The Lawsons did Dallas!

Things that Piss Us Off Thursday: Volume Something

2012-01-26T08:28:00.000-06:00

January 26, 2012

Wow, I need this like a fish needs frigging water. So, without further ado, here's what's pissing me off today (and maybe for the last month):

1) When things get overly complicated within groups of people. In other words, drama. Ech. I even hate just typing that work.

2) Crappy snow at the end of January. In the Lawson family, we're all happier when we can ski a little.

3) Solicitations for who-knows-what on my work phone line. I actually feel a mini adrenaline rush when I hang up on them.

4) Super slow internet with really spotty wireless.

5) The fact that I'm too lazy to call about the super slow internet with really spotty wireless.

6) My own disorganization.

There, that felt good. Now it's your turn.

Aaaaaaaand go!

God Does Toe Raises Every Single Day

2012-01-25T20:01:00.001-06:00

Right now, I'm sitting on a pile of mats in the brand new studio thinking to myself, "Wow, what just happened?"

And I guarentee you that Jared's sitting at home, in his recliner thinking, "Wow, where the hell is she? We need to watch some Pawn Stars on Netflix."

In case you didn't pick up on it in the pictures down there, the new studio is right next door to Jared's four-year-old chiropractic office. So far, I can't lie, the getting-used-to-it phase has been kind of tough. I've essentially edged in on a part of his life that used to be just his.

Our kids are in and out of his office more than they ever used to be--and by that, I mean, that James does laps through the treatment area on his scooter since the spaces connect in the front and in the back.

We've had approximately one million squabbles over lost staplers, messy bathrooms (we share 'em), walking in on each others' clients, a misplaced broom...you get it.

I just hope it all evens out.

I don't want to be in Jared's way. I don't want to drive him crazy, and I don't want him to wish I was somewhere in Asia. I want to leave each other alone, occassionally wave at each other through our front doors, and have three to five nooners every week.

I also want him to pay for my window washing, because I think that would be super sweet.

I honestly, with every fiber of my being think it will turn into that, but for now, we're ironing out our growing pains. I hate growing pains.

This might sound silly--and I'm sorry, you're probably thinking WOMAN, CAN YOU TALK ABOUT SOMETHING ELSE?--but I can't believe this is happening. I love what I'm doing so so much, and honestly, I've never even felt adequate at a job before. So to come in here and have the chance to do a good job every single day? I love it so much.

This was never my dream. I never thought running would or could be a business. I never thought I'd be a personal trainer, ever. And I especially never thought I'd have a career outside of a cubicle with a desk and a Dell.

But this is where I've been led. And I really think I've been led.

I feel like it's kind of stupid to say something like, "This is what God wants me to do." Because a) With the exception of prostitution, does God really care what I do to make a buck? and b) Why would God care about exercise?

But you know what? I've never felt so guided in my life. Other than getting married and deciding to have kids, I've rarely felt like God was guiding me in any direction all. I've always felt like he was all, "They're all good ideas, Amy. Do what you want, my blessed child."

This time, it's different. Because it feels like I'm supposed to be helping people learn how to do a nice squat. And I've learned that God does care about what I do, and I really think God likes exercise, too.

And as a side note, if I had to guess, Jesus Christ was probably a runner. Possibly a swimmer, but DEFINITELY not a power lifter, just sayin'.

When it comes to religion, I know I'm usually not much more than the Mormon who likes to swear. But go ahead, now you can add 'the Mormon who thinks Heavenly Father is doing some one-legged toe raises under than flowing robe thingy.' Because HE IS.

I'm hoping beyond hope that this all works out. That Kennebec Valley Coaching can put some food in our bellies, and make people in Central Maine healthier and happier.

Yesterday, I was driving to get Maggie and I saw a runner coming toward me on the side of the road. She looked lean, and strong, and fast. And when I got closer, I realized she was a Kennebec Valley Coacher. She joined the Couch to 5k group last summer, and now she's out of a six-miler on a random winter day.

It made me cry.

So thanks for the patience these last few months. I hope I can write here more often these days. And I promise, it won't just be about the business venture.

Although I did minorly pee in my pants tonight during a tough round of squat jumps.

Happens to the best of us.

Thanks.

The Latest Online Fitness Challenge

2012-01-25T07:30:00.001-06:00

And while we're on the subject of Kennebec Valley Coaching...

If you're on facebook, and you're looking for a little bit of motivation to improve your diet and exercise situations, check this out:

It's $15, and you can register here.

There are 2 different parts to the challenge. You can try for 1, or try for both.

The 1st option is the diet option. We're shooting to follow the 90/10 rule of eating. 90% pure, unprocessed, single ingredient foods (obviously you can cook and mix single ingredient foods together). And 10% whatever you want.

The 2nd option is the exercise option. We're aiming for 20 minutes a day, every day in February.

Everyone will set a motivator to help get them through the month. Maybe buy a cute, new dress that's a leeetle bit tight. Schedule a boudoir photo shoot for yourself. Buy a new belt to keep you motivated. Shoot to run a 5k race. You get the idea.

At the end, we'll pick a winner from each category.

The last challenge was super fun. One winner ran over 150 miles between Thanksgiving and January, and the other winner lost 9 pounds.

That could be you! And all it takes is a little online fitness challenge...

Come on, we're SO fun. Really, we are.

I Swear I Have a Good Excuse

2012-01-24T17:09:00.001-06:00

I know. It's been six weeks. I swear I've been really busy.

Photographic evidence:

The greatest ginormous chalk board in all of Central Maine.

A map to represent some of the far away Kennebec Valley Coachers. I still have four spots open for individual coachees if anyone's interested. $5/month blog reader discount!

You can have James if you'll come paint that trim for me. No, not joking.

The legends.

It can say OPEN, too. Get it?

Studio on the right, Jared's chiropractic office on the left. So far so good...only four screamfests over office supplies!

It's says 'Endurance Coaching for Everyday People.'

It's a group training studio. Running goups, triathlon classes, pilates, boot camps, aerobics, you name it. A work in progress, and I'm in love. If you want to stalk more closely, you can 'like' Kennebec Valley Coaching on facebook.

Run Muffin

2011-12-06T12:00:00.004-06:00

December 6, 2011

For a while, I was thinking I was in the market for a new job. Because remember? I have that top secret job that I never ever talk about? Well, I thought maybe it was time to look around. That's where all the "I think I'm taking this blog down and starting a secret blog" crapola came from. So I'd be less Googleable. Because that really is a word these days.

Then I had two realizations:

1) I like my job a lot and I'm not ready or dying to work full-time. Deep in my heart, I want to be around for Maggie to kick me in the shins and claw at my hair like a ravenous eagle when I won't give her a chip.

2) If I applied for a new job and they decided not to hire me because I have a used-to-be-funny blog, then they stink and I don't want to work for them anyway.

So there's that explanation.

Plus, Kennebec Valley Coaching has been getting busier and I want to keep going with that flow.

Because that new aspect of my life is starting to take shape, I decided it needs its own blog. It has a website, and it has fantabulous people, but no blog. So I made a new blog. It's called Run Muffin. So far it has 2 posts, 0 comments, and 0 followers. Isn't that rad? I mean can't you see what you're missing out on? Let's just say it's a lot.

The idea of the blog is the same idea as all of my fitness stuff...real fitness for normal people. And so far, if you want to learn more about High Intensity Interval Training or what I ate today, it's totally the hot place to be. I'll also use it as a place to highlight some of my coachees' successes, and talk about spaghetti.

