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 love eternal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love eternal. 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.
Total and Complete Basketcase
August 6, 2009
(If you know me in real life, please refrain from discussing this situation over the phone, facebook, or across the dinner table. I'm serious. And yes, that even applies to my mother, my sister, and any other females who share my DNA.)
I don't know what the deal is, but I'm a big, fat, ball of nerves today. Last night I woke up to pee around 2 o'clock and watched the minutes tick by until 5:30, when I finally fell asleep again. I've got to say, that for those three and a half hours, my mind was filled with nothing but thoughts of my midwife moving to stinking West Virginia.
And that is precisely why my husband, who spent his morning with a naturopath, an acupuncturist, and an aromatherapist got the following text message this morning:
Well apparently he didn't get the text until all three of those hipped-up alternative care providers were puttering away in their Prius (carpooling, duh), and there will be no magical, herbal, calming potion for this girl tonight.
Perhaps a frying pan to the head will work just as well.
I'm not sure how it happened, but in my mind, I set myself up to need my midwife more that I probably really do. I had a plan A, B & C for how I wanted things to go, and somehow she ended up as the star player in each of those scenarios. Not me, not Jared, not the baby--but the midwife.
And really now, who is this about? Right. That would be me, Jared, and the baby--not the midwife.
I guess I feel extra reliant on her because I met her at a time when I was feeling super, super vulnerable. Pregnancy after a loss is a very scary thing (which is the understatement of the universe), and somehow she really helped me through the initial uncertainty of it all. She was kind of like my security blanket. With boobs.
On top of that, I had a c-section with James. And as easy as the recovery was, it's definitely not something I'm hoping to repeat. The good news is, as long as this little girl stays head down, it shouldn't be an issue. I went into labor with James on my own, I progressed really quickly, and if he hadn't have been in a transverse kind of lay, I'm sure the whole experience would have been smooth as silk. Silk that stabs you in the abdomen with a rusty knife over and over and over again, but you know, details details.
So yeah, I'm going for a VBAC--vaginal birth after cesarean (sorry guys, for using the V word on my blog)--and Jared and the midwife were in a dead tie as my number one fan. Now, for the time being, my only fan is Jared, and as much as I love the man, I know for a fact that he has no foam finger and he's very under experienced as a labor coach.
So now she's gone, I'm going to see a new midwife who I've never ever met, and I'm an absolute basketcase. Yes, I've had friends who've used this woman, and they all seem to place her on a pedestal next to Jesus, Moses, and Betty Crocker--but as far as I know, she's not on call 24/7. I could end up with someone else.
Me. Over here. Basketcase. Have I mentioned that yet?
I completely trust two out of the three physicians in this practice, so that's a good thing. This hospital is way over-the-top as far as natural birth and breastfeeding go (we're talking water births, doctors trained in hypnobirthing, very low c-section rate, no pacifiers allowed), so that's a great thing, too.
But that third physician? Yoinks.
I said to Jared, "If I end up with her, I swear I'll be the only documented case of a woman who got a c-section and an episiotomy for the very same labor. Just watch." He agreed.
So I'm all worked up.
And all of the sudden I feel completely ill-prepared for this upcoming labor and delivery. I mean really, why would I have needed any kind of refresher course when I had my magical midwife by my side?
So now I have nine weeks to turn Jared Lawson into something equally magical. Wish me luck.
Last night, after reading Dooce's labor & delivery story I was like, "Jared, all I'm asking is that you make me feel like a flowing lawn ornament in the palm of your almighty hand."
And he was all, "I have no idea how to do that, or even what you're taking about."
Men.
We've got a long way to go--a new midwife to meet, four-hundred-thirty-two podcasts to listen to, sixty-four books to read, sixteen cheers to learn, and oh yeah, I'm hoping to achieve the highly sought after state of nirvana. I've heard it's excellent.
If my head pops off, please don't act surprised.
(If you know me in real life, please refrain from discussing this situation over the phone, facebook, or across the dinner table. I'm serious. And yes, that even applies to my mother, my sister, and any other females who share my DNA.)
I don't know what the deal is, but I'm a big, fat, ball of nerves today. Last night I woke up to pee around 2 o'clock and watched the minutes tick by until 5:30, when I finally fell asleep again. I've got to say, that for those three and a half hours, my mind was filled with nothing but thoughts of my midwife moving to stinking West Virginia.
