January 5, 2009
If I can get four or five more entrants by midnight tonight, then my heart will be satisfied, my office walls won't be so bare, and the contest will be exploding with fun.
Friends, The Fantastic, Asstastic Photo Challenge of 2010 is almost ready to launch.
I know. It won't be easy to sleep tonight.
See the two previous posts for details.
A Story and a Stern Reminder
December 31, 2009
First, a little story for you.
Last night I was clocking a couple miles on the treadmill. Maggie was happily swinging away, and I was watching full episodes of A&E's Hoarders on my laptop. I was plodding along, gasping at the conditions of these peoples' homes, blatetly judging their character based upon the height of their shiz piles.
Heaven bless any of my readers who might be struggling with a moderate to severe hoarding issue, I hope to not offend you, but I absolutely have to tell it like it is:
These people were over the top.
Allow me to grace you with an example. One of the families, a family that lives in super cold Boston of all places, moved out of their house and in to a tent in their backyard. You see, they had crap up to the rafters and kept losing their children in the piles. The solution? Uhhhhh, du-uh! Obviously a tent. In November. In New England.
Or how 'bout the guy who built an entire barn to house his collection of 300,000+ not rare and not valuable beer cans? I've got a place for those Budweiser cans, sir--it's called Bea's Recycling shack, and you'll walk away rich.
Another family, a really sweet bunch, lived in a teeny little trailer with a postage stamp yard and somehow managed to squeeze twenty-nine cats and seventeen dogs into their nooks and crannies. There was a lot of love in that house. Perhaps a little too much love.
Then, as if the messes weren't enough, these people would do things like jump on Dr. Dianne (the clinical psychologist who specializes in obsessive behavior) from behind when she'd toss an empty soup can into the dumpster. They'd be like, "I THINK MY WEDDING RING WAS IN THAT SOUP CAN!" or "I WAS EATING THAT SOUP THE FIRST TIME MY BABY ROLLED OVER IN 1979. YOU CAN'T THROW IT AWAY! IT'S VERY SPECIAL TO ME!"
Like I said, my judgement was flowing like the rain--a real self righteous byotch if I do say so myself.
I was running along, every once in a while saying things to my baby like, "Take this as a lesson Maggie, hoarding problems start at Target's dollar display. When you see it, do not veer over. Trust me on this one. It starts with a furry pen, and before you know it, you're sitting on a four-foot mountain of holiday-themed dog sweaters."
This side of me? This evil non-compassion? I never said it was cute.
So there I was, running along, judging and condemning, when my greyhound made her way down the stairs. She casually walked across the basement playroom, stopped next to an enormous pile of clean, unfolded laundry--by that point I believe it had been sitting there for at least nine days. She let out one of those super cute dog hmmphs, climbed into the pile, and fell asleep.
When I finished my workout I literally had to wake my dog in order to find a clean towel. And that my friends, is the moment I vowed to shut my mouth and let the hoarders hoard in peace.
And now, a very stern reminder.
If no one sends me their butt photos, then The Fantastic, Asstastic Photo Challenge of 2010 will have to be cancelled.
That was almost too sad to type.
My husband and I sat down to address the lack of entrants, and we came up with three solutions:
1. Everyone should become a fan of The Fantastic, Asstastic Photo Challenge of 2010 on Facebook. Right now I only have two followers--me and my mom. Just type it into the search box, click the "become a fan" icon, and you're set to go.
2. Everyone should grab the asstastic button in my sidebar and put it on their blog. I mean really now, how fun is that? For some reason, Blogger isn't letting me paste anything into this post. So you can either take it from over there --->, or copy the HTML code from the Facebook fan page. (Are you starting to see how this all fits together?)
3. Everyone should join in on the fun. Remember, even if you opt for anonymity, you're still eligible to win one of three fabulous prizes. Details for entering can be found in the next post, and thanks to Jared's encouragement, the deadline for submitting pictures has been extended to Tuesday, January 5th at 11:59pm. Jared says that allows enough time for the guilt and poor self-esteem to set in.
Well that's that. Happy New Year's Eve, everyone!
And please, don't drink and drive--drink and dial!
First, a little story for you.
Last night I was clocking a couple miles on the treadmill. Maggie was happily swinging away, and I was watching full episodes of A&E's Hoarders on my laptop. I was plodding along, gasping at the conditions of these peoples' homes, blatetly judging their character based upon the height of their shiz piles.