Tomorrow's post might be about baby weight or those soft caramel candies with the white dot in the middle. You'll just have to wait and see.

But most importantly, it features a hot dog in the header to help keep a consistent look in my life. You know-- hot dog in the header, hot dog in the belly, hot dog on the mind....and so on and so forth.

Big Ass Painting Woops

2011-11-22T09:28:00.000-06:00

November 22, 2011

My Dad is one of those guys who can fix anything. Anything.

He rebuilds cars, he fixes boat engines, he paints, he remodels, he lays carpet, and I when I was a child, I kid you not, he put an addition on our house by himself. Literally, all by himself. There was no architect, there were no subcontractors. The only help he ever had was for one hour, when a few of friends came over to help him heft the ginormous supporting joist in exchange for a couple of Busch Beers.Other than that, the family room was built el-solo.

It's funny how life patterns itself, because I also have a husband who likes to do things all by himself. Such as hunt, fish, wipe, and sleep when he pisses me off.

They do say you marry your father!

My father was blessed with a daughter who happens to be a whole lot of fun, but also a sh$%-a$$-cluster-$%^& of a mess. Thanks to the Mormon religion, I'm not an alcoholic. And thanks to the pure Grace of God and a Southern friend who likes to pop by unexpectedly, I'm not a hoarder. But I will admit, every time I watch that show, I fell really really bad for those people...like the hoarders are being wronged.

Because they are.

You can hear me desperately pleading with the TV waves. I'm like, "No, please, don't. Please let her keep the vintage jar of beans and the doll with no head. Please. They MEAN SOMETHING TO HER."

I also think my toothbrush has feelings.

Anyhoo, I'm a completely disorganized mess, and as such, I rarely finish a home-repair project beyond 90%. You can see 'em all over my house. Every room has a gem or two. And Jared's probably worse. Even if I do the first 90% of the project completely on my own, he refuses to participate in any portion of the final 10.

If I say, "Jared, I just ripped out this closet, re-sheetrocked, painted, stenciled, and showered it with pixie dust. Can you hang these hooks?" He'll go, "You got us into this mess, now you get us out of this mess. Where's my dog?"

Then I start hating him, and I consciously decide not the hang the hooks, because I want a constant reminder of how much he sucks ever time I try to hang my coat and it slumps to the ground.

(What's that? You need marriage advice? Call me!)

Anyhoo, my parents are rolling into town any minute, and I decided I absolutely had to complete two unfinished painting projects before my father sets eyes on my house and has to give himself a pep-talk about unconditional love. I had to:

1) Paint the ceiling in the mudroom, and

2) Paint the trim in the upstairs hallway.

The mudroom's done. It went fine. Actually, it's not done. There's a little hole in the wall, and it really needs a second coat of paint that it'll never get. See? Done. But the upstairs hallway? Let's just say it is, was, and will be the biggest painting oops of my entire time on this planet. And probably the eternities after.

This is the upstairs hallway. Not too long ago (in honor of Gracie's death if we're being perfectly honest), we put down new floors. Sweet old greyhound, she used to like to take long, giant pees up there just to remind us that she only kind of liked us. So, about forty-five minutes after she died, through my sobs, wails, and hyperventilation, I was like, "What's...sob, sob, cry...the budget...sob, sob, sob...for when I go...heave, heave, cry...floor shopping tomorrow?"

Very sad moment. Still tears me up just a splash.

So, we laid new floors, we replaced the trim, and we painted the walls. Only I was too cheap to buy brand new paint for such a small area, so I mixed some dark beige and some light beige and made just enough medium beige to cover the walls. And by the way, I know. It's a lot of beige.

So I painted the walls, and Jared put up the trim.

And it needed to be painted.

And two months later it still needed to be painted.

And one month later, when by dad was just about to visit, it still needed to be painted.

So I painted it.

But when I painted it, I got just a little bit of white paint on the wall. No biggie, I'd cover it up with my homemade medium beige.

So I did.

Except it wasn't beige. I'm apparently really stupid in dim places, because it was actually white. See?

I'm all out of my homemade beige. Well I wasn't out of homemade beige, but I was getting emotionally attached to the almost empty can, calling it 'Uncle' and stuff, so Jared threw it away. I never knew.

So my homemade color is gone, and I can't really waltz over to the paint store and go, "Whip me up one gallon of hocus-pocus medium beige," while I wiggle my fingers to make the scene look at magical.

I can't very well bring an entire wall and have it colored matched either.

My only alternative is to repaint the ENTIRE HALLWAY. And really, how long do you think that'll take?

I give it a year. I'm sorry Dad.

Bun Topples

2011-11-16T12:11:00.001-06:00

November 16, 2011

So I suck at the everyday thankful posts. ARE YOU HONESTLY SURPRISED?!

I didn't think so.

The truth is, I'm thankful for a lot of things. Things like my mom, and my dad, and my kids who are so inappropriately cute that it's almost painful to look at them with the naked eye. Those kinds of things.

I'm also thankful for The Sister Wives (we have a new TV and how fracking cute/sweet/normal/crrrazy are they?), and that I passed the personal trainer certification test last Friday. Because holy shiz, that thing was hard. I'm not a science-minded kind of girl, so the fact that the direction your pelvis tilts is related to the strength of your hamstrings is attached to the flexibility of your lower back makes about as much sense to me as this sentence:

I sweater on top the next day's frosted bun topples minute.

Just imagine one-hundred-fifty of these sentences with a question mark at the end and four different choices.

But somehow, by the Grace of God, the favors of my mother, and the gajillion tutorials from Jared, I passed. When that passing score popped up on the computer screen, I looked up at the proctor all teary-eyed and whispered, "I passed." She gave me a brief little should hug and said, "Congratulations. You'll be a great TSA agent."

I actually think it was the short, balding guy in the work boots who was taking the TSA agent test, which is fine--he looked more than innocent enough to pat me down.

And with that, I'll leave you with a random smattering of pictures from my memory card.

My friend Misty holding a cake:

One of my dearest friend Megan wearing a ball gown in a bowling alley:

Cutie kids on Halloween. That cowboy costume was one of the first-ever posts on this blog:

My Train for the Trot runners. I smell a lot of Thanksgiving Day PRs coming on:

And my pregnant friends Marcie and Nicole on Halloween. Actually, Marcie popped out an 11 pound 10 ounce baby yesterday:

Hope you're having a good Wednesday!

Thankful Day Three

2011-11-03T07:35:00.000-06:00

November 3, 2011

Today I'm thankful that my biggest problems are:

1) I can't find my cell phone and it's out of batteries so I can't find it.
2) I can't find my keys to Jared's office.
3) I keep forgetting to return our Red Box movies, and I think I'm up to $8.

As far as problems go, those aren't really problems at all. I'm a hyper-disorganized, disgusting slob. Very grateful that that's the extent of it.

Thankful Day Two

2011-11-02T12:09:00.000-06:00

November 2, 2011

Today I'm grateful for the Holiday Ham Hock Super Challenge.

What? You don't know what that is? This is news to you?

I'm just kidding. I made it up in a moment of insomnia last night, so it's news to me, too. Here's my graphic:

This is a facebook challenge open to every single member of the human race who has an internet connection. It's $15 to sign up, and half of all proceeds will go to the Dallas chapter of Back on My Feet. Why the Dallas Chapter? Because once upon a time, The Lawsons did Dallas! Remember?

There are three prizes up for grabs, and they're all the same. A free registation to any of Kennebec Valley Coaching's 2012 training groups, or a free month of individual coaching (in-person or online). You can win by a) running the most miles, b) losing the most poundage, or c) being the most enthusiastic exerciser and healthy eater.