And that is precisely why my husband, who spent his morning with a naturopath, an acupuncturist, and an aromatherapist got the following text message this morning:
Can u get some kind of calming potion from the calmologist who
you're meeting with today? I'm not joking. I'm wound up so tight.
Well apparently he didn't get the text until all three of those hipped-up alternative care providers were puttering away in their Prius (carpooling, duh), and there will be no magical, herbal, calming potion for this girl tonight.
Perhaps a frying pan to the head will work just as well.
I'm not sure how it happened, but in my mind, I set myself up to need my midwife more that I probably really do. I had a plan A, B & C for how I wanted things to go, and somehow she ended up as the star player in each of those scenarios. Not me, not Jared, not the baby--but the midwife.
And really now, who is this about? Right. That would be me, Jared, and the baby--not the midwife.
I guess I feel extra reliant on her because I met her at a time when I was feeling super, super vulnerable. Pregnancy after a loss is a very scary thing (which is the understatement of the universe), and somehow she really helped me through the initial uncertainty of it all. She was kind of like my security blanket. With boobs.
On top of that, I had a c-section with James. And as easy as the recovery was, it's definitely not something I'm hoping to repeat. The good news is, as long as this little girl stays head down, it shouldn't be an issue. I went into labor with James on my own, I progressed really quickly, and if he hadn't have been in a transverse kind of lay, I'm sure the whole experience would have been smooth as silk. Silk that stabs you in the abdomen with a rusty knife over and over and over again, but you know, details details.
So yeah, I'm going for a VBAC--vaginal birth after cesarean (sorry guys, for using the V word on my blog)--and Jared and the midwife were in a dead tie as my number one fan. Now, for the time being, my only fan is Jared, and as much as I love the man, I know for a fact that he has no foam finger and he's very under experienced as a labor coach.
So now she's gone, I'm going to see a new midwife who I've never ever met, and I'm an absolute basketcase. Yes, I've had friends who've used this woman, and they all seem to place her on a pedestal next to Jesus, Moses, and Betty Crocker--but as far as I know, she's not on call 24/7. I could end up with someone else.
Me. Over here. Basketcase. Have I mentioned that yet?
I completely trust two out of the three physicians in this practice, so that's a good thing. This hospital is way over-the-top as far as natural birth and breastfeeding go (we're talking water births, doctors trained in hypnobirthing, very low c-section rate, no pacifiers allowed), so that's a great thing, too.
But that third physician? Yoinks.
I said to Jared, "If I end up with her, I swear I'll be the only documented case of a woman who got a c-section and an episiotomy for the very same labor. Just watch." He agreed.
So I'm all worked up.
And all of the sudden I feel completely ill-prepared for this upcoming labor and delivery. I mean really, why would I have needed any kind of refresher course when I had my magical midwife by my side?
So now I have nine weeks to turn Jared Lawson into something equally magical. Wish me luck.
Last night, after reading Dooce's labor & delivery story I was like, "Jared, all I'm asking is that you make me feel like a flowing lawn ornament in the palm of your almighty hand."
And he was all, "I have no idea how to do that, or even what you're taking about."
Men.
We've got a long way to go--a new midwife to meet, four-hundred-thirty-two podcasts to listen to, sixty-four books to read, sixteen cheers to learn, and oh yeah, I'm hoping to achieve the highly sought after state of nirvana. I've heard it's excellent.
If my head pops off, please don't act surprised.
Seven Years!
August 3, 2009
As of today, Jared and I have been married for seven years. Sometimes I like to say "seven long years" and other times I prefer to call it "seven years of wedded bliss," but any way you slice it, we're not newlyweds any more.
And thank goodness for that, because let me tell you, our first two years were filled with all sorts of super immature college-aged dramatics. All sorts. But now, after seven years of paying our dues to the grown-up world, I think we've finally got the hang of this matrimony thing.
Every year on August 3rd, Jared and I sit down at our kitchen table and take a look at the year that's passed. We talk about what we did well, and the areas where we could use a little bit (or a hell of a lot) of work. We talk about high points and low points, and what's on the agenda for the upcoming 365.
For the past six years I've left the table, sweating buckets, thinking something like, "Phew, we survived another year. Hope this one gets easier." Or "Oh my word, I think I need to hibernate." But this year, I've got to say that we've experienced a major shift.