Heaven bless any of my readers who might be struggling with a moderate to severe hoarding issue, I hope to not offend you, but I absolutely have to tell it like it is:
These people were over the top.
Allow me to grace you with an example. One of the families, a family that lives in super cold Boston of all places, moved out of their house and in to a tent in their backyard. You see, they had crap up to the rafters and kept losing their children in the piles. The solution? Uhhhhh, du-uh! Obviously a tent. In November. In New England.
Or how 'bout the guy who built an entire barn to house his collection of 300,000+ not rare and not valuable beer cans? I've got a place for those Budweiser cans, sir--it's called Bea's Recycling shack, and you'll walk away rich.
Another family, a really sweet bunch, lived in a teeny little trailer with a postage stamp yard and somehow managed to squeeze twenty-nine cats and seventeen dogs into their nooks and crannies. There was a lot of love in that house. Perhaps a little too much love.
Then, as if the messes weren't enough, these people would do things like jump on Dr. Dianne (the clinical psychologist who specializes in obsessive behavior) from behind when she'd toss an empty soup can into the dumpster. They'd be like, "I THINK MY WEDDING RING WAS IN THAT SOUP CAN!" or "I WAS EATING THAT SOUP THE FIRST TIME MY BABY ROLLED OVER IN 1979. YOU CAN'T THROW IT AWAY! IT'S VERY SPECIAL TO ME!"
Like I said, my judgement was flowing like the rain--a real self righteous byotch if I do say so myself.
I was running along, every once in a while saying things to my baby like, "Take this as a lesson Maggie, hoarding problems start at Target's dollar display. When you see it, do not veer over. Trust me on this one. It starts with a furry pen, and before you know it, you're sitting on a four-foot mountain of holiday-themed dog sweaters."
This side of me? This evil non-compassion? I never said it was cute.
So there I was, running along, judging and condemning, when my greyhound made her way down the stairs. She casually walked across the basement playroom, stopped next to an enormous pile of clean, unfolded laundry--by that point I believe it had been sitting there for at least nine days. She let out one of those super cute dog hmmphs, climbed into the pile, and fell asleep.
When I finished my workout I literally had to wake my dog in order to find a clean towel. And that my friends, is the moment I vowed to shut my mouth and let the hoarders hoard in peace.
And now, a very stern reminder.
If no one sends me their butt photos, then The Fantastic, Asstastic Photo Challenge of 2010 will have to be cancelled.
That was almost too sad to type.
My husband and I sat down to address the lack of entrants, and we came up with three solutions:
1. Everyone should become a fan of The Fantastic, Asstastic Photo Challenge of 2010 on Facebook. Right now I only have two followers--me and my mom. Just type it into the search box, click the "become a fan" icon, and you're set to go.
2. Everyone should grab the asstastic button in my sidebar and put it on their blog. I mean really now, how fun is that? For some reason, Blogger isn't letting me paste anything into this post. So you can either take it from over there --->, or copy the HTML code from the Facebook fan page. (Are you starting to see how this all fits together?)
3. Everyone should join in on the fun. Remember, even if you opt for anonymity, you're still eligible to win one of three fabulous prizes. Details for entering can be found in the next post, and thanks to Jared's encouragement, the deadline for submitting pictures has been extended to Tuesday, January 5th at 11:59pm. Jared says that allows enough time for the guilt and poor self-esteem to set in.
Well that's that. Happy New Year's Eve, everyone!
And please, don't drink and drive--drink and dial!
The Fantastic, Asstastic Photo Challenge of 2010
December 29, 2009Things are about to get really, really, realllllly fun over here in this crazy little corner of the internet.
Seriously. Fun.
The holidays are over, and I feel very safe in wagering a guess that nine-tenths of the people reading this blog are feeling super-nasty fat. And guess what? On New Year's Day, when you wake up with forty-two Lil' Smoky cocktail weenies, a bottle of wine, and a hairball in your belly (how'd that get in there?), you'll feel even grosser.
I'm just telling it like it is, people. Telling it like it is.