If you're some kind of weirdo robot and you already run 100+ miles every December because you hate pie, then maybe this challenge isn't for you. It's more geared toward those of us who want to sleep with pie and have it's handsome, little pie babies. Or newish runners--it's perfect for them, too.

Sign-up's right over here. Starts the day after Thanksgiving and runs through January 1st.

Thankful to be able to organize these things. It's way too damn much fun.

Thankful Day One

2011-11-01T16:49:00.000-06:00

November 1, 2011

Today, I'm thankful to have an attorney in the family. Smart as hell, this one:

Seriously, you should get a lawyer in your family, too.

Oh, and wait. You need a super well-priced, over-achieving, work-his-brains-out attorney who's lisenced in Maine and New Hampshire? I have his number.

Potential Overhaul

2011-10-26T12:53:00.000-06:00

October 26, 2011

What's the deal with the human lure toward ugly things? Ugly dogs, ugly patterns, ugly pumpkins, ugly cars--people like ugly. And lately I'm absolutely obsessed with an ugly little storefront that's down the street from Jared. Do I feel bad for it? Do I want to mother it?

I don't know, but I take that back. It's not ugly, it's tired. No, exhausted. And I feel like it's an egg (a wood-panelled egg), and my dreams are swooshing around inside of it, waiting to BURST OUT like a butterfly, catch a draft on a moonbeam, and glitter my life with heaven dust. Except butterflies don't hatch from eggs, which is fine.

Did I mention that it's also an Art-Deco egg? I love Art-Deco.

Back in the day, this place must have been a little dress shop--at least that's what the storefront windows make me think. A dress shop or a hat shop, but either way, a place where fabulous ladies shopped. I don't know what it's been lately, but I think I know what it's about to become, and damn. Just damn.

I haven't been all the way through this space, but I'm planning to get in there today or tomorrow--when I can really peel back some carpet, and pull down some paneling, and see if there's cool looking duct work up above the drop ceiling.

Right now, the potential is completely in my imagination, which is an okay place to start. In my imagination, the space runs all the way to the back of the building. In my imagination, the space has old wood floors that I can paint. And in my imagination, I'll be able to afford an awning by spring.

In reality, I know that if only one of my imagined scenarios is true, I'm a lucky duck.

So. Can anyone out there tell me an amazing transoformation story? A house your remodeled? A barn you saved? A rust bucket car you restored? How you learned to use a hammer? All for fifty bucks?

Sometimes I forget that we overhauled Jared's office, and a tiny little house back in 2003.

What have you overhauled?

D-U-N and a Win!

2011-10-21T10:49:00.001-06:00

October 21, 2011

I'm done teaching seminary. If you're confused, 'seminary' is Mormon for the-class-of-ten-teenagers-that-meets-at-my-house-every-morning-from-6:10-7-to-learn-about-the-Old-Testament.

When I say, I'm done, it doesn't mean I'm having a hard time, feeling pretty overwhelmed, and may or may not want to hurl myself out the one-and-a-half story window of a raised-ranch. I'm done means that's how I felt a month ago, so I went to my Bishop, asked him for access to said window, and he told me they'd find someone new.

And today was the last day.

Now Ben DP Sue K (CES), I don't know the details, (and yes, I'm ~~kind of~~ avoiding your calls on purpose), but I do know that the kids showed up at my door this morning with muffins, signs, and bacon. And in my world, that's what I call one hell of a send-off party.

Typically, Mormons don't ask to be done with a job like this. They keep going, and going, and smiling, and being awesome, and faithful, and taking high blood pressure medication. But honestly, my umph was straight up gone. In the words of Dooce, "The Mormon Pioneers are not impressed."

But right now, on the record, I want to make it known that IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THE STUDENTS.If James and Maggie turn out to be like any one of those kids (Christa, Emma, Thomas, Otis, Caitlynn, Corena, Chelcie, Jabob, Teearna, Shelby), I'll consider myself a raging success of a mother. They were polite, hilarious, enthusiastic, and gave me tons of compliments. I love those kids.

The reason I decided to give it up is simple: I had too many things going on at once.

I've been waking up at 3:30 or 4 (not because I try to, but because I can't help it), teaching seminary, working a professional job, coaching60+ runners, momming, selling Cub Scout popcorn, morning meetings, night meetings...you get the idea. These days, Jared works until 6:30ish at night, and I kid you not, I was going to bed at 7:45.

I really, really, REALLY started missing my husband. Kind of.

I also got tired of pounding a Red Bull at 2 o'clock every afternoon. No, actually I've been loving it too much.

I also think I had two panic attacks in a day one time. Well, I don't know much about panic attacks, but if it feels like it's 700 degrees, you're about to drive off the road, and a huge man is squeezing your heart muscle with his bare hands, that's maybe what I had.

Something had to give. Luckily, my new church-job is teaching teenage Sunday School. Same kids, once a week, normal hour, blam. So perfect it makes me wanna fart.

In more better news, I won a race two weekends ago, and FINALLY got a decent picture out of it:

Well, it's a decent picture in my world.

It was a four mile race. Two miles up Sunday River ski mountain, and two miles down with a mud pit at the end. It was really freaking fun, but really, when is a medal not fun?

I've been a ginormous, lazy ass since that race, so it's time to get back on the exercise wagon. Now that seminary is over, I want to try to make running a more regular piece of my day again. My goal is to run at least thirty minutes every day between now and Thanksgiving.

Starting tomorrow.

Oh, and I'm running a biathlon this weeked with my mom. Because running and .22ing? Heaven has officially landed on earth.

Jumping In

2011-10-04T12:31:00.000-06:00

October 4, 2011

This past weekend I went to Connecticut for for a USA Track & Field conference. It wasn't fun. It was more like 5:30-10 on Friday, 8-9 (with NO DINNER BREAK!!!) on Saturday, and 8-4:30 on Sunday. In my world, anything that has no dinner break, has a 0% chance of being fun.

But I learned a lot. A whole lot.

If you have questions about the pole vault, or the hammer throw, or the long jump, or the 100 hurdles, I'm your girl. Actually, don't ask me about the hurdles. I skipped that section and gave myself and damn freaking dinner break.

So, if you want to know about the hurdles, I say this: Don't do the hurdles. They look dangerous...and hard...and have too much potential for accidentally ripping your genitals right off your body frame.

I also learned a whole mess of new stuff about distance running. Most of it involved superbly complex math like adding fractions and figuring out percentages, and I'm still like whoa, because honestly, I don't remember how to add fractions.

Jared mentioned something about common denominators. But he's full of crap, I just need an iPhone with a Third Grade Math app to do that kind of figuring-out. I could also use an iPhone for my self esteem.

The highlight of the weekend was probably this guy:

Aside from being a ridiiiiiiculous stud, he was insanely smart. His name is Mike Young, and you can read about him here. He was almost worth skipping dinner for--I actually would have skipped dinner if he did his presentation shirtless.

I also had the chance to pow wow with a guy who coaches world-class middle-distance runners. I was like, "Hi. I have a really funny running stride."

And he got, I kid you not, four inches from my face and said, "Oh yeah, what's it like?"

So I took a step back and said, "Some people call it an egg beater stride."

And he stepped forward, maybe three inches from my face and said, "That's permanent. You can strengthen your hip flexors, but you really can't fix it."

So I said, "Thanks Coach!" and ran away.

I guess it's a lot like that close-talking disorder he has--you can't just magically turn it off.