If you know me in real life, or if you've been following this website for any length of time, you've probably picked up on two things: 1) Motherhood comes very, very naturally to me, and 2) Marriage is an entirely different story.
Some might call our relationship feisty. Others would say it's manic. And then there's our marriage counselor (love him), who back in the fall of '07 said, "Well you guys definitely never need to worry about falling into the habit of being content. Your marriage has a lot of energy."
Well said, Shawn. Well said. Lots of fights, lots of love. Wash, rinse, repeat.
But over the course of this last year, year six, something miraculous happened. And no, I'm not saying that facetiously.
Year six had some very high highs, and some even lower lows:
Jared opened his own chiropractic office where we've already experienced quick success, quick drop offs, and long spots of not-a-whole-lot-of-change. (that's a high, a low and everything in between)
For the first time in the history of our relationship, we're earning a legitimate grown-up income. (most definitely a high)
Last year, on September 22nd, we lost a baby boy when I was eighteen weeks along. (can't even begin to explain how low)
And now we're expecting a baby girl in October. (high, high, high)
But here's where the miracle comes in: We're still together. And on top of that, we've had the most peaceful year yet.
All of the sudden, life is clear for us. We recognize, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the things that matter. We know what's worth fighting for and what's worth fighting about. We also know what's not worth our time, and usually (usually) we successfully ignore those things.
Last October, when the only two acts I could muster were popping Ativan and muttering the phrase "I think I want to die" over and over and over again, Jared was the only one who knew how to take care of me. Jared was the only reason I was able to gather up the strength to stay away from the liquor store--and that is absolutely not a joke.
Last February, when I was convinced we should close Jared's practice, he was the one who was wise enough to say, "Shut up, Amy. I'm not having this conversation until 2010."
Last May, he knew enough to listen to me when I bossily said, "Call her, Jared! Call that woman!" And bless his soul, after he made the call, my husband said, "Thanks, Amy. You were right." You. Were. Right.--those my friends, are the very sweetest words that any wife can hear.
And now, almost a year later, when I can't help but cry in the middle of the kitchen on a random Tuesday night, Jared rubs my head and reminds me that if I'm still crying about our lost baby when I'm ninety years old, wrinkly, and stuck in a nursing home bed, that's okay. Some things are worth the tears.
(But not cellulite--the man has absolutely no patience when I sob about the back of my thighs.)
This time last year, if you had asked me about my philosophy on marriage, I would have said, "Marriage is really, really hard."
But this year, I'd say something different. If you were to knock on my door, stick a microphone in my face, and say, "Amy, the world wants to know, what's your philosophy on marriage?" I would respond, without a pause, by saying, "Life is really, really hard. Thank God I have my marriage."
Got that? Life is really, really hard. Thank God I have my marriage.
Thank God for giving me Jared (who would never dream of not bringing home a lovely bunch of flowers on a night like tonight).
We're definitely not perfect, and heaven knows we'll never pretend to be--but we do know how to take care of each other, and in my opinion, that's huge.
And so are flowers.
Seriously.
As of today, Jared and I have been married for seven years. Sometimes I like to say "seven long years" and other times I prefer to call it "seven years of wedded bliss," but any way you slice it, we're not newlyweds any more.
And thank goodness for that, because let me tell you, our first two years were filled with all sorts of super immature college-aged dramatics. All sorts. But now, after seven years of paying our dues to the grown-up world, I think we've finally got the hang of this matrimony thing.
Every year on August 3rd, Jared and I sit down at our kitchen table and take a look at the year that's passed. We talk about what we did well, and the areas where we could use a little bit (or a hell of a lot) of work. We talk about high points and low points, and what's on the agenda for the upcoming 365.
For the past six years I've left the table, sweating buckets, thinking something like, "Phew, we survived another year. Hope this one gets easier." Or "Oh my word, I think I need to hibernate." But this year, I've got to say that we've experienced a major shift.
If you know me in real life, or if you've been following this website for any length of time, you've probably picked up on two things: 1) Motherhood comes very, very naturally to me, and 2) Marriage is an entirely different story.
Some might call our relationship feisty. Others would say it's manic. And then there's our marriage counselor (love him), who back in the fall of '07 said, "Well you guys definitely never need to worry about falling into the habit of being content. Your marriage has a lot of energy."
