Shhhh....Don't Tell Jared it's Not a Man Room

November 8, 2008

I must be proud of this room re-do, because it took me about forty-million minutes to upload one zillion pictures that only three people in the universe will be interested in seeing--my mom, my dad, and my sister.

So here you go family!

This is a picture of what our den looked like when we saw the house for the very first time. I was like, "Yikes. That La-Z-Boy looks just like the crack of my ass." The real estate agent was all, "Sure does." **Joolee--that was for you**

This room obviously belonged to a man. As it turns out, a man who did a remarkable job masking the deathly odor of cat urine for our walk through. One trip to the dump, three cans of shellac, and one new floor later, the smell is entirely gone.

So those were the before pictures, and these are the afters. Please please please don't tell Jared that it's not a man room. He thinks the walls are blue. I think he's color blind.

If you squint really hard and cock your head to just the right angle, you can see our new floors. They're dark, wide, wood laminate, and I think they look like a million bucks--not the $1.99 per square foot that we paid.

That's my Grandma's desk sporting a new coat of light green paint that was leftover from our kitchen walls. And get this, that's the kitchen chair I grew up throwing tantrums in. Amazing what a $3 can of barn red spray paint'll do, huh?

Oh, and I usually shy away from the cutesy effect with all my might, but I found these buttons in my Grandma's sewing table and really wanted to showcase them. Next thing you know, I'll be snapping pictures of baby cats and tacking them up all over my bathroom. Cute is a slippery slope, my friends--a very slippery slope.

So--I really like the way the curtains turned out. From a distance, they're a greenish/creamish kind of color, but up close they have this cute little swirly pattern that will probably be out of style by the spring. And dude, I totally made those curtains. Feel free to leave excessive, gushing compliments in the comment section.

Here's the rocking chair pad I talked about a few posts ago. I ordered an extra yard of fabric and made the removable foot-rest cover to match. Again, please go heavy on the compliments. And see those flowers? Sometimes Jared's not so bad after all!

I ordered these watercolors from this Etsy shop. This one is the cherry tree, and the $2 WalMart frame really isn't worthy of showcasing it. I get zillions of compliments on these prints, and whenever I do, I say "Thanks, I painted those myself." Then I turn in the other direction and whisper, "I'm such a freaking liar!"

This is the apple tree print. I wasn't lying--those frames really do blow goat.

As you can see, we're running a little low in the furniture department. Eventually I'll put an overstuffed reading chair in that corner, even though I don't read. But in the mean time I've gone with the road bike on a stationary stand. It makes me look hardcore, even though I'm nothing more than a lazy-ass in disguise. And, in true Amy fashion, the exercise equipment is set up right next to a print of a giant chocolate cake.

I like to use that closet door to showcase James's latest piece of artwork--as long as it matches the rooms and isn't totally ugly. See? I really am an excellent mother.

Here is a close up of James's latest creation. It's entitled "Scary Monster Eating a Scary Flower," and according to the artist it depicts a scary monster eating a scary flower.

Here is my cake picture. I bought it at TJ Maxx for $24.99 and consider it my 'big splurge' for the room. I'm totally classy like that.

And here is a picture of our new light fixture. I know it doesn't look like anything fancy, but when you weigh it against the 1964 replica-of-a-breast light that we used to have, it's really very nice.

See?

Hope you like it, Mom! And thanks for painting the trim, Dad! I love you guys!

Tagged

November 6, 2008

I've been tagged.

10 years ago:
1. I was at Virginia Tech on an athletic scholarship. We were sponsored by Adidas, and I returned all of the shoes they gave me for cash. They were ugly, what else was I supposed to do?
2. I was dating a guy whose last name was Smirnoff. I really didn't like him, and I'm pretty sure the feeling was mutual.
3. I adopted an Iguana and named him Holiday. He now lives with my cousin in Florida, and from what I hear he's about four feet long.
4. I had a really stupid haircut.
5. I lived right next door to the school's heavy-weight wrestler. He was absolutely ginormous and smelled like an anus.

Five things on my To-Do List today:
1. Grocery shop. Jared was upset about the can of soup I packed in his lunch today. I don't blame him. It was cream of mushroom, he has no microwave in his office, and I failed to throw a can opener into the bag.
2. Buy some fabric to make curtains for the den. I've said it once and I'll say it again--I'm so domestic it hurts.
3. Think about going for a run, but fail to do so on account of my laziness.
4. Complain about my weight.
5. Clean out my email inbox.