After the class got out on Sunday, I had a five hour drive ahead of me, and man I was tired. I stopped around hour three for a visit, and to talk business with my mildly drunk dentist friend, and then kept plodding north. Then, right around hour four, I decided I had to have McDonald's fries IMMEDIATELY. So I drove twenty miles to the next exit (seriously, I live in Maine, they really are that far apart), and got my fries.

And here's where the story turns heartbreaking.

It was 10:30 on a Sunday night, I had my fries, I had a good song on the radio, and I had a renewed sense of faith in humanity. And then, I accidentally got on the highway going in the wrong direction. The. Wrong. Direction.

I dealt with the pain by yelling @#$%!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! as soon as I realized what I'd done. Then I dealt with the pain by eating my bucket of fries in three minutes. Honestly? That helped.

I drove the extra forty miles, got home in the middle of the night, curled up next to Jared and whispered, "Babe, this is it."

Because you know what? This is it. Coaching? Training? Motivating? Fitness? Helping people realize they can do what they always thought was impossible? I've never felt so comfortable/motivated/excited/challenged in my life.

As long as I can keep my muffin top, this is exactly where I want to be. The world might not need another Jillian Michaels, but maybe Central Maine needs an Amy Lawson. We'll find out. (!)

A Nagging Old Hag

2011-09-27T10:06:00.000-06:00

September 27, 2011

Today I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Not the Oops! I spilled my chocolate milk! side of the bed, the really, really wrong side of the bed.

I spent the night tossing and turning, and when I did doze off for a minute or two, I was dreaming about A) snakes, or B) the teenagers I teach from church. Now don't get me wrong, I love these teenagers madly, but I see them in my living room every morning at 6 o'clock, we really don't need to frolic in my dreams.

So when the alarm went off at 5, and I rolled out of bed, I was feeling much less than fresh. I was jealous that Jared was still sleeping, I was annoyed that Tuesdays are work days, I was beyond frustrated when I heard Maggie fuss, and I kind of felt like throwing a cinder block--you know, just because.

After seminary was over and the kids filed out, Jared rolled out of bed. He walked down the hall yawning, stretching his arms over his head and let out a sleepy, but happy good morning.

Instead of a hug and a kiss, or a Hey J, or a smile and a wave, I laid right into him. "Remember how you crapped on me for never picking up after myself?" I prodded, "Well you made popcorn last night and didn't pick up any of it."

He said, "You're right. I'm sorry. I'll pick it up."

And then, still feeling pretty combative, I launched into a dramatic soliloquy about our evil bills and their impending, fiery due dates.

Now, three hours later, I'm sitting at my desk, with my head in my hands, asking myself why I have to be so mean. But not only that, why do I have to be so mean to Jared?

Hey you over there. Yeah you. The one who's my loyal husband and the devoted father to our kids. Come over her so I can CRAP ON YOUR HEAD.

Quite seriously, there are days when I'm embarrassed to be myself. I can't even muster up the energy to make excuses for myself--I just suck.

Last night, I rocked both of my kids before bed, and I'm not even kidding when I tell you that we sang along to a song called I'm Trying to be Like Jesus. You know--kind, patient, loving, understanding, helpful, self-controlled, forgiving, and one million other fabulous characteristics.

Then this morning I was all, "Hey kids, watch this! Mommy will now show you the opposite of being like Jesus. And she will use your father as a prop!"

The bottom line is: I AM SUCH A BLOW HOLE.

And there's an addendum to the bottom line: Even if your car is being repossessed while your dog falls into a pit of quick sand, and your jello mold cracks down the middle while a 2,000 pound bag of rocks falls onto your newly re-shingled roof, BEING CRAPPY TO YOUR SPOUSE WON'T HELP ANY OF IT.

So today, right now, I'm recommitting to live a life that's more like the life of Jesus--especially in my dealings with Jared.

1) We will start by having fishes for dinner tonight. I have a whole bag of frozen fishes from Trader Joe's, so this line item works particularly well.
2) I'll remember that Jared's doing his very best.
3) I won't raise my voice or push his crap around unless he's selling discounted iPads at the Temple--which I've never seen him do.
4) I'll stop being selfish and greedy and stingy--because if I'm being straight up honest, I'd LOVE to roll around naked in a big pile of $50 bills.
5) I'll be a team player, because somewhere in the scriptures I think it says something about a house divided collapses on your head, and believe me that is the LAST thing we need right now.
6) If I feel like being wretched, I'll say some prayers and hope it changes my mind.
7) If it doesn't change my mind, I'll remember that Jesus wasn't wretched.
8) I'll do some extra service for Jared--like fold his laundry or clean his shotgun.
9) I won't pick on him for things I'm equally bad, or worse at.
10) I'll just be nicer.

I'll probably skip the part where I preach to him and call him to repentance. Actually, I've been doing that for a while, and it's not effective.

Are you wretched sometimes, too? Any other tips for being less of a nagging old hag, and more of a helpful loving wife? I could use 'em.

A Straight Up Day Maker

2011-09-16T11:08:00.001-06:00

September 16, 2011

On Wednesday, a nice man with a camera showed up to my stroller fitness class, which had a lot of the moms buzzing...Is he a pervert?...Is he a creep?

I had to tell them no, and I was very sorry to disappoint--because we all know how much a group of sixteen women loooove a slice of drama on a weekday morning. He was a local newspaper reporter, and he was nice enough to come take a few pictures of the class I was teaching.

When he introduced himself, the first thing I said--and this is absolutely not a joke--was, "Joe, I'm wearing spandex. If a butt shot makes it into the paper, it's gotta be flattering." He nodded and said he wasn't sure the pictures would make it into the paper at all. Fair enough.

This morning I signed onto the newspaper's website, and the stroller pictures were the first thing to pop up on my screen. Holy excitement! Then I found out that the pictures had also made it to the front page of the actual paper--you know, the version that nobody reads anymore?! Holy more excitement!

I had Jared buy two copies from the grocery store, and I was thrilled to see that while I was under the very important story about toilets and bleachers (big news in these parts), I was above the story about the Governor:

After looking at the article, I noticed that I'm inadvertently wearing the same headband and shirt that I was wearing when the pictures were taken on Wednesday. It could be a silly coincidence, or it could be the fact that I wear this shirt every time I'm not wearing my blue sweater (the headband matches both outfits).

Also, I'm not positive that I've washed the shirt since Wednesday. Let's assume that I have.

Happy Friday!

I'm Not Boring, Day 5: Family Pictures

2011-09-08T18:39:00.000-06:00

September 8, 2011

Check it out. We had professional family pictures taken:

Um, der. Of course I wore the blue sweater:

I'm Not Boring, Day 4:

2011-09-06T11:32:00.000-06:00

September 6, 2011

I'm eating buffalo jerky for lunch.

Creepy/gross/effed up? Yes.

Boring? Definitely not.

I'm Not Boring, Day 3: Small Town Living

2011-09-03T08:33:00.001-06:00

September 2, 2011

I tried to post this yesterday, I swear I did. But my internet connection is just about as reliable as my diet plans.

Okay, so...

I live in a town without a stop light. Well, we actually have one blinking light--but the whole red, yellow, green thing? Not so much. There's a total of nine towns in our region, and if you add 'em all up, we have one stop light between all of us.

Honestly, I'm not sure if the no stop light thing makes me more average or more unique than most Americans, but usually when my non-neighbors hear about my state of living, they're all "Whaaaaaa? You don't have intersections???"

We definitely have intersections...hundreds of 'em, actually...we just don't have enough cars to make the intersections busy.