Well said, Shawn. Well said. Lots of fights, lots of love. Wash, rinse, repeat.
But over the course of this last year, year six, something miraculous happened. And no, I'm not saying that facetiously.
Year six had some very high highs, and some even lower lows:
Jared opened his own chiropractic office where we've already experienced quick success, quick drop offs, and long spots of not-a-whole-lot-of-change. (that's a high, a low and everything in between)
For the first time in the history of our relationship, we're earning a legitimate grown-up income. (most definitely a high)
Last year, on September 22nd, we lost a baby boy when I was eighteen weeks along. (can't even begin to explain how low)
And now we're expecting a baby girl in October. (high, high, high)
But here's where the miracle comes in: We're still together. And on top of that, we've had the most peaceful year yet.
All of the sudden, life is clear for us. We recognize, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the things that matter. We know what's worth fighting for and what's worth fighting about. We also know what's not worth our time, and usually (usually) we successfully ignore those things.
Last October, when the only two acts I could muster were popping Ativan and muttering the phrase "I think I want to die" over and over and over again, Jared was the only one who knew how to take care of me. Jared was the only reason I was able to gather up the strength to stay away from the liquor store--and that is absolutely not a joke.
Last February, when I was convinced we should close Jared's practice, he was the one who was wise enough to say, "Shut up, Amy. I'm not having this conversation until 2010."
Last May, he knew enough to listen to me when I bossily said, "Call her, Jared! Call that woman!" And bless his soul, after he made the call, my husband said, "Thanks, Amy. You were right." You. Were. Right.--those my friends, are the very sweetest words that any wife can hear.
And now, almost a year later, when I can't help but cry in the middle of the kitchen on a random Tuesday night, Jared rubs my head and reminds me that if I'm still crying about our lost baby when I'm ninety years old, wrinkly, and stuck in a nursing home bed, that's okay. Some things are worth the tears.
(But not cellulite--the man has absolutely no patience when I sob about the back of my thighs.)
This time last year, if you had asked me about my philosophy on marriage, I would have said, "Marriage is really, really hard."
But this year, I'd say something different. If you were to knock on my door, stick a microphone in my face, and say, "Amy, the world wants to know, what's your philosophy on marriage?" I would respond, without a pause, by saying, "Life is really, really hard. Thank God I have my marriage."
Got that? Life is really, really hard. Thank God I have my marriage.
Thank God for giving me Jared (who would never dream of not bringing home a lovely bunch of flowers on a night like tonight).
We're definitely not perfect, and heaven knows we'll never pretend to be--but we do know how to take care of each other, and in my opinion, that's huge.
And so are flowers.
Seriously.
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.
Sense of Smell
July 18, 2009
I'm not sure about the science behind this, but now that I'm in my third trimester, everything smells.
My dog's breath smells just like a swiss cheese and salami sandwich on rye--even though those foods are clearly not a part of her therapeutic canine IBS diet. My kid's head smells exactly like spicy Thai peanut sauce--not his breath mind you, but his head. His four-year-old body on the other hand? Now that smells like sweat and Ju-Ju-Bees dipped in 2% milk.
And then there's my husband. Who just smells bad.
I haven't been able to pinpoint exactly what his smell is, or precisely where it's coming from--the only thing I know for sure is that it's very pungent and it travels in waves. Sometimes I swear it comes from his mouth, other times I'd bet money that it's anal in origin. And then, just when I'm about to ask him if he farted clear up into my nose while I was distracted by Days of Our Lives, the smell seems to shift, and waft from his feet.
Sometimes it's spicy, other times it's sugary, but most of the time it's plain old defecation-y. And my heavens, I can hardly handle this type of uncertainty at a sensitive time like this. I should be worrying about Twinkies and Ho-Hos--not the fact that the people in my house all smell like chocolate covered hot dogs on a stick.
Last night, when Jared came home from work, he cracked open the mudroom door and yelled, "Hey Hon, I'm home!" James immediately left his Pinocchio movie in the dust (Side Note: Did you know that kids drink and smoke and say "jackass" in that movie? If that sounds interesting to you, it's available for rent at your local library.) and barreled to meet his Dad Almighty at the door.
Now I, on the other hand, stayed on the couch, gave a sniff or two and said, "Hi Jared! Have you been eating Doritos?"