Sure we could do a 'Ring in the New Year Weight Loss Challenge' over here at the Lawsons did Dallas--but really now, how unbelievably boring is that? Everyone hosts a weight loss challenge on their blog...everyone. Even a well trained pomegranate could host a plain-old, no frills weight loss challenge.
And cue the fun.
Over here, on my blog, I'm planning to shake this up a bit with the....wait for it....this'll be good....
THE FANTASTIC, ASSTASTIC PHOTO CHALLENGE OF 2010!
Please friends, hold your applause until the end of the post.
Here's how it works: By Sunday, January 3rd at 11:59pm, you will email me a high resolution photograph of your clothed butt. I don't care if it's wearing a Gucci skirt, some high-waisted mom jeans, or a burlap sack--but it absolutely, positively, must be covered in something.
When you send me the picture, please let me know how you'd like to be identified in the contest. You can have:
a) Your name with a link to your blog,
b) Your name with no link to your blog, or
c) A top-secret code name with absolutely no hint or trace of your real identity.
DISCLAIMER: If you chose option c, please understand that my husband Jared will know who the ass is attached to. I'm not that good at keeping things to myself. But don't worry, he's a professional. Jared touches butts all day long--it's the best part of his job--and I promise that he'll view your bottom through professional, sensitive, and medical eyes only.
I'll post the bum pictures in the Fantastic, Asstastic Gallery on Monday.
Then, the contestants will have one week to improve the look of their rears. Walk, run, count points, find a better camera angle, squeeze yourself into a new set of Spanks--it doesn't matter to me. What matters to me is that you send a follow-up picture one week later. I'll post the new pictures in the Fantastic, Asstastic Gallery, and we'll let the voters decide...Who's ass is the most improved?
The votes will be tallied with technological precision, and the bums that fall in the bottom fourth will be eliminated.
We'll repeat this process on January 11th, January 18th, January 25th and February 1st--when the Grand Champion will be revealed.
Got it? If not, you can ask questions in the comment section.
But first, just to clear up a few of the details:
1. Send your photos to LawsonAmyB@yahoo.com by 11:59pm, this Sunday.
2. Pictures cannot be doctored in any way, shape, or form--so all you photoshop wizards can sit on your hands. I want untouched photos of the bum you were born with.
3. There will be prizes. Three fabulous prizes to be exact. They'll be revealed week by week.
4. Reasonable cheating practices will be accepted. For example, asking everyone in your email address book to vote for your ass is reasonable. Finding a new can-for-a-day in Google Images is not.
5. I wasn't joking about the 'must be wearing clothing' thing. And while we're on the topic, these photos have to be easy on the eyes, tasteful, and G-rated. I reserve the right to remove you from the contest if I think you're being all gross and whatnot.
6. I'd like to extend an extremely thankful heart to my super talented reader, Jennifer. She created the logo that will continue to grace our presence throughout the competition. Is it a butt? Is it boobs? Who cares! It's fabulous! Jennifer, together, you and I can shrink some asses.
So there you have it--all the motivation you'll ever need to shape up and slim down. Now grab your camera, grab your friends, snap some pictures, and whip that ass into shape!
(...but not until January 5th, you'll have a better chance of winning if your butt looks absolutely horrendous during week one.)
After-Holiday Aftermath
December 28, 2009
Wow. I haven't posted in an entire week? I guess the holidays'll do that to a girl.
I hope everyone out there had an excellent Christmas. I know I sure did. Between the ridiculous amounts of food, the presents (I'll never outgrow my love of presents), a garbage bag filled with those wire toy ties, and a four-year-old who buys the Santa story hook, line, and sinker, I couldn't have asked for more.
You may or may not know that I have a brother-in-law who's serving a two-year mission for our church. He's in the Seattle area and he's been gone since the beginning of this past April. Because our church tends to have crazy strict guidelines for everything from coffee drinking to skirt length, it's no surprise that missionaries have some tight rules about calling home. To be more specific, they can call home on Mother's Day, Christmas, and....oh yeah, only Mother's Day and Christmas.
Insane? Mmm hmm, I'll second that.
Anyhoo, Bryan called home around 7 o'clock on Christmas night and everyone in the family took turns passing the phone around, taking five-or-so minutes to chat. And do you know what the first words out of every single persons' mouth were?
No...not, "BRYAN!!!!!"
No...not, "I miss you SOOOO much!"
And nope...not, "Merry Christmas!" either.