Now I shouldn't paint a picture that we live in a homemade log cabin in the middle of the wilderness. We're actually within fifteen miles of a Target and a TJ Maxx--and you totally go through a stoplight to get there. But a mall? I don't know, I think the closest mall is about seventy-five miles down the only highway in the state. And now that I think about it, I haven't been inside any mall since early 2009.

I totally, completely understand how this could feel confining to people, but for me, it's a total perfect fit. If anything, I'd like to live a little farther from town--maybe get some animals, and a milking pail, and a field full of dandelions, and giant boobs. (Giant boobs are awesomely appropriate for city or county living.)

Here's one example why:

Organic Sunflowers--not that I'm planning to chew and swallow these flowers, but organic farming is better for the environment no matter what you're growing. So seriously, how much do you think Whole Foods would charge for four organic sunflowers that are bigger than my [freakishly ginormous] head? I'm thinking $12 maybe? $13.99?

Well, up here in the middle of Maine, I paid fifty cents a piece. FIFTY CENTS A PIECE! I bought them from an unmanned bucket on the side of the road and put my money in a yogurt container. I love that. It's just so stinkin' sweet. And someday, when I find out that my kid dared someone to steal all the money from the yogurt container so they could buy thirteen Snickers at the gas station, I'll kill him.

I'm Not Boring, Day 2: The Blue Sweater

2011-09-01T07:01:00.000-06:00

September 1, 2011

Okay, so maybe the blue sweater is a little bit boring. But wait, it gets better. I bought it two Thursdays ago at Target, and so far, I've worn it ten out of the last fourteen days:

That's not a joke, that's not an exaggeration. Even Jared, the man who doesn't know the difference between the green and yellow Crayola crayons noticed the serial sweater-wearing. The man still can't wrap his mind around what makes a skirt a skirt and a dress a dress, but he knows that the blue sweater has gotten completely out of hand.

I'm not planning to stop this behavior. Not planning to wash the sweater, either. I have a testimony of the blue sweater.

Amen.

I'm Not Boring, Day 1: I Organized a Race!

2011-08-31T09:00:00.002-06:00

August 31, 2011

When I was entering that title, I accidentally typed the word 'rave' instead of 'race.' That would have been sooo much cooler. I mean I've never done those drugs, but I've heard they're awesome--makes you want to pet everything (furniture, appliances, broken glass, etc) like it's a kitten. That's mindbending to me. And seriously, can you even imagine how much glow-in-the-dark crap you'd have to order from Oriental Trading to make a rave a success? Me neither.

But clearly, a swearing Mormon like me would never organize a rave, so I opted for a race instead...a 5k race to be exact.

Here's a video of the Saturday's 3.1. Totally not boring...unless you think running, and overcoming obstacles, and grabbing your dreams squarely by the ass is boring. If you're that type, then don't waste your four minutes. But if you like a splash of inspiration on a Wednesday morning while you should be filing expense reports, go ahead and click:

Seriously, how awesome are they? Don't you just want to unrecline your lazy boy and hit the pavement? I'm so proud of everyone who was brave enough to get out there and run. They inspire the crap out of me. They went from no miles to 3.1 miles in ten weeks--you could totally do it, too.

We had a few mishaps at the race. More specifically, we were locked out of Jared's office, and therefore locked out of the bathrooms; I possibly forgot to start my watch when I blew the start whistle (and didn't realize it until the first runner came through); the dollar store was fresh out of Gatorade, so we had to go with it's inbred step cousin called Rip-It; and the when the fire fighters came to unlock the building, I might not have had a permit for this whole affair....uhhhhhhmmmm, sorry boys! (ps You're hot)

I also forgot to thank the volunteers, and my assistant coach, because when I get busy I get flustered, and when I get flustered I accidentally turn into a douche bag--a sweet, well intentioned douche bag, but a db nonetheless.

YOU would never forget to thank your volunteers. So that fact that I did? I'd say that makes me not so average--in an airheaded assholean kind of way.

Day 1? Check!

Blah Blah Average, and a Link

2011-08-30T11:29:00.000-06:00

August 30, 2011

Have I seriously not posted on this blog in over two weeks? That's straight up craziness. I don't want to say that I'm losing interest in the ol' blog, but I might be losing interest in the ol' blog.

All of the sudden I'm just normal, and boring, and thirty-something. It was way cooler to be young, and in love, drive a twenty-something-year-old car, and be in school. Now we just kind of tolerate each other, we drive something that looks like a mini-van and a station wagon humped, and we scramble to make the student loan payments at the end of the month. JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE.

Ugh. Boring.

We don't even have two dogs any more. We have one--and the super cool unique dog that made us different and fun? She died. One dog (that looks like the classic dog a kindergartner would draw) and two kids. We're so average that I'm stabbing myself in the eye with a marker right now.

For real, what can I even tell you that would be worth reading about? Let's see...

We're taking out a home equity loan to replace our roof. Oooooohhhhhhh.

James got some new Sketchers called Furious Reptilians. Okay, so that's kind of cool.

And you know what else? I just had an idea. Seriously, it just came to me right this second. For the next two weeks, every single day, I'm gonna post something on this blog that makes me feel cool and unique and positively me. It could be just the punch I need to relight my blog fire.

Because you know what? Funny things have been happening to me, I've just been too lazy and blah blah blah to write about them.

I did go to one of those adult toy Tupperwareqsue type parties on the Sabbath. Didn't write about it.

I did stand in line at the post office behind a woman who was determined to mail $260 worth of Canadian coins to Quebec City to pay her speeding ticket. FYI, it was $30 in postage and she had a curly mullet. Didn't write about it.

And I did slightly threaten a driveway paving guy, while I was wearing pajamas (but no bra), for starting up his equipment at 6:40am and blowing my neighbors sticks and leaves into my yard. I would have been completely cool with one or the other, but c'mon old man, NOT BOTH!

I really do have some material, I'm just too wrapped up in my own averageosity these days. But I'm about to break free...every day for the next two weeks. Awesome. Maybe. We'll see.

On an unrelated note, when I posted that last blurb on my blog about my new coaching business, I got four inquiries and three of them signed up. Kind of nuts in a completely awesome way. Since my three latest runners are so so gutsy to start a new fitness program, I can be gutsy enough to share my link.

BUT HERE'S THE DISCLAIMER!!!! I made this website myself and I know it sucks. It's too big for lots of peoples' computers, too small for lots of peoples' computers, and seems to fit no one's computer. It's cheesey, and totally not funny--courtesy laughs at the most. Puh-lease don't email me with "I'll build you a new site for $xxxx!" offers. Because you know what? Maybe I like my stock photos. Ever thought about that??? Huh?

Link's here. You should probably like Kennebec Valley Coaching on Facebook, too. You know, so everyone in the world signs up and I can buy my new roof with cash. Because whoa, that would be crrrrrrrazy!

Gangbusters

2011-08-15T09:06:00.000-06:00

August 15, 2011

Much to my surprise, this running coach thing is taking off like freaking gangbusters. After my last blog post on the 10th, I got a a few emails asking if I could coach from far away--phone and internet--and blamo, my first not-local runner signed up. Which got me thinking...

Truth is, there are zillions of 'on-line' running coaches out there, and 99% of them are probably faster than I am. So if you're looking for some kind of former Olympic hopeful, I'm definitely not your girl.

But if you're looking for a normalish person with lots of running experience, soon to be USATF certified, who will take someone who says, Running seems impossible, but I really want to try, or I'm dying to break 30 minutes in the 5k, and help make it happen, then I might be your girl. I'm super cheap, too.

