February 17, 2010
So. Have you been watching the Olympics? I've got to admit, I'm over it. It's not that the athletes aren't amazingly-incredible-dedicated-better-than-I'll-ever-be people--because they totally are. I just have a short attention span.
Trust me, I want to find myself snowed in with Bode Miller just as much as the girl next door--I've just had enough with all the skiing.
By day three I was like, "The Winter Olympics boil down to three things: skating, skiing, and sledding." Sure I forgot about curling until one fourth of a second ago, but I kind of have a point...don't I?
I know, I'm killing the party over here. And usually that's my husband's job. You know how men are--if it's not a trout or a boob or an Italian sausage, they want no part of it.
Last night, since The Biggest Loser was off the air, Jared and I watched the men's figure skating competition. Let me just say, in no uncertain terms, that my husband absolutely detests men's figure skating. Actually, he's offended by it.
Me? I can tolerate it.
But Jared I'll tell ya, he just sits in his recliner, thinking about submarine sandwiches, pointing his root beer bottle at the television, saying things like, "If you're SOOO talented, and SOOO athletic that you can nail all these impossible, crazy-butt tricks, then why on earth are you wearing puffy sleeves???!!!!??? PUFFY SLEEVES? REALLY BOYS?!?!"
Even for me, a non-lover of the Winter Games, his howling is just too much.
Last night, I'd finally had it. I was like, "Jared. Enough. Once you reach the point where you can do a quadruple anything, you're free to say whatever you want about these guys. You're jealous."
And he was all, "Jealous of what?"
So I pointed to the television just in time for Mr. Puff Sleeves to jump eight feet into the air, twirl around four times, and stick the landing with all kinds of grace. Then, one second later, I kid you not, the guy was pretending to ride a pony.
Pretending. To ride. A pony.
And that's when I said it, the magic phrase I've kept locked away in my woman-vault for eight long years of marriage.
I said, "Jared, you're right."
I also stand offended.
Corral Your Horses
February 16, 2010
Corral your horses, hit the friggin' deck, and repent my friends!
Between the worldwide natural disasters, the unseasonable weather patterns, and the fact that we now have a semi-decent family picture, I'm convinced (CONVINCED!) that the end is near.
I know--James has that crazy thing going on with his tie, Maggie's looking down, and we've got some Bakugans in the shot, but folks, when you're as unphotogenic as we are, this is as good as it's ever gonna get:
Corral your horses, hit the friggin' deck, and repent my friends!
Between the worldwide natural disasters, the unseasonable weather patterns, and the fact that we now have a semi-decent family picture, I'm convinced (CONVINCED!) that the end is near.
I know--James has that crazy thing going on with his tie, Maggie's looking down, and we've got some Bakugans in the shot, but folks, when you're as unphotogenic as we are, this is as good as it's ever gonna get:
Happy Holiday?
February 15, 2009
So I guess today is some kind of holiday. President's Day maybe?
Jared's working, I'm working, and James is on school vacation, so I didn't realize it was a federal holiday until I walked into a locked, dark, quiet office building this morning. You see, I have a random, little oddball office sandwiched between a bunch of state workers. I've gotta say, it works out pretty well.
They scoff at me when I'm like, "Welp, it's 2 o'clock and if I sit at this desk for another second I swear my hair'll set on fire. I'm so outta here." And I scoff at them when they're all, "Achoo! I sneezed! My goodness I better get that checked out by a specialist--you know, since I have excellent health benefits and all."
Basically, they're all ankle-chained to their desks, and I get my pap-smears in a storage unit--any way you slice it, work is work is work.
I have no idea what I had in mind when I started writing this post, but I'll tell ya, working alone is really blah--mixed with a dash of creepy. The only redeeming point is the fact that every time I have to pee (or poop), I do it with the doors hanging wide open.
Oh my word, it's completely freeing--the stall door flapping in the breeze, staring at the long, dark hallway while I take care of business. I bet this is why everyone wants to be the president. If anyone was ever like, "Mrs. President, you should close the door when you urinate," I could be all, "No. You should shut your MOUTH while I urinate. You're fired."
