Inked

November 12, 2008

Um. Wow.

I'm happy to announce that my writer's block seems to have been cured. Your ideas are beyond fabulous, so please keep 'em coming. Somewhere, in the middle of your sea of requests, one particular comment hit me like a wad of spit in the eye. It comes from Katherine B, my exceptionally well dressed Texas friend, and it reads:

I thoroughly enjoyed hearing about your tattoos, what they were and what they are now. I don't think I ever heard you tell it though, I think I heard about them from Sarah.

Is nothing sacred? Do I have no secrets? Do you already know that Jared scrubbed the crack of his ass with my awesome new toothbrush last night?

It's true, he did. It's also true that I question the sanctity of our marriage on an hourly basis--but I suppose that's a good post topic to be used on another day. So, without further ado, here is the story behind my tiny little tattoos (yes, that's meant to be plural)....

As a side note, this post should also provide the answer to a question that many, many readers have asked: Amy, were you raised Mormon?

***

schumck (noun): any human being who gets one or more tattoos on their eighteenth birthday.

I am a schmuck.

On the morning of my eighteenth birthday, my roommate shook me awake and said, "Hey! You're finally legal! Wanna get a tattoo?"

I sat up in my bunk bed, squinted at Ali with some very sleepy eyes and nodded as I heard myself say, "Yeah. Okay."

One hour later we were in her beaten up Honda, headed to the only tattoo place we could find that didn't require reservations. It was in Radford, Virginia--and my oh my, that is one very sketchy town. I could go on and on about the six hour wait, the tattoo artist who was blind in one eye, or the dirtiest Hardee's restaurant on the face of the Earth--but it's never much fun to get bogged down in the details.

I will tell you this--the bearded blind guy never checked my ID (so much for being legal), and he insisted that I sign a contract saying something to the effect of: I promise that I love my body just the way God made it. I promise that I'm not doing this to make myself better in the eyes of other people. God thinks I'm lovable with or without tattoos. That's all that matters.

Then I'm pretty sure I released him of all liability for death, diseases, cooties, and so forth.

I wish that piece of paper had also mentioned the fact that this man was far more spiritual than artistic, because hot damn, he stunk at his job.

Sometime after 7pm I walked out of his shop with two new tattoos--one under each ankle bone. My left ankle sported a teeny blue wing, and I won't lie, it turned out really well. But the right ankle? Well, it honestly looked like someone left one hell of a bruise after kicking me with a pointy-toed hooker boot--nothing but a bright blue blob.

And here's a trusty piece of advice: Never ask a person with one bad eye to give you two identical tattoos.

At that time, I was a D1 collegiate runner on a scholarship--the tats were supposed to be a stealth little set of wings, not one wing and one blue booger. Dang. It.

A few months later, after a glowingly lackluster performance and some ongoing coachly disputes, I quit the team. I literally threw my running shoes in the trash and transferred to a school that was 1,000 miles away. And then, for the next two-and-a-half years I told the following story seventy-zillion times:

Yeah, that's a tattoo.....Yup, that's another tattoo....Well, it's supposed to be a wing....Because I used to run....No, not anymore.....I know, I'm an idiot....

And then I found God.

Honestly folks, there is no such thing as a simple story in my strange little life. No. Such. Thing.

Around that time, my roommate also happened to find God--very convenient. So one afternoon, before Bible Study (I kid you not), we stopped by Tropics North Tattoo Studio. What can I say? We were on fire for the Lord, and we decided to make it known with some permanent ink.

Yes, strange--but it made perfect sense to a couple of twenty-year-olds. Sarah decided to proclaim her faith with a tramp-stamp in the shape of an Icthus (Jesus fish), and I also went the Icthus route, covering both of my wing tattoos with little, purple fish.

Thankfully, this tattoo artist was fully sighted and he nailed the symmetry thing. He was also quite the conversationalist...

ME: Where'd you learn how to do tattoos?

HIM: You don't want to know.

ME: Oh.

HIM: I went to Bangor Christian school when I was a kid.

ME: Really? You're Christian?

HIM: I got kicked out. I'm still not allowed back on the property.

And then, a couple of months later, I joined a denomination that strongly discourages tattoos and asks women to wear skirts to church on Sundays. This has been very confusing for the children in my Sunday School class...

THEM: Sister Lawson, what's on your ankles?

ME: Little fish. The remind me of Jesus and how important he is to me.

THEM: Are they tattoos?

ME: Yes.

THEM: My mom says that Jesus doesn't like tattoos.

ME: Well your mom sounds like a prude.

And that my friends, is the story behind my tattoos.

I love my tattoos.

Desperately Seeking Something

November 11, 2008

Maybe you haven't noticed, but for the first time in two years, I have a raging case of writer's block--like a bumpy, oozing, infected case. Very hard to treat with antibiotics.

I can't tell you how many times I've opened my Blogger template, just to let out a frustrated huff and click my laptop shut in defeat as I reach for another Oreo cookie.

James's daycare is closed today--so sometime around noon I loaded him into the station wagon and headed out to meet Jared for lunch. As we sat at our favorite table in our favorite barbeque joint, I searched my head for ideas over a heaping plate of pulled pork. Because of my wordlessness, Jared was concerned.

We talked for a few minutes about my block, and my ever loving husband--the wonderful man that he is--offered up idea, after idea, after idea. Unfortunately they were things like, "You could write about trout!" or "What about fly tying?" or "I know! You should tell about that fishing trip I took to Oklahoma that time...."

"Or I could write about my plans for my second wedding," I said. "I'm definitely having this place cater it."

He got the idea.

So, in this dessert-like time of desperation, how 'bout helping a girl out?

Do you have a non-lame (that part is very important) post idea for The Lawsons did Dallas? Is there anything you've ever wanted to know about me (eg shoe size, hip measurement, those old college stories)? Are there pictures you want me to post (more light fixtures that resemble teets, our wood pile that's the size of Los Angeles, the scummy shiz that's stuck behind my bathroom faucet)?

If you have any ideas, requests, or suggestions, please send me an email or leave them in the comments. I'll be more than happy to oblige.

There's only one rule: You're not allowed to be all whiny if I don't use your idea. Whining is for fart lickers, not sexy grown-ups.

Oh, and yes, I know. I haven't posted James's halloween pictures yet. The files are acting all stubborn and screwed-up (just like me from the age of 16 to 20). I think I'm gonna have to re-dress him up, snap a few pics, and them post them. Please be aware: I still haven't sent out my 2007 Christmas letters, so all of you Hallo-wieners will have to exercise your patience.

And, as always, thanks for using your brilliant minds to contribute to such a worthy cause!

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.)