These are some of my runners. Any one down there remind your of yourself?

This past Saturday, every single one of those runners ran for twenty-nine minutes straight without stopping--because they're awesome and because they're putting themselves out there. If they can do it, you can do it. I mean it.

If you're interested, send me an email at LawsonAmyB@yahoo.com. I'll send you the link to my coaching website and you can nose around a little bit. Just so you have an idea, coaching goes for $59 a month--that's cheaper than a family trip to Outback Steakhouse (but way less awesome than a bloomin' onion).

I should really just put a link to my site right here, but I'm feeling kind of private about it. Which is strange, because I tell you guys all kinds of things about my hemorrhoids and the time my husband pooped in my eye.

Maybe I'll work up the nerve to post the link to my site tomorrow, but in the mean time, if you're interested, email me. If you're a blog reader, let me know and I'll give you $5 off each of your first three months--that's the equivalent of three loaves of bread and an US Weekly. Don't delay, it's big time stuff.

Just Call Me Coach

2011-08-10T05:31:00.000-06:00

August 10, 2011

I've been meaning to tell you guys, the 5k group that I've been leading has (surprisingly) turned out to be a smashing success. I have thirty-nine registrants, and as far as I can tell, two injuries and only one drop out.

So do you know what that means? It means I'm getting my coaching certification on October 1st, I'm offering a few more classes in the fall, and I even have my very own website (that gets half a hit a day). Big time stuff.

I'm working everything out of Jared's office, and yesterday someone showed up to let him know that I'm being honored at a celebration for new business owners on Main Street. Rumor has it I'm getting a plaque. Um, HELLO! You all know how I feel about trophies/medals/plaques. As far as I'm concerned, I'm straight up there with Warren Buffet.

I'll probably put my plaque up in, no on, my office:

That's my office.

I asked Jared if I could have a real office--one of the little rooms in the back of his office. He said he'd think about it and he gave me this box. Everybody's gotta start somewhere I suppose.

So guys, I need your help. What are some good ideas for marketing running groups and a local coaching business? So far I've got the website, I have a facebook page, I'm on active.com, I have people wearing their shirts all over town, I've hung a few flyers, I wear my shirt to races, and I'm hoping to get the newspaper to cover our final 5k 'race.'

What am I missing? Because I'm hoping to clear my first million by next month.

Happy Anniversay?

2011-08-03T17:49:00.000-06:00

August 3, 2011

Welp, today's our nine -year anniversary. Apparently, the traditional gift for nine years is pottery. But you know us, are we ever traditional? Of course we aren't.

So, in lieu of pottery, we opted for a bonding experience, and we buried our greyhound behind a big shady tree in the back yard. Thankfully Jared didn't have any early morning patients, so he dug a ginormous hole for Gracie's 65 pound body, wrapped her in a sheet, and covered her over all before he drove in for the morning.

The one on the left says:

GRACIE

A GOOD GIRL

11 Years Old. Almost 12.

DIED

Six year old James was the creative genius behind that catchy little inscription. The one on the right says:

GRACE CARLA LAWSON

'SHEEZA CORSAIR'

11/15/99 - 8/2/11

Carla was her kennel name when we adopted her, and Sheeza Corsair was her racing name. Awesomely enough, you can see her pedigree by clicking here, and her race results by clicking here. It's pretty cool if you're farting around on the internet trying to waste some time. Who knows, maybe someday my grand kids will look up my race results online and say something like, "Whoa. Gram sure was average."

It's funny, Jared and I have been married for nine years, and that feels like a pretty short time--but if you think about it, the first dog we got together (she was four when we took her home), is already gone. I guess that means we've been married for a while--we're legit.

It was arguably the most beautiful day of the year here in Maine, and honestly, I spent most of the day moping around inside. I cried a little, I walked out to Gracie's grave a few times, and I kid you not, I let James watch the second Star Wars movie three times in a row--he's on his fourth go 'round as I type this sentence. I ordered a few prints of Gracie from the Walgreen's website, and talked to Jared a lot--he kept calling. He's pretty upset.

Basically we're both convinced that we accidentally killed her doing totally innocent things--like coming home from work to take her out at three o'clock instead of one, and moving her around on her pillow when her breathing started to get labored. We're just being stupid.

Jared got home from work with a Target bag in his hand. He bought me a new pair of sweatpants (best anniversary gift on the planet as far as I'm concerned), and this card:

He accidentally bought me a card for a husband, crossed it out and wrote wife.

No ladies, you can't have him. He's taken.

Just so you guys know, Gracie's death was totally unexpected and weird. She was getting old, but she wasn't elderly or sick by any stretch of the imagination. She was her normal old self when she woke up in the morning, and she was great when I came home from work. Went out to pee and I didn't notice anything strange--she even had some pep in her step.

She didn't want her dinner at 5:30, which I thought was kind of strange, but nothing that made me think, "Huh, this dog's probably about to die." I headed to my neighbor's house around 7:15 to do P90x, and a few minutes later, Jared showed up at the door and said, "You need to come home. I think Gracie just died."

He was right.

He took her out for a quick walk, but she couldn't make it past the end of the driveway. He carried her back inside and put her on her pillow in the dining room. He tried to give her a little bit of food, but she wasn't interested, so he gave her some water from a sports bottle, and she liked that. Her breathing started to get pretty labored. He moved her around to try to help her get comfortable, but she just gasped a few times and that was it. Her heart was still beating when he came to get me, but by the time I got there, it was stopped.

In the grand scheme of things, it's a wonderful, graceful exit for a dog. She never had to have a bad day due to old age and we never had to make the final call. But I'll tell you, there's absolutely nothing to be relieved about, no at least she's not suffering any more. Just a good old fashioned head scratcher, I guess.

Today, the thought bubble above my head reads: WTF?

Tomorrow's thought bubble will probably be more like: Seriously. WTF?

I'm fine. We're all fine. It's just weird to have a house without my greyhound. I keep slipping though the screen door so Gracie won't run out, and I've called her name to take her for a walk twice today. I might get another one someday, but for now, I'm more than happy as a one-dog family.

So yeah. That was our shitastic ending to a ridiculously stressful year. Um, Happy Anniversary? I'm holding out hope for year ten.

And by the way...thanks for all the nice comments. I'm glad you guys like Gracie so much!

Gracie

2011-08-02T19:22:00.001-06:00

August 2, 2011

Gracie died tonight. It was really unexpected. She seemed fine when I came home from work today. She was never energetic, never a tail wagger, never an excited jumper. But still, I was her owner, and I always knew if she was fine or not. And she was fine. Just old.

I went to do P90x at my neighbor's house, and about forty minutes into it, Jared showed up at the door and said, "I think Gracie just died."

She didn't want her dinner tonight. Then he tried to take her out and she couldn't stand up. She got to the end of the driveway, so Jared carried her back inside, layed her down on her pillow and she died.

She was almost twelve and I always loved having her around the house. She didn't do much, but she was a calming presence. I always let her on the furniture when I was around--don't tell Jared. And I never really called her Gracie--Grace, or beautiful, or pretty girl. I know, I know, totally crazy, but I always wanted a greyhound.

When we took the dogs to watch the Boston Marathon this year, everyone wanted to pet/talk about/take pictures of Gracie. Not a lot of attention on Coach. Gracie was more striking. She was a really pretty dog.

I'm glad she went on her own. Really glad for the nonchalant way that she made her exit. Kind of fitting for the laziest dog in the world.

