept my wits about me when she gently dealt the news. I was like, "West Virgina, huh? I hear it's beautiful in the fall. I can do West Virginia."
Well apparently I've been experiencing what some might call "unrequited love," because get this, I'm not invited.
Deep down I guess I always knew she was a punk. Something about the boobs.
So I scheduled my next appointment with the other midwife, gave one last hug to the woman of my dreams, and calmly walked into the parking lot. No tears, no snot, no tearing of clothes, no gnashing of teeth. Just a big, loud SH!T when I settled into my driver's seat.
(side note: sh!t is the word of the week)
Then, I did the only thing that a distraught, hugely pregnant woman can do at trying time such as this--I drove around the corner, pulled into the nearest Burger King and ordered a Whopper with cheese, some onion rings, and a bucket of Sprite. Then I snapped at the window lady for leaving out the spicy ring sauce.
Sure I feel bad about getting sassy with the burger slinger, but dude, I'm GIANT, I'm HUNGRY, and I JUST GOT DUMPED. GIMME THE DAMN RING SAUCE, BYOTCH.
In all actuality, I blame my midwife. She left me no other option but to resort to such unbecoming behavior. It's a shame really.
I spent the next four minutes navigating the roads, searching for a appropriately sappy song, and shoving all manner of nastiness into my mouth. It wasn't until minute five, when I was stopped at a red light, ferociously licking my burger wrapper, that I realized, "Damn, I didn't get anything for dessert."
And thus commenced Round Two, which I like to call "Get in my belly you Devil Dog Muffin."
So what exactly is a Devil Dog Muffin?
Welp, it's a chocolate muffin, roughly the size of one of my ass cheeks, filled and topped with half a cup of homemade frosting. They're baked--with a tremendous amount of love, mind you--by an elderly woman in town. They're sold at the local gas station, and if I had to wager a guess, they weigh in at about 1,200 calories a piece.
I ate it in the parking lot.
Then I saw some spots and had to roll down the driver's side window in case I had to ralf all over the pavement. Thankfully I used some Lamaze breathing and urge to boof subsided about fifteen minutes later.
Yeah, the spots are still there.
But you know what else? I feel much, much better. Thanks to 2,300 hundred calories and 105 grams of fat, I've managed to master my emotions, weigh my options, and come to grips with the details of the situation.
And ya know what I've figured out?
I'm moving to West Virginia whether she likes it or not.
The End.
Well friends, it's official. I, Amy Lawson, am an emotional eater in the most serious sense of the phrase.
Let me back up.
Have you ever come across a new person and you instantly fall in love? I'm not talking romantic love or girl-crush kind of love, more of a if-I-happen-to-die-on-my-next-drive-home-will-you-raise-my-kids-for-me-and-oh-yeah-wanna-be-my-new-best-friend kind of love. I'm sure you've all experienced it.
It's deep, it's instant, it's magical, on oh my heavens, I have it with my midwife. The woman has a magnetic personality, a bedside manner that can't be beat, she's smart, she's funny, and I won't mince words here--her boobs are simply out of this world. On average, Jared and I spend seven to eight minutes discussing the fantasticness of her cans after every single appointment.
See? Love.
The first time I met her, I literally had to restrain myself from nuzzling up in her lap, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, and crying the words, "You'll take care of me, right? Right?" Instead, I opted to kind of tilt my head, lazily gaze into her eyes and say, "You're great," eight or nine times in a row.
Perfectly normal.
Well guys, today, I'm very sad to let you all know that there's been a bit of a rift in our provider-patient-soulmate relationship. I guess I can refer to this little bump in the road as "West Virginia."
As in, my midwife is moving to West Virgina. In two weeks.
She broke the news this morning, at my 31 week appointment. She was like, "Sit down Amy, I need to tell you something important."
And in my mind I was thinking, *Aw crap, does 180-pounds really look that bad in these skinny jeans?*
Yes in fact, it does--but this news had nothing to do with my wardrobe choices, nothing at all. Instead, it had everything to do with twice the money, half the hours, student loan repayment, and some kind of a dream job in West Virginia.
I'm very proud to say that I more than kept my wits about me when she gently dealt the news. I was like, "West Virgina, huh? I hear it's beautiful in the fall. I can do West Virginia."
Well apparently I've been experiencing what some might call "unrequited love," because get this, I'm not invited.
Deep down I guess I always knew she was a punk. Something about the boobs.
So I scheduled my next appointment with the other midwife, gave one last hug to the woman of my dreams, and calmly walked into the parking lot. No tears, no snot, no tearing of clothes, no gnashing of teeth. Just a big, loud SH!T when I settled into my driver's seat.
(side note: sh!t is the word of the week)
Then, I did the only thing that a distraught, hugely pregnant woman can do at trying time such as this--I drove around the corner, pulled into the nearest Burger King and ordered a Whopper with cheese, some onion rings, and a bucket of Sprite. Then I snapped at the window lady for leaving out the spicy ring sauce.
