March 31, 2009
I'll be back in a week! In the mean time, you can read the post about changing the doorknobs over and over again, each time focusing on how grateful you are for not being married to me.
I'll post pictures of the cruise when I get back into town next week. Now where'd I put that passport?
(The whole vacation thing is a total and complete lie to myself...Such a lie. But I really will be gone.)
The Invitation
March 27, 2009Okay, no more hanging tight. I promised that you'd get a post about the country club yesterday afternoon and you're getting the post 24-hours later. Not too shabby if I do say so myself.
On Wednesday afternoon, I got a call on my cell phone from a gentleman whose name I've heard around town.
"Hello Mrs. Lawson," he asked?
"Um yeah. This is Amy," I said.
"My name is Tom McDonnough, and I'm the chairman of the membership committee at the local country club. I'm calling to find out if you and Dr. Lawson might be interested in joining this year."
Obviously, when they decided to extend the invitation, the membership committee had no idea that Dr. Lawson and I drive a rusted out 1989 Blazer with a smoking tailpipe problem. And our good car? Yeah, it's got one hubcap.
"You know," I replied, "Dr. Lawson isn't much for golfing, but thank you for the invitation."
"Well then," Tom continued, "perhaps you might be interested in purchasing a social membership to the country club this season?"
At this point I'm thinking, 'Well I can fart on command...I wonder if the other members might like to get to know me a little bit better.'
"And I think you'll find the membership fee quite reasonable," he offered.
By now I'm thinking, 'Well, if your country club has some sort of a sliding fee scale, then maybe it will fit our budget after all!'
"The social membership," he continued, "will entitle you and the doctor to unlimited use of our private beach, tennis, and use of our restaurant."
And then, in 100% seriousness I asked, "Does your country club have an all-you-can-eat buffet?" Dude. What? I wanted to know.
My question was followed by silence. So I asked again. "Tom? Does the country club have an all-you-can-eat buffet?"
"I'm sorry Mrs. Lawson," he said. "It doesn't."
"Then we're really not interested, but thank you for calling."
And just like that the conversation was over. I didn't even have the chance to ask if the restaurant accepts food stamps...or if dogs are allowed on the beach...or if the dress code would prohibit me from wearing my ass-shorts.
Honestly, I think Tom has a better chance of getting Ferdinand the Giant to join his country club that Dr. and Mrs. Lawson. Hell, Dr. and Mrs. Lawson aren't even classy enough to rake their own yard. Or give their kid regular baths. Or wear pants to the grocery store.
(If you're really feeling like a slacker today, there's another new post down there...)
A Little Bit of Crazy
March 27, 2009According to my cousin Bonnie, Jared and I have conflicting astrological signs. Aside from my daily horoscope in the Maine Times, I have to admit that I know almost nothing about astrology, but based on my daily marital interactions, I'd have to say that Bonnie hit the nail right on the head.
Conflicting astrological signs, conflicting personalities, conflicting priorities--I'm not sure exactly which one causes the root of our household craziness, but rest assured my friends, something is conflicting.
Bonnie claims that I am a fire sign and Jared is a water sign. Bottom line is this...when you put the two of us together, he really knows how to steam me and I have dreams of sticking his skinny little backside right into our flaming toaster oven. I shouldn't be surprised if Jared ever breaks down and gives me a swirly in the guest toilet, and he might think about investing in some flame retardant pajamas.
Yup. That's us.
Well let me tell you, our suns and moons must have been all lined up yesterday because dude, for twelve or so hours, our marriage was straight up insane. For your guilty reading pleasure, I will recount the events of the day in the most respectful way that I know how.
7:24 am: Jared and Amy have a fight.
7:57 am: Jared and Amy go to their respective places of employment.
9:00 am: Amy texts Jared--DON'T BOTHER COMING HOME TONIGHT. I MEAN IT.
10:01 am: Amy texts Jared--WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR DINNER TONIGHT?
10:03 am: Amy texts Jared--I TAKE THAT BACK. WHAT I MEANT TO SAY WAS DON'T COME HOME TONIGHT. I STILL MEAN IT.
1:15 pm: Due to Jared's lack of response, Amy gets frustrated. As a result, Amy decides to change all of the locks on the doors so Jared will never come home again.