Oh Gracie. I'm really glad I got to have her. Greyhounds are just different.

Mysterious Ways

2011-07-26T21:12:00.000-06:00

July 26, 2011

This blog post (as well as a huge fart and a rousing rendition of 'What it Takes' by Aerosmith) is brought to you by 20 ice cold ounces of Coca Cola Classic after 9 pm.

For real, this is good. Because I haven't been the mood to funny blog in a long freaking time, and I really think I miss it. I really do.

And on that note, I don't think I'll end up pulling the private plug. I just can't. Because God told me not to. This is not a joke. It happened through an extended version of the transitive property of equality--you know, if A=B and B=C, then A=C....mine was more like A=G--but it totally counts. God told me to read a very powerful scripture in Acts, and somehow, through a moderately tricky math equation, he told me to keep my blog open to the masses.

What? Doesn't God talk to you through 7th grade math that you didn't ever know in the first place? If not, you should probably listen harder at church.

Speaking of church, my husband is now the Second Counselor in the Bishopric. Considering the fact that his foremost personal goal is to forsake his family to live under a mushroom in the woods, and our biggest goal as a couple is to simultaneously experience sexual climax during that killer guitar solo in 'Sweet Child of Mine' by Guns n' Roses, this Bishopric thing is straight up confusion-inducing.

Now for those of you non-Mormons out there, please, put down your glass of happiness/wine, and allow me to explain. If you're a Protestant or an Evangelical, Second Counselor in the Bishopric is roughly equivalent to an Associate Pastor. If you're a Catholic, it's pretty much on par with a Deacon. And if you're a normal sleeper-inner on a Sunday, I'd say it equals a crazy waste of time and energy.

This is a non-paid gig that takes up about two hundred hours a week. But I think it comes with fringe benefits like pixie dust and unicorn flavored lollipops, so I'm getting cool with it. Totally working to embrace this new space in my life.

Oh and as a point of clarity, in case you don't remember... Mormons don't volunteer to do anything--we're called to do various jobs at church. Which essentially means that someone tells you I don't care if you're tone deaf, you're the new choir director, and you say Okay while you're busy thinking Damn I hate that singing crap.

So yes, Jared now wears a suit on Sundays, and sits up near the pulpit. I now wear a lacy black bra under a white shirt on Sundays, and sit directly in his line of sight to try and distract him from his seriousness. When that fails, I mouth things to him like Monkey Intercourse and Flactuation Station. Honestly, I really don't care if the Bishop sees what I'm saying, he needs to be aware of these things, too--it's called knowing your congregation.

Lots of people are congratulating us on this craziness and asking us how we feel. Truthfully, you know how I feel? I feel like I want to know what's in the attic of that church building, and now that there's a key in my house, you can bet yer bottoms that I'll find out soon.

But I'm also feeling like Jared's already changing--in a not so good way. For example, this past Saturday he wanted to go to the church picnic. I'm sorry...hold the phone...is this the same man who used the Big F on me and gave me an extended silent treatment when I decided to go to Stake Conference this past spring? This very same man is all the sudden opting to go make butter pioneer-style with his church family on a Saturday afternoon?

Yup. Same guy.

But wait, I haven't even gotten to the worst of it.

He made me change out of my spandex workout suit before we left the house. And people, the fact that I look like a total ass-kicker in spandex, well, that's my spiritual gift.

He said, No Amy, it's not appropriate.

So I said, My ass looks like a couple of candle pin bowling balls in these pants, Jared.

And he said, Watch your mouth.

And I said, I SWEAR I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU ANY MORE. UGH!

So he said, Go get some pants on. They're churning without us.

I did it. I put on some jeans, went to the church, and played pioneer games just like the rest of the congregation. But (there's always a but), I also took a Costco-sized barrel of cheese balls and planted them on top of the fridge in the church kitchen. Generally speaking, there's a strict rule against putting things on top of kitchen fridge, but Jared used his authority to overturn that policy--because sometimes his wife works up a lion of an appetite during the really long prayers.

Which makes me think Huh, maybe he's the same old Jared after all.

I guess we won't know until Sunday--when I show up to church in my hooker heels.

I'll keep you posted.

Privatization

2011-07-23T17:42:00.001-06:00

July 23, 2011

This blog is temporarily going private in a day or two or four. Instead of continuing to post here, you'll be able to find me at http://amygoesunderground.blogspot.com/ -- that one will stay wide open to everyone.

I haven't gotten the new site up and running yet, but it'll be ready to go soon. Just don't expect bells and birds and whistles and crap. It's temporary. Like an extended stay hotel.

Vacation

2011-07-23T09:03:00.001-06:00

July 23, 2011

Well hello old friend! How've you been?

Me? How have I been? I've been good! I've been on vacation.

Maggie screamed all kind of things at all kinds of people:

James showed all kinds of butt crackage to all kinds of people:

Coach swam:

He even swam with seals--who seem to like fetch as much as german shorthaired pointers:

I took lots of pictures of myself:

And lots of pictures with Jared:

And lots of pictures of my legs from this angle:

We saw whales. Which made me feel really skinny. Because they're really fat:

James posed:

And there you have it. The best week ever.

Things That Piss Us Off Thursday: Volume Four

2011-07-07T11:57:00.000-06:00

July 7, 2011

Since I have nothing else to write about, we'll do this!

Here I go:

Kale.

That's all I've got. It's the middle of my CSA season, and I still hate kale. What about you?

A Very Unflattering Title

2011-06-30T07:42:00.001-06:00

June 30, 2011

Jared says I'm a cougar. I can't decide whether or not I agree with him on this very serious and alarming accusation. Please allow me to set the scene...

Two Sundays ago, Jared and I were sitting in church. More specifically, we were sitting behind three Mormon missionaries. Two are assigned to our congregation, and one was visiting our branch on some very important and official missionary business--possibly enforcing the short haircut protocol.

The visitor had been at our house the night before, picking up dinner, and what can I say? The kid caught my eye. Twenty-one years old, a strapping young man who likes to compete in rodeos.

Be still my soul.

On Sunday morning we slipped into church a few minutes late. I settled my kids into the pew, picked my nose a little bit (an incognito nose pick is one of my many talents), looked up and BLAM-O! I was staring straight into the back of the head of that fine, young, bushy-haired cowboy.

Without thinking I turned toward Jared, pressed my lips on his ear and said, pointing toward the figure up ahead, "I'd totally hit that!"

Jared said, "That?"

I non-nonchalantly nodded, confirming his inquiry. "That."

Jared, never having been a man of jealousy replied, "Of course you would, he's a cowboy."

That man of mine, I swear he knows me better than I know myself. (Now if he's buy a friggin' cowboy suit, we could really kick it up a notch.)

Three hours later, on the drive home, Jared placed is hand on my thigh and said, "You know you're a cougar, right?"

"Well I never! Me? A cougar? I'm not old enough to be a cougar! That's ridiculous and VERY offensive, Jared!"

According to Jared, once a woman hits thirty, she becomes eligible for the cougar title. Is he right?

Oh damn, I'm really afraid that he's right.

(ATTN MORMONS: I'm hoping this post gets Jared off the hook for his new calling, because it's not a calling that should ever be occurring in this household.)

P90X, Couch to 5k, and a Little Bit of Winning

2011-06-28T11:34:00.004-06:00

June 28, 2011

If you think working out is boring, then prepare to absolutely hate this post. Or skip it.

P90X
I kind of don't want to write this down for fear of cursing myself, but so far so good with the P90X. My workout partner did slightly vomit during a plyometrics session, but hey, that just means she's doing it right. Right? No, really, isn't that a badge of honor or something?