It never failed. Every single time anyone got hold of the phone, they'd immediately say, "Bryan! You're so fat!"
And then five seconds later they'd be like, "No, dude, you're huge! You look mega fat!"
And then five more seconds later they'd say something like, "Honestly, how much weight have you gained? I never thought you could get that fat!"
The truth it, Bryan's not fat. He was the size of a twist-tie when he left for his mission, he's gained thirty-five-or-so pounds, and now the kid is normal. He looks older, he looks fuller, and like I said, he looks like an average person instead of a pipe cleaner with a face.
Now the diamonds on his argyle sweaters? I'll admit, they're looking very, very stressed. And his suit coat? Well, it's become more of a shrug. And his European Carry-All (read: man-purse)? It's found a new life as a fanny pack. But the guy looks great. Really, really great.
Unlike me, I don't think Bryan has a single ounce of holiday weight to lose. Now don't get me wrong, I don't think I look bad or anything, it's just that this barrel with suspenders is really hard to get comfortable in.
The sweets go in the trash TODAY.
Anyone else?
Wow. I haven't posted in an entire week? I guess the holidays'll do that to a girl.
I hope everyone out there had an excellent Christmas. I know I sure did. Between the ridiculous amounts of food, the presents (I'll never outgrow my love of presents), a garbage bag filled with those wire toy ties, and a four-year-old who buys the Santa story hook, line, and sinker, I couldn't have asked for more.
You may or may not know that I have a brother-in-law who's serving a two-year mission for our church. He's in the Seattle area and he's been gone since the beginning of this past April. Because our church tends to have crazy strict guidelines for everything from coffee drinking to skirt length, it's no surprise that missionaries have some tight rules about calling home. To be more specific, they can call home on Mother's Day, Christmas, and....oh yeah, only Mother's Day and Christmas.
Insane? Mmm hmm, I'll second that.
Anyhoo, Bryan called home around 7 o'clock on Christmas night and everyone in the family took turns passing the phone around, taking five-or-so minutes to chat. And do you know what the first words out of every single persons' mouth were?
No...not, "BRYAN!!!!!"
No...not, "I miss you SOOOO much!"
And nope...not, "Merry Christmas!" either.
It never failed. Every single time anyone got hold of the phone, they'd immediately say, "Bryan! You're so fat!"
And then five seconds later they'd be like, "No, dude, you're huge! You look mega fat!"
And then five more seconds later they'd say something like, "Honestly, how much weight have you gained? I never thought you could get that fat!"
The truth it, Bryan's not fat. He was the size of a twist-tie when he left for his mission, he's gained thirty-five-or-so pounds, and now the kid is normal. He looks older, he looks fuller, and like I said, he looks like an average person instead of a pipe cleaner with a face.
Now the diamonds on his argyle sweaters? I'll admit, they're looking very, very stressed. And his suit coat? Well, it's become more of a shrug. And his European Carry-All (read: man-purse)? It's found a new life as a fanny pack. But the guy looks great. Really, really great.
Unlike me, I don't think Bryan has a single ounce of holiday weight to lose. Now don't get me wrong, I don't think I look bad or anything, it's just that this barrel with suspenders is really hard to get comfortable in.
The sweets go in the trash TODAY.
Anyone else?
A Heavenly Choir of Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Singers
December 21, 2009
I'm not a singer by any stretch of the imagination, but for some reason, probably because of the holidays, I've got choirs on the mind. We've been listening to a lot of Mormon Tabernacle Choir lately, or MoTab, as my people like to call it--kind of like JayZ, but a lot more wholesome.
Last night, as Jared and I were hucking dirty laundry at each other, saying things like, "Get your skanky underoos off my side of the bed!" he suddenly changed the subject and said, "I bet your church had an awesome choir when you were growing up."
That's when I froze, dropped the underpants on the hardwood, and said, "I'm sorry, but we can't stay married for another moment, Jared. You know nothing about my childhood. It's like I'm sleeping with a stranger."
In other words, St. Brigid's choir was horrendous.
Actually, it was beyond horrendous.
Every single Sunday, I'd quietly pray for a miracle. More specifically, I'd pray that Jesus would show his face to the choir and say, "Please, my brothers and sisters, please stop singing. Sing no more. I command ye to stoppeth your singing. Fill your mouths with these loaves and fishes so that ye may stoppest your voices."