Sure I feel bad about getting sassy with the burger slinger, but dude, I'm GIANT, I'm HUNGRY, and I JUST GOT DUMPED. GIMME THE DAMN RING SAUCE, BYOTCH.
In all actuality, I blame my midwife. She left me no other option but to resort to such unbecoming behavior. It's a shame really.
I spent the next four minutes navigating the roads, searching for a appropriately sappy song, and shoving all manner of nastiness into my mouth. It wasn't until minute five, when I was stopped at a red light, ferociously licking my burger wrapper, that I realized, "Damn, I didn't get anything for dessert."
And thus commenced Round Two, which I like to call "Get in my belly you Devil Dog Muffin."
So what exactly is a Devil Dog Muffin?
Welp, it's a chocolate muffin, roughly the size of one of my ass cheeks, filled and topped with half a cup of homemade frosting. They're baked--with a tremendous amount of love, mind you--by an elderly woman in town. They're sold at the local gas station, and if I had to wager a guess, they weigh in at about 1,200 calories a piece.
I ate it in the parking lot.
Then I saw some spots and had to roll down the driver's side window in case I had to ralf all over the pavement. Thankfully I used some Lamaze breathing and urge to boof subsided about fifteen minutes later.
Yeah, the spots are still there.
But you know what else? I feel much, much better. Thanks to 2,300 hundred calories and 105 grams of fat, I've managed to master my emotions, weigh my options, and come to grips with the details of the situation.
And ya know what I've figured out?
I'm moving to West Virginia whether she likes it or not.
The End.
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.
Helluva Mood
July 16, 2009
I'm not sure why, but I am in quite the mood today.
For example, a few minutes ago I got an email from "Wells Fargo," telling me that they needed to verify some information on my bank account--specifically my social security number, my account number, and my password. The return email address was something like xyz6272@yahoo.com.
Mmm hmm.
On an average day, I simply delete those type of emails--as well as any messages I receive from orphaned African royalty (Don't you know I already wipe my ass with dollar bills? Why would I bother myself with your silly, little inheritance?). But today is different. Today, ignoring must have fallen right out of my tool box of coping skills.
So, instead of hitting delete I hit reply, I typed "Fu*& You" in the message box (except I used the real word), and then I hit the send button.
I can't say that it completely cured me of my crappy mood, but my goodness, it gave me a genuine rush for a second or two. I felt fabulous.
And now, to continue that fabulous feeling, I'm pretending to be my own secretary. It basically goes like this:
1. The phone rings.
2. I pick it up and say, "Hello, this is Amy Lawson's office. Can I help you?"
3. The person says, "Yes. Is she available?"
4. I say, "I'm very sorry, but she's not. May I take a detailed message and have her return your call?"
5. Then I hang up and call them right back.
6. Then they seem confused that my secretary and I sound so much alike.
7. Then I dismiss their comments with a professional sounding laugh.
8. Then I feel powerful.
So far it's working, I still feel fabulous.
And if that feeling of fabulousness starts to fade? Well friends, that's when a gigantic ice cream sundae will enter stage left.
I'm not sure why, but I am in quite the mood today.
For example, a few minutes ago I got an email from "Wells Fargo," telling me that they needed to verify some information on my bank account--specifically my social security number, my account number, and my password. The return email address was something like xyz6272@yahoo.com.
Mmm hmm.
On an average day, I simply delete those type of emails--as well as any messages I receive from orphaned African royalty (Don't you know I already wipe my ass with dollar bills? Why would I bother myself with your silly, little inheritance?). But today is different. Today, ignoring must have fallen right out of my tool box of coping skills.
So, instead of hitting delete I hit reply, I typed "Fu*& You" in the message box (except I used the real word), and then I hit the send button.
I can't say that it completely cured me of my crappy mood, but my goodness, it gave me a genuine rush for a second or two. I felt fabulous.
And now, to continue that fabulous feeling, I'm pretending to be my own secretary. It basically goes like this:
1. The phone rings.
2. I pick it up and say, "Hello, this is Amy Lawson's office. Can I help you?"
3. The person says, "Yes. Is she available?"
4. I say, "I'm very sorry, but she's not. May I take a detailed message and have her return your call?"
5. Then I hang up and call them right back.
6. Then they seem confused that my secretary and I sound so much alike.
7. Then I dismiss their comments with a professional sounding laugh.
8. Then I feel powerful.
So far it's working, I still feel fabulous.
And if that feeling of fabulousness starts to fade? Well friends, that's when a gigantic ice cream sundae will enter stage left.
Pregnancy Sass
June 29, 2009
For the first time in my life I can honestly say that I've become a head turner--double takes, triple takes, eyes the size of dinner plates, I get them all.
And it's probably not because I'm hot.
I personally think it has a lot more to do with the fact that lately I've preferred to exercise in the broad daylight, in a bright yellow volunteer t-shirt, that somehow makes me look pregnant in my ass and in my tea kettle.
Couple that with my very shiny spandex pants, and folks, I've become the stuff that highly disturbing dreams are made of.