He was like, "I ate Doritos three days ago with my lunch."
"Well you still smell like them. Can you jump in the shower before you come in here and hug me?"
And he was all, "No Amy. I've had three showers, mowed the lawn, and swam across the lake since I ate those Doritos. A shower won't help."
"Well were there any Doritos floating in the lake, Jared? I'm pretty sure you're contaminated."
And so on and so forth.
Now I know what you're all thinking--"Well Amy, what exactly do you smell like these days?" I'm gonna be completely honest with you right now--I smell like baby powder and lilac deodorant. This is no lie.
I know.
According to Jared I smell more like body odor and hair gel.
I have no idea where that man gets these things from.
I'm not sure about the science behind this, but now that I'm in my third trimester, everything smells.
My dog's breath smells just like a swiss cheese and salami sandwich on rye--even though those foods are clearly not a part of her therapeutic canine IBS diet. My kid's head smells exactly like spicy Thai peanut sauce--not his breath mind you, but his head. His four-year-old body on the other hand? Now that smells like sweat and Ju-Ju-Bees dipped in 2% milk.
And then there's my husband. Who just smells bad.
I haven't been able to pinpoint exactly what his smell is, or precisely where it's coming from--the only thing I know for sure is that it's very pungent and it travels in waves. Sometimes I swear it comes from his mouth, other times I'd bet money that it's anal in origin. And then, just when I'm about to ask him if he farted clear up into my nose while I was distracted by Days of Our Lives, the smell seems to shift, and waft from his feet.
Sometimes it's spicy, other times it's sugary, but most of the time it's plain old defecation-y. And my heavens, I can hardly handle this type of uncertainty at a sensitive time like this. I should be worrying about Twinkies and Ho-Hos--not the fact that the people in my house all smell like chocolate covered hot dogs on a stick.
Last night, when Jared came home from work, he cracked open the mudroom door and yelled, "Hey Hon, I'm home!" James immediately left his Pinocchio movie in the dust (Side Note: Did you know that kids drink and smoke and say "jackass" in that movie? If that sounds interesting to you, it's available for rent at your local library.) and barreled to meet his Dad Almighty at the door.
Now I, on the other hand, stayed on the couch, gave a sniff or two and said, "Hi Jared! Have you been eating Doritos?"
He was like, "I ate Doritos three days ago with my lunch."
"Well you still smell like them. Can you jump in the shower before you come in here and hug me?"
And he was all, "No Amy. I've had three showers, mowed the lawn, and swam across the lake since I ate those Doritos. A shower won't help."
"Well were there any Doritos floating in the lake, Jared? I'm pretty sure you're contaminated."
And so on and so forth.
Now I know what you're all thinking--"Well Amy, what exactly do you smell like these days?" I'm gonna be completely honest with you right now--I smell like baby powder and lilac deodorant. This is no lie.
I know.
According to Jared I smell more like body odor and hair gel.
I have no idea where that man gets these things from.
Jared and the Hairy Eyeball
June 18, 2009(photo courtesy of James)
If you've ever met my husband in person, you know full well that he has some of the largest eyes in the history of all mankind. If his head weighs approximately eight pounds (which according to Google, it does), then I'd have to estimate that his eyeballs alone account for forty-eight ounces of that mass.
What you might not know is that Jared possesses the unique and deplorable ability to throw some incredibly hairy eyeballs with those suckers.
Seriously, if there was some sort of a local hairy eyeball competition in our region, I'd sign Jared up in a heartbeat. You know, I might even spend the prize money before he won it--that's how confident I am in his ability to dominate such an event.
I don't know why, but this morning my husband was in a particularly sensitive mood. Jared's famous expressions were being thrown around like candy from a parade float, and finally, when he had tossed out one too many 'I wonder how far I could toss you' looks, I was like, "USE YOUR WORDS, MAN! USE YOUR WORDS!"
Far be it from me to leave you starving for any details of our personal, marital business--so, without further ado, here is a three act play to recaps a few of this morning's fine interactions:
Jared and the Hairy Eyeball
by Amy B. Lawson
ACT I
Setting: 5:30am, in bed.
AMY: Good morning, Jared!
JARED: Marrying you was the worst mistake I have ever made in my life. You, Amy Lawson, are my Everest. [said silently with his eyes]
ACT II
Setting: Jared is taking a shower while Amy is brushing her teeth.