And when that never worked, I prayed for an invisible walkman.
And when that never worked, I thought about bagels.
See, my church was tricky. It had a huge vaulted ceiling, dark wood, red carpets, super intricate stained-glass. There were fancy statues, and a beautiful, booming organ. All signs pointed to a heavenly chorus of voices--and all signs were horribly, terribly misleading. If there had been a literal sign, it should have been a big, yellow arrow, pointed straight up to choir loft saying, "CAUTION: VERY ELDERLY PEOPLE ARE SINGING UP THERE, AND THEY'RE DOING IT WITH GUSTO."
I still remember one Christmas Eve service in particular--I must have been nine or ten years old. The choir was belting out their rendition of Oh, Holy Night, and I was squirming around in the pew, trying to will my ear canals to collapse shut.
Finally, when I couldn't handle it for another second, I leaned my head into my mom's ear and whispered, "Mom, it's like I'm chewing on a tin-foil ball."
And she was like, "Amy! Shhhhh! That's rude!"
So I turned to my father and said, "Hey Dad, remember that time you made me lick that 9-volt battery?"
He nodded.
"It feels like it's still on my tongue."
He nodded again and said, "I hear ya, Squirt."
These days, we live far away from St. Brigid Church, and have settled on a street with moderate-to-severe drainage issues. It's funny, but every time my neighbor's cat gets lodged in the underground drainage pipe, its hissing and screaming brings me right back to my childhood days, and I just can't help but look up at the sky and say, "Really? You could part the Red Sea but you couldn't give a girl an invisible walkman?"
Some things will always be a mystery...
I'm not a singer by any stretch of the imagination, but for some reason, probably because of the holidays, I've got choirs on the mind. We've been listening to a lot of Mormon Tabernacle Choir lately, or MoTab, as my people like to call it--kind of like JayZ, but a lot more wholesome.
Last night, as Jared and I were hucking dirty laundry at each other, saying things like, "Get your skanky underoos off my side of the bed!" he suddenly changed the subject and said, "I bet your church had an awesome choir when you were growing up."
That's when I froze, dropped the underpants on the hardwood, and said, "I'm sorry, but we can't stay married for another moment, Jared. You know nothing about my childhood. It's like I'm sleeping with a stranger."
In other words, St. Brigid's choir was horrendous.
Actually, it was beyond horrendous.
Every single Sunday, I'd quietly pray for a miracle. More specifically, I'd pray that Jesus would show his face to the choir and say, "Please, my brothers and sisters, please stop singing. Sing no more. I command ye to stoppeth your singing. Fill your mouths with these loaves and fishes so that ye may stoppest your voices."
And when that never worked, I prayed for an invisible walkman.
And when that never worked, I thought about bagels.
See, my church was tricky. It had a huge vaulted ceiling, dark wood, red carpets, super intricate stained-glass. There were fancy statues, and a beautiful, booming organ. All signs pointed to a heavenly chorus of voices--and all signs were horribly, terribly misleading. If there had been a literal sign, it should have been a big, yellow arrow, pointed straight up to choir loft saying, "CAUTION: VERY ELDERLY PEOPLE ARE SINGING UP THERE, AND THEY'RE DOING IT WITH GUSTO."
I still remember one Christmas Eve service in particular--I must have been nine or ten years old. The choir was belting out their rendition of Oh, Holy Night, and I was squirming around in the pew, trying to will my ear canals to collapse shut.
Finally, when I couldn't handle it for another second, I leaned my head into my mom's ear and whispered, "Mom, it's like I'm chewing on a tin-foil ball."
And she was like, "Amy! Shhhhh! That's rude!"
So I turned to my father and said, "Hey Dad, remember that time you made me lick that 9-volt battery?"
He nodded.
"It feels like it's still on my tongue."
He nodded again and said, "I hear ya, Squirt."
These days, we live far away from St. Brigid Church, and have settled on a street with moderate-to-severe drainage issues. It's funny, but every time my neighbor's cat gets lodged in the underground drainage pipe, its hissing and screaming brings me right back to my childhood days, and I just can't help but look up at the sky and say, "Really? You could part the Red Sea but you couldn't give a girl an invisible walkman?"
Some things will always be a mystery...
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