Just this past weekend, after my run, when I was still in my skin tight get up, James told our neighbor that, "My Mom might have twins. Dat means two babies. She got one in her tummy and maybe one in her bum."
Thank you, James. Thank you so, so much.
Prior to this pregnancy, I wondered, on an almost daily basis, why so many larger-sized people seem to love to wear spandex pants. Now my friends, I completely understand. It's not about the love--it's comfortable, it fits, now shut your mouth and get out of my way or I'll eat you faster than a peanut butter cup.
That's why.
I think it's funny when strangers stop my on the street to say things like, "Look at you exercising! You're so cute!" I just keep plodding along and I'm like, "Cute? I'm not so cute, I'm so hungry. And so full of pee. But thank you. Have a nice day."
Last night, I had a very different reaction from a very strange stranger. She was moping along in the rain, smelling like booze, letting her puppy poop all over the middle of the sidewalk (my pet peeve beyond all pet peeves). As I approached her, I stepped off the sidewalk to run on the shoulder of the road--partly to be polite, and mostly to avoid a run in with the dog doo.
When we were almost shoulder to shoulder, I offered a casual smile and she offered me the following comment: "You're gonna shake your baby and give it brain damage from runnin' like that."
I was confused and honestly thought I'd heard wrong, so I stopped, removed my earbuds and said, "I'm sorry, what?"
"You're givin' your baby brain damage from that."
"From what," I snottily demanded.
"From running," she said.
"Oh my word," I replied back, "I didn't realize that. Are you an obstetrician," I asked?
"No."
"A pediatrician," I offered?
"No."
"A child development expert?"
"No," she replied.
"So I guess that means you're just super opinionated," I confirmed?
Silence.
"Geesh," I said, "You know? I'm not even pregnant. Show how much you know." (I threw it out there for dramatic effect)
She eyed me up and down, found that be very confusing, huffed, and kept on walking.
That line--the "I'm not even pregnant" line?--hasn't failed me yet, and honestly, I never expect that it will.
Today I'm feeling slightly to moderately guilt ridden for being such a sassy mouth to a total and complete stranger. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe she had just worked a double, dropped her paycheck in the mud, and had her hat stolen by an angry bird. I guess I'll never know.
I'm sorry random lady.
For the first time in my life I can honestly say that I've become a head turner--double takes, triple takes, eyes the size of dinner plates, I get them all.
And it's probably not because I'm hot.
I personally think it has a lot more to do with the fact that lately I've preferred to exercise in the broad daylight, in a bright yellow volunteer t-shirt, that somehow makes me look pregnant in my ass and in my tea kettle.
Couple that with my very shiny spandex pants, and folks, I've become the stuff that highly disturbing dreams are made of.
Just this past weekend, after my run, when I was still in my skin tight get up, James told our neighbor that, "My Mom might have twins. Dat means two babies. She got one in her tummy and maybe one in her bum."
Thank you, James. Thank you so, so much.
Prior to this pregnancy, I wondered, on an almost daily basis, why so many larger-sized people seem to love to wear spandex pants. Now my friends, I completely understand. It's not about the love--it's comfortable, it fits, now shut your mouth and get out of my way or I'll eat you faster than a peanut butter cup.
That's why.
I think it's funny when strangers stop my on the street to say things like, "Look at you exercising! You're so cute!" I just keep plodding along and I'm like, "Cute? I'm not so cute, I'm so hungry. And so full of pee. But thank you. Have a nice day."
Last night, I had a very different reaction from a very strange stranger. She was moping along in the rain, smelling like booze, letting her puppy poop all over the middle of the sidewalk (my pet peeve beyond all pet peeves). As I approached her, I stepped off the sidewalk to run on the shoulder of the road--partly to be polite, and mostly to avoid a run in with the dog doo.
When we were almost shoulder to shoulder, I offered a casual smile and she offered me the following comment: "You're gonna shake your baby and give it brain damage from runnin' like that."
I was confused and honestly thought I'd heard wrong, so I stopped, removed my earbuds and said, "I'm sorry, what?"
"You're givin' your baby brain damage from that."
"From what," I snottily demanded.
"From running," she said.
"Oh my word," I replied back, "I didn't realize that. Are you an obstetrician," I asked?
"No."
"A pediatrician," I offered?
"No."
"A child development expert?"
"No," she replied.
"So I guess that means you're just super opinionated," I confirmed?
Silence.
"Geesh," I said, "You know? I'm not even pregnant. Show how much you know." (I threw it out there for dramatic effect)
She eyed me up and down, found that be very confusing, huffed, and kept on walking.
That line--the "I'm not even pregnant" line?--hasn't failed me yet, and honestly, I never expect that it will.
Today I'm feeling slightly to moderately guilt ridden for being such a sassy mouth to a total and complete stranger. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe she had just worked a double, dropped her paycheck in the mud, and had her hat stolen by an angry bird. I guess I'll never know.
I'm sorry random lady.
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?
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)