A girl can dream.
So I guess today is some kind of holiday. President's Day maybe?
Jared's working, I'm working, and James is on school vacation, so I didn't realize it was a federal holiday until I walked into a locked, dark, quiet office building this morning. You see, I have a random, little oddball office sandwiched between a bunch of state workers. I've gotta say, it works out pretty well.
They scoff at me when I'm like, "Welp, it's 2 o'clock and if I sit at this desk for another second I swear my hair'll set on fire. I'm so outta here." And I scoff at them when they're all, "Achoo! I sneezed! My goodness I better get that checked out by a specialist--you know, since I have excellent health benefits and all."
Basically, they're all ankle-chained to their desks, and I get my pap-smears in a storage unit--any way you slice it, work is work is work.
I have no idea what I had in mind when I started writing this post, but I'll tell ya, working alone is really blah--mixed with a dash of creepy. The only redeeming point is the fact that every time I have to pee (or poop), I do it with the doors hanging wide open.
Oh my word, it's completely freeing--the stall door flapping in the breeze, staring at the long, dark hallway while I take care of business. I bet this is why everyone wants to be the president. If anyone was ever like, "Mrs. President, you should close the door when you urinate," I could be all, "No. You should shut your MOUTH while I urinate. You're fired."
A girl can dream.
Everything Changes
February 8, 2010
It's so cliche, and such an understatement at the very same time, but recently I just can't help thinking about how everything changes after you become a mom or a dad. Everything.
From the abdominal stretch marks to a new-found tolerance for poop, poop on your fingers, and poop in your mouth, nothing stays the same. And with a four-and-a-half year age gap between my kids, it really kind of feels like we're going through the changes all over again.
Think about it. James came down the stairs this morning saying, "Welp. My shelf tipped over, but I caught it before it hit da floor. I picked up all the things that felled off and put 'em back where dey go. Even da snow globe didn't break." Horrifying 'what-ifs' and safety considerations aside, that's one self sufficient child we're dealing with.
And then there's Maggie. A dust bunny lands in her mouth and it's one step away from becoming a brush with death.
Anyway, I should point out, right this very second, that this isn't a 'Could it be more magically beautiful?' post, and it's not a 'My life has been sucked into a Diaper Genie!' post either. It's purely informational, no value judgements whatsoever.
This whole topic happens to be on my mind because of two experiences I had yesterday.
First, did you watch Drew Brees accept the MVP trophy at the Super Bowl last night? He was all, "This is awesome! And my baby boy is so awesome! Between this and my son, I'm having the best year ever! Isn't my son so cute?! And awesome? Thanks again for this trophy!"
I honestly think, that for Drew Brees, the best part of winning the MVP prize was having the chance to shamelessly gush about his kid in front of ten-zillion captivated viewers.
I totally get it.
And here's my second 'everything changes' moment from yesterday:
It's no secret that I've been working really hard to get into shape since Maggie's birth in October. We're talking twenty+ miles a week on the treadmill, losing one pound a week on Weight Watchers, and I don't know, perhaps I've thrown a personal trainer into the mix.
Go ahead and spit at your computer screen if you must, but I'm looking pretty good these days. (I know, I know. A girl's never supposed to admit that she feels okay about herself. Oh. Flippin.' Well.)
As of yesterday, I'm thrilled to know that I'm below my pre-James weight--and that my friends, was back in 2004 when I was 23 years old and had absolutely no idea what a hemorrhoid was. Or a wrinkle. Or a car payment. Or constipation.
I weighed in at--go ahead and swallow your coffee--197 pounds during my pregnancy with Maggie. That's right, I was walking around town in a crazy hormonal rage, yelling things like, "Outta my way, b!tches! I'm a tenth of a ton and I'm not afraid to MOW YOU DOWN!"
I was probably closer to 204 with boots on. Behold:
It's so cliche, and such an understatement at the very same time, but recently I just can't help thinking about how everything changes after you become a mom or a dad. Everything.
From the abdominal stretch marks to a new-found tolerance for poop, poop on your fingers, and poop in your mouth, nothing stays the same. And with a four-and-a-half year age gap between my kids, it really kind of feels like we're going through the changes all over again.
