The "L" Chromosome

December 31, 2007

You probably don't know this, but Jared spends 90% of his awake time in a haze of oblivion. He gets plenty of sleep and hasn't smoked pot since the 60's, so as far as I can tell, it's genetic. My interactions with Jared's two brothers also tend to confirm my suspicion: If your last name starts with an "L," ends with an "awson," and you have testicles, then you're probably very confused by day to day life.

Jared's brother Dan is a senior in college, and one heck of a nice guy. Last night I was talking to his girlfriend, and she was kind enough to tell me a great story to add to my bonehead file. A few months ago she sent Dan to the grocery store to buy one package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts. Simple enough, right? Well, ninety minutes later, he returned from the supermarket with a frozen package of chicken cordon bleu, one box of precooked turkey cutlets, a pepperoni stick, and one very proud smile.

Yes, I know--a super ball and two bottles of barbecue sauce would have been equally useful. These guys are something else.

Now that Jared has graduated from chiropractic school, we've been spending a lot of time together in public. It's two parts fun and one part excruciating, but either way you slice it, I've been met with more Lawson cluelessness in the last few days than I've seen in years.

A few days ago, Jared and I were walking through the town center, doing a little bit of post-Christmas window shopping. We paused at Barnes & Noble and were thrilled to see a display window full of New England themed books. "Wow," we exclaimed in unison. We both agreed that it felt awesome to see book covers featuring pictures of foliage and rocky coastlines. You see, most books about Dallas contain pictures of things like Gucci purses, homeless people, and cow poops...you know.

In our moment of excitement, we thought it would be fun to buy one of these books as a welcome home treat. So we walked into the store and began to browse around, looking for the New England section. After a few minutes of looking, I saw Jared approach the check out desk at the front of the store. Naturally, I thought he was seeking out a helpful employee. But as we all know, I'm married to a Lawson male. So naturally, I was wrong.

I watched as my sweet spouse cut a long line of thirty-or-so people, walked behind the check-out counter, STEPPED INTO the window display, and started flipping through some coffee table books. I saw the store clerks whisper to each other and point to my husband--and I'm not 100% sure on this--but I think they were saying something like: "Dude. Who is this guy?" or "What in the crap is up with this weirdo?" or "He's from the group home. Should I page his chaperon?"

As the window shoppers huddled around to snicker at the skinny man in the window, and the clerks dialed security, Jared just kept flipping through his book about covered bridges, whistling a Beetles song, and stopping occasionally to scratch the left side of his rear. Until that point, there had been no indication that I even knew my husband. I just watched the scene unfold out the corner of my eye, as I pretended to choose between the naked fire fighter calendar or the one with kittens tangled in string.

And then, just as I was about to nestle myself safely into the bathroom corridor, Jared peeked up over the display, cupped his hands around his mouth, and was like, "Hey Ames! We should plan a weekend to Vermont. The bridges are really old, and the skiing is killer!"

I was outed. My moment of safe hiding had come to an end. So I calmly approached my husband, smiled as sweetly as I could, and took his hand as I said, "Sure babe, I'd love to go to Vermont...just as soon as YOU GET YOUR DAMN SELF OUT OF THE WINDOW DISPLAY!"

Jared was like, "Huh? Who's standing in a window??? Amy, you confuse me."

Well, I never liked Barnes & Noble much anyway.

Say What?!

December 28, 2007

Last night, my mother was absolutely flabbergasted to find my husband eating imitation Doritos out of her large, decorative bowl from Pottery Barn. With a little bit of prompting from me, Jared thought it would be funny to walk by my mother, eating cheap chips, out of her very expensive Christmas gift.

Not surprisingly, my mother was shocked. Usually she treats my husband with an outpouring of love, and spoils him like the son she never had. But yesterday, Jared had clearly crossed the line in the sand.

"Jared! What are you thinking," my well-mannered, extraordinarily tolerant mother exclaimed?! "That bowl is for decoration! Not for eating greasy, disgusting snacks." And in one motion, my mother had dumped the chips into a tupperware container, and commandeered her beloved gift.

This is the part of the story where you'd expect my husband to apologize, right? Well, think again, my dear readers...think again.

Jared took the bowl out of my mother's arms, headed for the sink, and do you know what that 132 pound wiener had the nerve to say to his mother-in-law? Get this:

"Pipe down, Big Mama! I'll wash it."

Okay. Read that again.

We'll be leaving this morning and resuming our calm and peaceful life in our hand built shack by the river. Thanks a lot, Jared.

The Bachelor

December 27, 2007

There are a few things in this universe that I will never understand. For example, no matter how hard I try, I will never understand physics--it's still the only "incomplete" on my college transcript, and I honestly couldn't care less. During my grad school admission interview, my department chair said, "I see you have an "I" on your undergraduate grade report. Can you please explain that to the committee?" And I was like, "Yes. It was physics. The question about the monkey swinging in the tree, trying to reach that damn banana had me in tears. So I never went back." The department chair looked at me sympathetically and said, "Ya know what? I don't think the incomplete will be a problem," and moved on to the next question.