AMY: I need to get some cash so I can pay the babysitter today.
JARED: Why are you getting a babysitter again?
AMY: So I can go to an afternoon meeting.
JARED: How much do you pay her, anyway?
AMY: I pay her $6.50 an hour...half of her age.
JARED: [craning his neck from behind the shower curtain like an angry turtle in heat] That peasant deserves no more than a package of Ramen Noodles and the change in my back pocket! [said silently with his eyes]
AMY: That's what I pay her, Jared. You have to deal with it.
JARED: I wonder where I can bury you in our yard. [said silently with his eyes]
ACT III
Setting: Amy is handing Jared his lunch in the kitchen.
JARED: Did you pack leftover pasta for my lunch?
AMY: Yup.
JARED: You know I don't have a microwave in my office, Amy.
AMY: So eat it cold. I promise that you won't die from unhappiness.
JARED: My spirit died from unhappiness the moment I said 'I do.' [said silently with his eyes]
--The End--
I hope you enjoyed my play. If the three act version is an off-Broadway hit, I'm hoping for an offer to produce the eighteen-act version. Trust me, I have more than enough material. And it's all from this morning.
A Gentle Reminder for Jared
June 12, 2009Happy Friday, everyone! It's been a pretty good week up here in our neck of the woods, but I can't lie, I'm still glad it's over. I'm tired these days, and kind of achy, too.
Every time I refer to the dull soreness in my back or my pelvis or my tail bone, my husband politely tells me to make an appointment and come down to his office, he can fit me in at 3 o'clock. I'm like, "Seriously Jared? I need to drive all the way to your office?! Can't you just make this go away over the phone with a handful of pixie dust and three snaps up?"
He's like, "No."
And I'm all, "Do you know how much we paid for your schooling?"
And typically, that's his cue to go fishing--where the woods are free of women and the animals don't talk.
Even though I only work part-time, and I sit on my can while I'm doing it, there's something about holding down a job, living on a $200-a-month grocery budget, being pregnant, and constantly negotiating with a 4-year-old that takes it right out of me.
If you don't believe me, you should see my house.
For selfish reasons alone, I'm still cooking and baking like a champ. But for another set of selfish reasons, I've completely given up all chores that involve squatting, bending, or lifting in any capacity.
Really, you should see my house.
Jared, bless his heart, couldn't seem to care less. Three times a week he comes home from an eleven hour day and when I hear the door open, I yell to him from my couch. I'm like, "Hi Jared! I love you! Try not to step in the gum on the dining room floor! And I'm sorry about that banana!"
And do you know what he does? Seriously, do you know how this man reacts??? He ignores the mess, asks me how my day was, and tells me I look beautiful.
So blessed. So so blessed. On a typical night my heart swells, I shake my head in disbelief, and I'm like, "Jared? Why are you so good to me?"
And he's all, "Because you're the only woman on this entire planet who I'm allowed to do it with. I really have to stay on your good side."
If nothing else he's honest. And the man's got a point, a completely valid point.
Very recently, Jared started working out of a second location which happens to be right across the street from a knock-your-socks off whoopie pie bakery. These particular whoopie pies were featured on Oprah's famous "Favorite Things" episode, and let me tell you, that's right where they belong.
In case you're not from around here, and unfamiliar with whoopie pies, allow me to explain: They're kind of like an Oreo, but they're made out of cake, they're the size of my [really big] head, and the filling is made out of little bits of saturated heaven cloud. They pack somewhere in the neighborhood of 1,000 calories a piece, and I love them.
They come in red velvet, and peanut butter chocolate, and original, and raspberry--and seriously, I love them. Can you tell?
Jared, bless his heart again, has yet to bring one of those big ol' beauties home for me.
So today honey, if you're reading this, I'd like to issue a gentle reminder that you are right--I am in fact the only women on this entire planet that you're allowed to get it on with.
Happy weekend, everyone!
Colorful New Neighbors
June 10, 2009Anytime you go into business for yourself, there are risks. They range from small things like choosing the wrong paint color, to the big things like losing cash, assets, your house, your credit score, your shirt--you know, the stuff you can't take to heaven with you anyway.