Five things that I would do if I were a millionaire:
1. Pay off our student loans.
2. Pay for our house.
3. Buy my husband a bird dog.
4. Plan a family trip to Disney World.
5. Send Jared and his bird dog on a hunting trip to Alaska.
(I take my imaginary millionaire responsibilities very seriously.)

5 Places I have lived:
1. West Hartford, Connecticut--born and raised. Where everyone plays an instrument (very well), where everyone is the state champion of something, and where every teenager thinks a yearly tuition bill of $40,000 is pretty darn normal.
2. Old Town, Maine. I've heard the paper milled closed down and the town no longer smells like turnips dipped in poo. Definitely a step in the right direction.
3. Dallas, Texas. It was always 110 degrees and we'd hear gunshots almost every night. Jared was like, "Amy, put the gun away."
4. San Diego, California. This is a lie.
5. No where else terribly interesting.

5 Jobs I've had:
1. Jelly donut filler. This was my first job.
2. Sandwich maker. This is the job that made me want to cut my own finger off, just so I could go home.
3. Babysitter with a masters degree. No seriously, my first job after grad school was as a nanny.
4. Affordable Housing Specialist. We had to move because we couldn't afford to pay for housing. Seriously, it's true. (Hi Richard--I miss you!)
5. Wife and Mother extraordinaire. Emphasis on extraordinaire.

Have a good day everyone!

Inside My Head. Inside My Heart.

November 5, 2008

Dear Diary,

I'm just so sick of these days.

The days where I show up to work one part frazzled (from wrestling an unwilling three-year-old into a pair of mittens), one part stressed (because of tonight's 6 o'clock deadline), and one part sad (because that's just the way I am these days).

It's the sad part that's really getting to me.

You see, I can handle the frazzled part with a few timeouts and a couple deep breaths. I can handle the stressed part with a well crafted to-do list and my ringer switched to 'off.' But the sad part? There's really no way of escaping it. The best I can do is close my office door, wedge myself into the teeny little nook between my desk and the wall, and let myself cry.

Sometimes I turn the radio up so the woman across the hall isn't able to hear me. Sometimes I don't. It comes on so fast, and I really don't care who has to witness my whimpers any more.

I'm usually okay. You know, I'm able to return a few phone calls and I'm able to throw together a half-decent presentation for a morning meeting. But sometimes--oh sometimes--the craziest little nothings can throw me into an emotional tailspin.

Like that stupid #$%^ing printer jam--how that little frustration turned into an impromptu cry fest for the baby, I'll never understand.

I guess I'm a little lonely. It kind of feels like the rest of the world has moved on (as they absolutely should). But here I am, left behind in a creepy, dusty ghost town with nothing to do but listen to the echoing squeaks as I spin myself around and around on an empty bar stool--and occasionally shout obscenities into the air as I squash the tumbleweeds with the bottom of my boots.

I can see the road. I can see for miles in every direction. I just can't figure out how to do anything with all those options.

And then I remember that I'm not any cowboy. I'm just a 27 year-old girl who's wiping my own snot with the sleeve of my favorite hooded sweatshirt--who likes to make mix CDs with titles like "Blah Day Mix" and "For When I'm Feeling Down" and "Sometimes Life Sucks."

Good heavens, it's like I'm turning into a depressed teenager again. If you happen to see me shuffling around in Goth style clothes while listening to Nirvana, please, by all means, call my mother to discuss your concerns.

I guess this is the point where I need to learn to take people's advice, and just be patient with myself and my feelings.

So what if the sun rising over the lake doesn't bring to mind loveliness, and peace, and God's greatness? So what if the changing leaves don't inspire me to ponder the beauty in death? So what if the only things that make me laugh these days are Jared, James, Sesame Street and The Office?

SO-THE-FREAK-WHAT?

This is where I'm at. And I truly believe that the more I can feel it, the more I can talk about it, the more I can just deal with it, the shorter my stay will be in this lonely, abandoned place.

I'll take my time, but you can bet your ass that I will not wallow. I will not tarry.

I'd rather take my time and find my way to a normal place, than spend way too long trying to admire the wreckage through a set of rose colored glasses. Besides, I don't even own a pair.

And you know? This lonely place? I'm guessing that it will always be there--unfortunately, no one has the power to bull-doze it. Even after I've moved away, I'm sure I'll be forced to take the unexpected weekend trip, or just swing by for a minute or two.

And that's okay. That's life.

In closing, I'd like to thank every one who has taken care of me during this last month and a half. Thank you for reading my blog and thank you for each of your kind acts. Thank you for sending too much email for me to answer, and thank you for allowing me to experience this grief in a very public setting. I know it's a sharp turn from my normal daily dribble, but somehow, I find it to be very therapeutic.