Yes, you read that last entry correctly. Around 1:15 pm, I squealed into the parking lot of Ace Hardware with the full intention of changing every last darn lock on our house. I mean seriously, if that doesn't send the message of "I'm mad at you," then what does?
So I marched into Ace Hardware and the owner, 84-year-old Ernie says, "Hello, de-ah. May I help ya?"
"Yes Ernie," I replied. "I need to know where your doorknobs are. Point me in the right direction."
Ernie waved his hand, giving me the international symbol for "follow me," and led me toward aisle 4.
"So de-ah," he asked. "Is ya lockin' yo-ah husbin out da house?"
"Yes I am," I offered back. "He can go live with his mother and father, Ernie."
Since Ernie's daughter happens to live on my street, he was all too aware of the exterior layout of my home. Without any discussion whatsoever, Ernie handed me a three pack of knobs and said, "That'll do de-ah."
And just like that, I was headed home, down the hill on Main Street, more than ready to show my husband that this time, I absolutely meant business. I pulled Jared's tool bag out of the workshop and promptly proceeded to remove every door handle on the first floor. And then, feeling like a bit of a cross between Gloria Steinem and Handy Manny, I attempted to replace the first doorknob.
The key word in that last sentence was 'attempted.'
Ladies and gentlemen, at this moment, I would like to make something very, very clear...changing a doorknob is far more complicated than it might seem. Like basically verging on impossible. For the next twenty minutes I wiggled and I hammered, I drilled and I yanked. And you know what? That stupid freaking doorknob refused to be installed.
There I was, sitting on my kitchen floor, three gaping holes to the outdoors, utterly and completely defeated. So, I did the only logical thing that a girl like me could do. I called my friend Jen and talked her into getting some fried chicken and ice cream.
And just like that, after a few bites of french fries and ketchup, I could barely remember what Jared and I had been fighting about. Jared, on the other hand, had forgotten about the fight sometime around 8:15 that morning. That's why he was so confused when came home to an empty house, with no door handles, and a kitchen table piled high with all sorts of assorted non-sensical hardware.
He called me at the restaurant and was like, "Hey, I'm gonna go hang out with my mom for a while tonight. What'd you do to the doors?"
I was like, "Okay. Bye hon!" But when I hung up and closed my phone, I was all, "THAT'S RIGHT! YOU CAN GO TO YOUR MOM BECAUSE YOU'RE NOT WELCOME IN MY HOUSE ANYMORE. SUCKER!"
My friend Jen was like, "Dude. You're crazy. Do you know that?"
And I was like, "I know. Sometimes I get so mad at myself for being who I am."
And Jared? When Jared came home last night he kissed me on the forehead and said, "Amy, you keep my life exciting..."
He's right. I do.
Two years ago, our marriage counselor told us that he wasn't at all worried about the long term viability of our marriage--after all, Jared and I are extraordinarily passionate toward one another. It's the couples who describe themselves as 'content' that need to be worried. So what if we want to hurl each other off a bridge 12% of the time? The other 88% of the time is spent being madly and passionately happy--and those are the times that count.
"And if I do throw him off of a bridge," I said, "my next husband will be deaf and I swear on all things holy that I will never even try to learn sign language."
"And I," Jared continued, "will just be happy to be in heaven."
I believe that was the day that our marriage counselor released us from his care.
A few months later, our Bishop signed us up for a strengthening marriage class at the church building. Well let me tell you, we got into a rousing fight about a pencil holder during the very first thirty minutes of the very first class.
By the end of the Strengthening Marriage series, Jared and I came to one mutual conclusion...Eternal marriage (a concept that is more than stressed in our religion), is far too overwhelming of an idea for us to handle at this point in time. For now, we'll just do our best to swallow the urge to key one another's cars.
Hang Tight
March 26, 2009
Hang tight you guys...I have a post for this afternoon. All I have to do is get through a couple of meetings first. And just so you know, my day is off to a pooptastic start.
Work hard, everyone!
Hang tight you guys...I have a post for this afternoon. All I have to do is get through a couple of meetings first. And just so you know, my day is off to a pooptastic start.
Work hard, everyone!