On the other hand, when you go into business for yourself, there are some pretty serious benefits, too. For example, it's 100% guaranteed that you'll never be laid off, no one ever has to approve your vacation plans, and there's absolutely no question as to whether or not you'll be able to attend your son's school presentation at 2:15 on a Tuesday--and that memory, the one of my kid spelling the word barn with the letters F-A-R-T, that's sure to carry over into the afterlife.
Ups and downs, goods and bads-- it's just like everything else in life.
This week, Jared and I have been faced with a bump, a down, a trial, a poopastic hand of cards--call it what you will. But, bu-ut, I'm bound and determined to be a good sport, make the very best of this situation, and work it in our favor.
When we leased Jared's office space, he was sandwiched between two upscale hair salons and adjacent to the funkiest restaurant in town. Excellent. He was across the street from an eye doctor, who's next door to a wine & gift shop, who's next door to a pizza shop. Also excellent.
We knew we were taking a risk, moving into a downtown area that wasn't completely thriving, but definitely on the upswing. "Let's be part of the solution," we thought, "let's do it." So we signed the lease, hung our shingle, and commenced with the cracking of backs.
After we moved in and starting giving driving directions to Jared's patients over the phone, we learned something new--we weren't renting the old Greyhound Bus building like we'd previously thought, we were actually inhabiting the former space of an adult book store. According to his baby-boomer patient base, it was "the best damn dirty bookshop this city's ever seen."
The word on the street tells us that it's also been a shoe store and a computer training center. Anyway you slice it, thank goodness we ripped out the carpeting. Anywho, we love our former XXX book store location. The renovations are beyond beautiful and so far, it's serving us quite well.
But here comes the challenge...
About a month ago, the hair salon to the right of Jared's office up and left for new rental space. Fair enough, but I was bummed. After all, they were fantastic haircutters and really fun neighbors for Jared--but most of all, that FOR LEASE sign was freaking me out big time.
Deep in my heart I was hoping to see a candy shop or a high-powered personal injury attorney move in next door, but, as with most things in life (including my bowels and bladder), this situation was totally and completely out of my control.
Welp, yesterday afternoon, Jared had the pleasure (no seriously, he says that they were super, super nice) of meeting the two young men who will be opening their business right next door. Their names are Something and Something Else (Jared sucks with names), and they're tattoo artists.
When Jared called to tell me, I was like, "WHHHAAATTTT!!!!????" Then, after I had a chance to catch my breath and sop the urine off my kitchen floor, our conversation went something like this...
JARED: I swear Amy, they seem like great guys.
ME: Great guys who are naming their tattoo parlor 'Discount Scrotum Art' or great guys who are naming their tattoo parlor 'Main Street Ink?'
JARED: I don't know, I didn't ask.
JARED: I don't know, I didn't ask.
ME: Well there's a big difference between those names Jared.
JARED: Right now the contractor is painting the walls bright red. But don't worry, it's not an evil red.
ME: Red? Oh geesh! What's their sign look like? Are we talking a spray-painted boob on a hunk of plywood, Jared?
JARED: I don't know, it's not up yet.
ME: Did they learn how to tattoo while incarcerated?
JARED: Okay, that's enough.
And the conversation went on for about sixty-two more minutes.
So, I've slept on it, and I'm feeling a whole lot better this morning. Tattoos schmattoos--as long as it's not a dive, this whole situation should be fine. And based on the not-cheap rent they're probably paying, and super-cheap rent they could have gotten one block away, I think it's safe to assume that these are upscale tattoos--no Bic pens involved.
With that said, I have made a list. It's my list of great things about working next to a tattoo shop.
1. I like tattoos.
2. I love Kat Von D.
3. Maybe they'll make this place into another tv show.
4. Perhaps tattoo artists have terrible backs and excellent insurance coverage.
5. I think that tattoo artists and clean-cut Mormon chiropractors are a virtual match made in heaven as far as friendship goes.
6. Maybe these guys have fantastic wives who will want to be my friends.
7. I bet they're fun.
8. Maybe I'll have them pierce my nose.
9. I need some spice in my life.
10. Increased traffic is never a bad thing, right?
Go ahead, give me an 11, 12, 13, and 14 in the comment section. Please. Please?
Thank you.
...and this officially concludes the hundreth post in my ongoing series of negitive-nelly musings. Tomorrow? Unabashed happieness-- I guarentee it.