Love,

Amy

(That picture up there is all over the internet, so I really don't know who to credit it to. But damn, that is one hell of a tumbleweed.)

To Hell in a Handbasket....

November 5, 2008

No, no. I'm just kidding. Seriously, that was a joke. And I don't care who you are, Ronald and Nancy seemed like such a nice couple, didn't they?

I've been careful not to reveal my political preference on this blog, but today I'll let you in on a little secret: I'm a registered Independent.

And it's not because I'm an indecisive weenie. If you want to know the whole truth, I feel uncomfortable affiliating myself with any group or party that almost never functions in accordance with its ideals--government, social, religious or otherwise. Again, that was not a slam--it's just the truth.

So I'm an independent--who leans a certain way.

Honestly, I have no idea why my feelings on global warming should be directly connected to the way I feel about abortion or the war. And seriously now, how is gay marriage related to the financial policy? It makes no sense to me, and I just don't feel like adjusting any of my views to lay nicely against a set of party lines, ya know?

So you want to know who I voted for? Well, tough luck. But I will say this: I have a great deal of hope in Barack Obama. I think he's a good man, who's brave enough to want to lead this nation, and I have a feeling that he kicked my trash on the SATs. I owe him nothing but my respect and support, and you bet your bottom dollar that I'll keep hoping for the best.

I would also like to discuss the fact that Obama is the hottest President we'll have since JFK. Barack is totally smokin', he looks like a million bucks in an expensive pair of trousers, and if I had to wager a guess--I bet he wears some nice cologne.

I'm thrilled to have a President who appears to work out, and sincerely hope that he uses his authority to change the traditional American handshake into the traditional American ass-slap. And then I hope I get to meet him.

Seriously folks, you could bounce a quarter off of that backside. I've played in over and over and over in my imagination, and it works every single time.

I'll miss the McCain/Palin duo, seriously, and wish them nothing but the best. I hope Palin has all the time in the world to snuggle her little baby and her soon-to-be grandbaby. I also hope she'll work hard to maintain her zillion percent approval rating in Alaska--because that's pretty extraordinary. I think I have a six percent approval rating in my job.

And McCain? Well, I just hope the man retires, buys a helluva nice place on the ocean, and drinks liquor out of coconuts. He's an honorable man who's served our nation in the ways that count, and back in the day, he had quite the set of buns as well.

Election Day

November 4, 2008

I love election day. In fact, I love election day so much that I sincerely wish I could make out with it. If only there was a way....

There's just something about the lines, and the booths, and the decrepit old people collecting my ballot that makes me want to raise myself up a flagpole and belt out a couple of patriotic songs. Again, if only there was a way....

And not to mention how much I love writing in "Jared Lawson" as my candidate of choice for the United States Senate. Whenever I have a difficult time deciding between the mainstream candidates, I usually cast my vote in favor of my husband. What can I say? He's smart, he's sassy, and he photographs beautifully.

I also love petitions--and with the exception of something truly insane, like supporting a parent's right to tattoo a little baby's face, I'll support almost anything going on the ballot.

...You think it should be legal to ride two large turkeys to work? I can respect that. Let's take it to a vote. Where do I sign?

Like today for example--as I was leaving the Town Office, I was intercepted by a young man who was shabbily dressed in jeans and a ball cap that wafted the strong and distinct smell of marijuana. He staggered into my path and was like, "Excuuuuuse me ma'aaaaaaam. Can you sign my petition? Please? It's for medical marijuana."

And I was all, "It's just to get the question on the ballot, right? Signing this doesn't say I support medical marijuana, does it? Wait. Did we go to college together?"

I was right, signing my name simply expressed my desire to move the question this time next year. Fair enough. So I signed. Probably not the most Mormon thing to do. (Because everyone knows we prefer to mix pain pills with anti-depressants--and that my friends, is already legal.)

Just as I picked up the pen and began to sign--I shiz you not--my elderly neighbor walked by, and--wait for it--an older woman from church walked by. Excellent. Ex. cell. ent. I think they both gave me the hairy-eyeball.

That's how it works in tiny towns--lots of hairy eyeballs.

Just so you know, I have absolutely no opinion about medical marijuana. As long as sick people don't win the right to eat my cheezy-doodles without permission, I'll gladly stay out of the issue.

So Happy Election Day, everyone! Just remember: you can write-in my husband if you're undecided, be sure to look over your shoulder before you sign anything, and GO VOTE!--you'll totally lose your right to complain if you don't.