Think about it. James came down the stairs this morning saying, "Welp. My shelf tipped over, but I caught it before it hit da floor. I picked up all the things that felled off and put 'em back where dey go. Even da snow globe didn't break." Horrifying 'what-ifs' and safety considerations aside, that's one self sufficient child we're dealing with.
And then there's Maggie. A dust bunny lands in her mouth and it's one step away from becoming a brush with death.
Anyway, I should point out, right this very second, that this isn't a 'Could it be more magically beautiful?' post, and it's not a 'My life has been sucked into a Diaper Genie!' post either. It's purely informational, no value judgements whatsoever.
This whole topic happens to be on my mind because of two experiences I had yesterday.
First, did you watch Drew Brees accept the MVP trophy at the Super Bowl last night? He was all, "This is awesome! And my baby boy is so awesome! Between this and my son, I'm having the best year ever! Isn't my son so cute?! And awesome? Thanks again for this trophy!"
I honestly think, that for Drew Brees, the best part of winning the MVP prize was having the chance to shamelessly gush about his kid in front of ten-zillion captivated viewers.
I totally get it.
And here's my second 'everything changes' moment from yesterday:
It's no secret that I've been working really hard to get into shape since Maggie's birth in October. We're talking twenty+ miles a week on the treadmill, losing one pound a week on Weight Watchers, and I don't know, perhaps I've thrown a personal trainer into the mix.
Go ahead and spit at your computer screen if you must, but I'm looking pretty good these days. (I know, I know. A girl's never supposed to admit that she feels okay about herself. Oh. Flippin.' Well.)
As of yesterday, I'm thrilled to know that I'm below my pre-James weight--and that my friends, was back in 2004 when I was 23 years old and had absolutely no idea what a hemorrhoid was. Or a wrinkle. Or a car payment. Or constipation.
I weighed in at--go ahead and swallow your coffee--197 pounds during my pregnancy with Maggie. That's right, I was walking around town in a crazy hormonal rage, yelling things like, "Outta my way, b!tches! I'm a tenth of a ton and I'm not afraid to MOW YOU DOWN!"
I was probably closer to 204 with boots on. Behold:
I know, I know...not so bad for 197, but let's not forget, cellulite's invisible through a sturdy pair of sweatpants.
Okay, so that was my super long of telling you guys that Jared thinks I'm mega hot right now. I mean seriously, what would turn you on more:
A. A flabby, barrel-like woman saying, "So how do I look in these extra-large, high-waisted cotton briefs from Target?"
or
B. A normal female person wearing anything, doing anything, and saying anything.
That's right. Option B. That's exactly why I can stomp through the kitchen saying things like, "Ugh! I should've run away with the circus. My life would be SO MUCH MORE STABLE RIGHT NOW!"
And Jared will be like, "Really? Wanna do it?"
So yesterday morning, as we were getting ready for church, Jared playfully tossed me onto the bed and said something to the effect of (Mom, you'll hate this.), "Amy, you look so good! I can't keep my hands off you!"
And without missing a beat, and in complete seriousness, I said, "Jared, if we didn't have two kids bouncing around, and I hadn't just put on my makeup, and these sheets weren't so clean, and this exersaucer wasn't on the bed so I could vacuum, do you have any idea what I'd do to you right now?"
And Jared goes, "Holy hell, Amy. That was so hot. You've gotta stop." No. He wasn't joking.
See? Kids really do change everything.
My Linky Life
February 5, 2010
Today, I have a couple of links that I'm itching to share with you guys. I think they'll be a little window into my life--and come now, who doesn't love a of smidge old-fashioned snooping every now and again?
For the Home Decorator:
We live fairly close to the flagship LL Bean store in Freeport, Maine. It's the store with the giant boot out front that stays open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Seriously, they don't even have locks on the doors--or so I've heard. Maybe it's just a lie.
Anyhoo, we went to LL Bean last Friday and I bought this comforter. As hard as I try, I just can't learn to love the thing. In fact, I hate it. It's blah, and boring, and would do very well in the room of a person who struggles with visual over-stimulation. It's official...I'm a woman who needs pizazz.