Weekend Plans
May 29, 2009
First, if you really, truly care about choosing an internet alias for Baby Girl Lawson, then you should strongly consider voting on the issue. At last glance Velveeta and Lawlet were within two votes of one another. Very suspenseful. I'm also quite sure that there's no limit to the number of times you're able to vote in a day--so go ahead, tip the scales, it'll be fun.
Second, I've been at my office since six o'friggin clock this morning, and I'm leaving the second this clock strikes ten. I mean it.
And finally, ay yi yi, what a week it's been. I'm so glad it's Friday.
So. Glad. It's Friday.
Since my week officially sucked butt (are Mormons even allowed to say 'sucked butt'?), I'm bound and determined to make this weekend the very best weekend in the history of my life. I've yet to develop a single strategy or activity to accomplish that goal, but really guys, I'm gonna do it.
Well, actually, I take that back. I'm quite sure that my weekend will involve onion rings in some capacity, but aside from those little beauties, and a birthday party on the coast, I'm working with a completely blank slate.
And now that I think about it, Jared has been asked to give a talk to the congregation at church on Sunday, too. But honestly, that's cool.
In all sincerity, I look forward to the rare opportunity to heckle my husband from the pews of our little chapel. For example, when he makes a scriptures reference, I like to purse my lips, sorrily shake my head and mouth the words THAT WAS TOTALLY WRONG.
Or sometimes, when I'm in the right mood, I like to grab his attention with my eyes and hold up four fingers, then three, then four. You should see his face--he's got this totally desperate expression and I know he's thinking, "Why can't I crack this code right now???? It really seems important!!!!"
And obviously, it goes without saying, that when Jared makes a joke I keep the straightest face that I possibly can. I wish you could be there, because that man's confidence drains faster than a jug of kool-aid through through the crotch of my underpants. It's remarkable.
Heck guys, Sunday's looking pretty darn good as an addition to my quest for the perfect weekend...which leads me to wonder, does anyone out there have really, unbelievably, over-the-top fantastic plans for this weekend? If so, I'd definitely like to hear about them (so I can curse you under my breath).
I'd like to hear about sucky upcoming weekends, too.
Either way, I hope you all have an enjoyable one.
First, if you really, truly care about choosing an internet alias for Baby Girl Lawson, then you should strongly consider voting on the issue. At last glance Velveeta and Lawlet were within two votes of one another. Very suspenseful. I'm also quite sure that there's no limit to the number of times you're able to vote in a day--so go ahead, tip the scales, it'll be fun.
Second, I've been at my office since six o'friggin clock this morning, and I'm leaving the second this clock strikes ten. I mean it.
And finally, ay yi yi, what a week it's been. I'm so glad it's Friday.
So. Glad. It's Friday.
Since my week officially sucked butt (are Mormons even allowed to say 'sucked butt'?), I'm bound and determined to make this weekend the very best weekend in the history of my life. I've yet to develop a single strategy or activity to accomplish that goal, but really guys, I'm gonna do it.
Well, actually, I take that back. I'm quite sure that my weekend will involve onion rings in some capacity, but aside from those little beauties, and a birthday party on the coast, I'm working with a completely blank slate.
And now that I think about it, Jared has been asked to give a talk to the congregation at church on Sunday, too. But honestly, that's cool.
In all sincerity, I look forward to the rare opportunity to heckle my husband from the pews of our little chapel. For example, when he makes a scriptures reference, I like to purse my lips, sorrily shake my head and mouth the words THAT WAS TOTALLY WRONG.
Or sometimes, when I'm in the right mood, I like to grab his attention with my eyes and hold up four fingers, then three, then four. You should see his face--he's got this totally desperate expression and I know he's thinking, "Why can't I crack this code right now???? It really seems important!!!!"
And obviously, it goes without saying, that when Jared makes a joke I keep the straightest face that I possibly can. I wish you could be there, because that man's confidence drains faster than a jug of kool-aid through through the crotch of my underpants. It's remarkable.
Heck guys, Sunday's looking pretty darn good as an addition to my quest for the perfect weekend...which leads me to wonder, does anyone out there have really, unbelievably, over-the-top fantastic plans for this weekend? If so, I'd definitely like to hear about them (so I can curse you under my breath).
I'd like to hear about sucky upcoming weekends, too.
Either way, I hope you all have an enjoyable one.
The 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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