Out of the Rotation
March 24, 2009
Today I've stumbled across some unexpected free time in between two meetings. And really now, what's better to do with my spare minutes than make myself a peanut butter and bacon sandwich, a tall glass of chocolate milk, and write a load of flaming crapola for the world to read?
I've said it once and I'll say it again--life is good.
I really don't have much to write bout this fine Tuesday morning. My dog is having bowel trouble, my husband is in a major funk due to his brother leaving, and James? Well, James is just a big, happy boy.
I took him to the pediatrician last week who flatly informed me that James is still in the 95th percentile for height and weight. "Now what about looks," I asked casually? "Is he also in the 95th percentile for looks?"
Blank stare.
"Well," I continued on, "with that poofy hair and his super skinny arms, I just assumed he'd be at the top of the charts for good looks, too."
Blank stare.
"That was called a joke," I wanted to say. "We're you hatched from an egg or something?"
But I didn't, because I have social skills.
After the pediatrician, we stopped by the grocery store to pick up a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and six or seven apples. When I got to the check out, I was greeted by an overly giggly lady who was bagging the goods. She looked at James and asked, "How old are you?"
"I'm fwee," he responded.
The bagger looked at me and laughed the words, "Wow? He's only three? That's one big boy you've got there!"
And at that moment, before I really had the chance to think it through, I heard myself say, "Oh yeah--95th percentile for height, weight, and good looks." Why the hell not, right?
The bagger looked up at me with wide eyes and pursed lips in silence. Then, just as though she had packed one too many canned goods inside of a plastic bag, causing the bottom to give out and oranges to spill all over the linoleum, this woman lost her cool.
There she was, head leaned against the rack of plastic bags, left foot stomping, laughing like a hyena on ecstasy, holding up the palm of her hand as if to say, "Stop! Stop! I can't take it for another second!"
"Okay," I thought. "I'll stop! You're crazy! Every one's looking at me! I'm stopping!"
But she wasn't. This lady went on, and on, and on with the up-cracking until I finally pocketed my change, grabbed James by the hand, and broke into a light jog to escape through the automatic doors.
And it's official, that joke sucks and I vow never to tell it again.
Today I've stumbled across some unexpected free time in between two meetings. And really now, what's better to do with my spare minutes than make myself a peanut butter and bacon sandwich, a tall glass of chocolate milk, and write a load of flaming crapola for the world to read?
I've said it once and I'll say it again--life is good.
I really don't have much to write bout this fine Tuesday morning. My dog is having bowel trouble, my husband is in a major funk due to his brother leaving, and James? Well, James is just a big, happy boy.
I took him to the pediatrician last week who flatly informed me that James is still in the 95th percentile for height and weight. "Now what about looks," I asked casually? "Is he also in the 95th percentile for looks?"
Blank stare.
"Well," I continued on, "with that poofy hair and his super skinny arms, I just assumed he'd be at the top of the charts for good looks, too."
Blank stare.
"That was called a joke," I wanted to say. "We're you hatched from an egg or something?"
But I didn't, because I have social skills.
After the pediatrician, we stopped by the grocery store to pick up a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread, and six or seven apples. When I got to the check out, I was greeted by an overly giggly lady who was bagging the goods. She looked at James and asked, "How old are you?"
"I'm fwee," he responded.
The bagger looked at me and laughed the words, "Wow? He's only three? That's one big boy you've got there!"
And at that moment, before I really had the chance to think it through, I heard myself say, "Oh yeah--95th percentile for height, weight, and good looks." Why the hell not, right?
The bagger looked up at me with wide eyes and pursed lips in silence. Then, just as though she had packed one too many canned goods inside of a plastic bag, causing the bottom to give out and oranges to spill all over the linoleum, this woman lost her cool.
There she was, head leaned against the rack of plastic bags, left foot stomping, laughing like a hyena on ecstasy, holding up the palm of her hand as if to say, "Stop! Stop! I can't take it for another second!"
"Okay," I thought. "I'll stop! You're crazy! Every one's looking at me! I'm stopping!"
But she wasn't. This lady went on, and on, and on with the up-cracking until I finally pocketed my change, grabbed James by the hand, and broke into a light jog to escape through the automatic doors.
And it's official, that joke sucks and I vow never to tell it again.
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