For Baby Mamas Large and Small:
I went to a babywearing class this past Monday, and holy moly, this thing is awesome. Love it. Apparently it's super easy to make your own (just google it), or if you're a fan of the handmade scene, you can find 1,001 alternatives by searching for 'moby wrap' on Etsy.
For the Weekend Warrior:
Jared and I have discovered a new passion. Technically speaking, we haven't actually tried it yet...but we think about it all the time. And so far we're totally into it.
For the Health Conscious:
I appreciate this man's expose on the Twinkie, but really, all it does is make me want to run to Cumberland Farms and buy myself a package or three. I wonder if that's what Steve Ettinger intended. At the top of his site it asks, "Daddy, where does polysorbate-60 come from?" I wish I could add a blinking banner under his. It would say, "Son, it comes from the heavenly angels."
For Lovers of Cuteness:
I made this hat for Maggie all by myself. No help, no advice, no screaming, no tears. I made it two weeks ago and guess what? It's lost. If you happen across it, send me an email, okay?
For Lovers of Goodness:
I grew up with Justin Baker, and I've got to say, he's one of the quietest, most humble, and most powerful people I've ever met. Since he founded a local chapter of Food Not Bombs when we were in high school, this guy has devoted his life to doing great things--and I'm not talking about volunteering on the weekends. I'm talking about this. Have you seen Dave Matthews live? Have you seen Jack Johnson? If you're nodding your head, then you've probably come in contact with Justin.
Today, I have a couple of links that I'm itching to share with you guys. I think they'll be a little window into my life--and come now, who doesn't love a of smidge old-fashioned snooping every now and again?
For the Home Decorator:
We live fairly close to the flagship LL Bean store in Freeport, Maine. It's the store with the giant boot out front that stays open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Seriously, they don't even have locks on the doors--or so I've heard. Maybe it's just a lie.
Anyhoo, we went to LL Bean last Friday and I bought this comforter. As hard as I try, I just can't learn to love the thing. In fact, I hate it. It's blah, and boring, and would do very well in the room of a person who struggles with visual over-stimulation. It's official...I'm a woman who needs pizazz.
For Baby Mamas Large and Small:
I went to a babywearing class this past Monday, and holy moly, this thing is awesome. Love it. Apparently it's super easy to make your own (just google it), or if you're a fan of the handmade scene, you can find 1,001 alternatives by searching for 'moby wrap' on Etsy.
For the Weekend Warrior:
Jared and I have discovered a new passion. Technically speaking, we haven't actually tried it yet...but we think about it all the time. And so far we're totally into it.
For the Health Conscious:
I appreciate this man's expose on the Twinkie, but really, all it does is make me want to run to Cumberland Farms and buy myself a package or three. I wonder if that's what Steve Ettinger intended. At the top of his site it asks, "Daddy, where does polysorbate-60 come from?" I wish I could add a blinking banner under his. It would say, "Son, it comes from the heavenly angels."
For Lovers of Cuteness:
I made this hat for Maggie all by myself. No help, no advice, no screaming, no tears. I made it two weeks ago and guess what? It's lost. If you happen across it, send me an email, okay?
For Lovers of Goodness:
I grew up with Justin Baker, and I've got to say, he's one of the quietest, most humble, and most powerful people I've ever met. Since he founded a local chapter of Food Not Bombs when we were in high school, this guy has devoted his life to doing great things--and I'm not talking about volunteering on the weekends. I'm talking about this. Have you seen Dave Matthews live? Have you seen Jack Johnson? If you're nodding your head, then you've probably come in contact with Justin.
Wow, huh?
So where is he now? I'll give you one guess. That's right, Justin's in Haiti. He makes me want to change the world.
For New England Runners:
I'm on a relay team for this race, which will be held on May 1st and 2nd in "the original land of the free thinkers, patriots, curse breakers and general bad ass-ery." If you're interested in filling a spot on the team, send me an email at LawsonAmyB@yahoo.com. I'm [thankfully] not the captain of this charade, so I'll forward your email to the man who is.
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