Another mystery of the universe that I will never understand is Diet Coke. Diet Coke tastes like Windex and literally burns as it travels down the old digestive pipe. Sure, it has no calories, but neither does squirrel urine--and you won't catch me drinking that stuff either. Yes, I might have an extra sensitive swallowing pipe, but I still don't understand the craze. I'll just stick with dirty martinis, thank you very much.

And the third thing that I will never understand, is the bachelor pad. Yes, I know that most men don't like to decorate, and that's okay--but the strict minimalist lifestyle is plain old baffling. To all of the single guys who read this blog, I'd like to share a message: We live in the USA, boys. The beauty of this nation lies in the fact that we have grocery stores, we have full access to cleaning supplies, and the law allows us to own more than just a sleeping bag.

You're probably wondering why a married woman is thinking so much about bachelor pads today. Well, it's simple--I hung out with my cousin Rick yesterday. Rick is a twenty-something single attorney who recently bought his first place. For Christmas, my Aunt bought him a very lovely serving platter with the phrase "Bless this House" written across the top. When he saw that I received the exact same gift, he looked at me with wide, desperate eyes and said, "What am I supposed to do with that?!" I was like, "Damned if I know...I'm homeless. But if I had a kitchen, I'd probably display it."

A few moments later, my sister walked into the room carrying a large, black trash bag. She was like, "Here ya go," and handed the bag to Rick. He pulled out two framed pictures of lighthouses, nodded his head approvingly, and thanked my sister. He explained to me that the walls of his 1400 square foot condo are completely bare, and my sister donated the old pictures to help remediate the situation. He held one picture in each hand and said, "Wow, this is great! I didn't know you were bringing me two pictures! Now I can decorate my entire condo and my office!"

The following night, when I went to see Rick's condo in person, he was rightfully proud of the place. After all, it's huge, it has loads of closet space, and it's in a ridiculously gorgeous town. We walked though the front hall and he was like, "Well, this is it! And here's the picture!" He opened the door to his downstairs bathroom, and there is was--the lighthouse print, hanging a few inches left of center.

I complimented him on what he'd done with the place, and he went on to show me everything else. You know...the box of raisins, his towel, his roommate, fifteen white shirts, and his carpet. And I must admit...all seven of his possessions are very, very nice.

Whoa Mama!

Christmas Eve 2007

Mom: Hey girls! Come and see what I bought for your husbands!

Amy & Katy: Okay, Mom.

Mom: I'll show you on the computer. I bought them matching gifts from Dick's Sporting goods.

Amy & Katy: Cool.

[the three ladies gather around the computer as Mom types the web address]

Mom: It's right here at w w w dot dicks dot com.

Amy: Oh my word Mom, I don't think that's the right address!

It wasn't the right address.

We Made It

Christmas Eve 2007

We did it, we survived, and we're finally home in New England. After three-and-a-half days in a Penske rental truck, believe me when I tell you that I couldn't be any happier. There's just something magical about being back home. And there's something even more magical in being freed from the stench of Chinese-food-egg-farts, in a truck cab, on a long and lonely stretch of highway.

Last night, when I went to pick up a pizza, I was greeted by a bearded cook, who was high on marijuana, wearing a Red Sox hat, and a t-shirt that said "Don't blame me--I voted for Nader." Honestly guys, the classic New England granolaness of the scene brought a tear to my eye. "There's no place like home," I thought. "There's no freaking place like home."

Tonight, as I sit and ponder the miracle of the federal highway system and the BK Whopper, I would like to extend a few "shout outs" to some key players of our pilgrimage.

To Jeff Foxworthy: I love the CD that you recorded way back in '89. I picked it up for $7.99 at a Tennessee truck stop, and I laughed my pooper off for two hours straight. Mr. Foxworthy, you are a genius.

To the woman at the same Tennessee truck stop: I also fancied the faux lion head. I am in complete agreement--I think it will look fabulous in your "drinkin' shed."

To the proprietor of The Budget Inn in Bristol, VA: Unless new wallpaper in 1994 is considered "recently remodeled" in your next of the woods, you my dear, are a bold faced liar. PS...my dog took a dump in your goldfish pond.

To the prostitute at the travel stop in New Jersey: I am speechless.

And to my fellow Burger King consumer: Yo. I honestly assumed that you were planning to feed your entire family with that order. Two triple Whoopers, a twelve-piece chicken fries, one apple pie, two orders of onion rings, and an orange drink?! I sincerely hope that you've included me in your will--because I could use a small inheritance in the next few weeks.

In the spirit of the holiday, I must sign off. I apologize for the short post, but I still have one Tip n' Toot Tractor, two tubes of toothpaste, and four cases of windshield washer fluid to wrap.

Merry Christmas, Troops!