Let me just tell you that this girl is reeeediculous. One minute we're doing double frog squats, the next minute she's retching up her snack in the master bathroom, and the next minute she's back on the floor doing a one minute set of military marches with impeccable form.

I was like, "Dude! You're AN ANIMAL!!!!" And then we high fived. When it comes to this crap, we kind of make a perfect match.

I'm on day seven of the program, and you know what I've learned about myself so far? When things get hard, and I'm pushing far beyond my physical limits (push ups, pull ups, crazy ass jump-turn things), I default to making fart noises with my mouth. Most people grunt, I make long drawn out toot sounds.

After careful evaluation of my last two marathons, I've decided that this was the problem--not enough mouth farts when the going got tough. Live and learn I suppose.

5k Training Program
Welp, I started coaching my Couch to 5k group on Saturday, and so far so good. Thanks to a newspaper article that ran on Thursday, our registration numbers doubled between Thursday and Saturday. In other words, on Thursday morning I had sixteen people signed up and by Saturday morning I got to take THIRTY TWO PEOPLE ON A RUN!

Just call me a pig in the mud! Seriously, me and my whistle? We were in heaven.

I've gotten four more registrations this week, so we're up to thirty-six. Honestly, I get all goose-bumpy just thinking about it. I freaking love this.

My friend Seth, is a professional shoe fitter at Maine Running Company, and he was awesome enough to come evaluate every one's stride and custom fit them for a pair of shoes after our workout. I hope he makes a million sales and can take his wife and kid on an expensive tropical vacation. These runners were hanging on his every word, just thrilled to have his advice and feedback.

Yesterday, when I brought James to rec basketball in the morning, I saw two of my runners doing their midweek workout at the local school track. Honestly, as cheesy as it sounds, my heart skipped a beat. Like I said, I love love love doing this.

I'm not sure if I've mentioned this, but the 5k group is meeting every week at Jared's office. He's worked so incredibly hard to turn that space from an empty store front to a thriving profitable practice, so when I walked from the reception area to the treatment area, and saw it packed tight with thirty-two people, I had to fight back tears. Slowly but surely he's becoming the go-to guy for treating sports injuries in central Maine. He makes me really proud.

A Little Bit of Winning
Seth and I met up again on Sunday and ran a half-marathon relay. He did 6.8ish, and I covered 6.3ish. We both seem to suck with our Garmins, so the distance and pace specifics really are a mystery. All I know is that he came blazing into the hand off area, way in the lead, running something under a six minute mile pace.

I ran my leg with Maggie in the stroller, so it wasn't my fastest 10k(ish) time, but it wasn't embarrassing either. I maintained something between 7:30 and 7:40, and it was enough for the overall relay win in our happy little hometown race. Thank goodness, because I've needed a taste of running success.

Jared stretching out a runner after the race...he volunteers every year.

Some people from my running club...

I'm pretty sure Maggie counts now that she's done her first race! Oh, and see those pottery mug things I'm holding? We won those instead of trophies--espeically awesome for drinking whiskey.

I've had quite a bit of failure in a lot of areas of my life lately. I think I might be rounding the corner. Actually, I'm just gonna assume that I am.

You're Cordially Invited to Touch my Butt in 90 Days

2011-06-21T10:01:00.005-06:00

June 21, 2011

This is my next door neighbor. Her name is Kim, and she really is that cute.

Two weeks ago I ran into Kim at the end of our cul-de-sac. It was a random Tuesday night, and I kid you not, the girl was wearing a bedazzled halter top, perfectly pressed trouser jeans, and some kind of shoes that weren't Crocs.

"Damn Kim! Check you out," I said. "Where'd you just come from?"

She looked at me like I thirteen heads wearing thirteen really ugly hats. "Huh?"

"You're wearing a bedazzled halter top," I stammered. "People don't just wear strapless bras for nothing. There's something fancy going on, right?"

She shook her head apologetically, because no, she wasn't on her way home from a photo shoot. She wasn't on her way to a trendy restaurant that I've never heard about either. Apparently, the girl just wears embellished clothing (and footwear) on random weekdays.

Me on the other hand? Well I wear sh!t out of the Goodwill bag...because I hate doing laundry....more than I hate wearing ill-fitting neon t-shirts from the mid-1990s.

This past Saturday Kim left a message on my phone saying something to the effect of:

I'm driving down the highway, and my thighs won't stop jiggling.

We really need to do P90x or something...

Cut to me, yesterday, meeting up with an incredibly sketchy guy, in an incredibly sketchy parking lot, buying the entire set (of DVDs, not VHS tapes--I'm not that lame):

And I don't even think it's pirated.

You all know I've had some unique encounters thanks to craigslist, but I've got to say, craigslisting that involves the purchase of exercise equipment is my absolute freaking favorite.

My first used treadmill purchase is documented in this book. Let's just say that Jared decided to give that treadmill a test drive and ended up doing a seriously intense speed workout in a friendly stranger's living room.

My second used treadmill purchase involves a woman doing a little bit of fake crying, going, "Oh no! My treadmill! This is so sad. I don't know what I'll do without it. This is the worst part of moving..." I took the circa 2006 treadmill home, ran the diagnostics, and guess what? 39 miles/17 hours of use. Total.

This time, they guy "couldn't use P90x because when [he] ordered it, [he] forgot [he] lived in a second floor apartment, and that it would bother the downstairs neighbors." Now that's an excuse I actually believe, because sometimes, when I let the grass grow all the way up to my knees, I forget that it bothers my neighbors, too. Dude, say no more.

I did the P90x plyometrix workout last night, and I'm already trying to think up a good excuse for when I unload this thing on craigslist. "It made me cry too much," sounds way too dumb. Don't you think?

In spite of the pain, I'm trying to stay positive over here. So, if you're one of the fortunate ones, I'll let you touch my butt in 90 days. For free. How does that sound?

Mixed Up

2011-06-16T11:16:00.002-06:00

June 16, 2011

I'm completely overwhelmed by summer vacation, and it's only day two.

This whole fear-of-summer thing is absolutely asinine for so many reasons:

1) I only have two kids.
2) The two kids go to daycare two times a week.
3) James was only in school half days, from 11:45 until 2:45.
4) I really don't even want to admit this one, but Jared is home on Fridays. He works on Saturdays instead.
5) We live one tenth of a mile from a beautiful, clean lake, and my in-laws live in town and have a pool that looks like it should be at Sandals Resort.

So really, I have one additional kid, for nine additional hours every week, and three of those hours, my husband's around. That sounds easy, doesn't it? It should be, it really should be.

But honestly? The older my kids get, the more overwhelmed I'm starting to feel with this whole motherhood thing. It used to feel so simple and natural to me, now it's just so different.

When James was smaller, he was easy, easy, easy. Then we had a nice, big four and a half year age gap and had another sweet, beautiful, (not easy), baby girl who I wouldn't trade for the entire world. Now as a toddler, with the exception of the screechy thing she does, she's really laid back and fun. A good napper, too.

But the fact is, all almost-two-year olds are hard to manage.

She drinks out of the dog dish, she drags my laptop case around and pushes it down the basement stairs, she unfolds the laundry that I just folded, and tries to drink cleaning chemicals. And this is all while James is tugging on my pant leg going, "Mom. Wanna play Star Wars with me? Who do ya wanna be? R2D2? Luke Skywalker? Who? You want the purple light saver? The red one? Which one? Or do you wanna be Darth Vader?"

Now, listen. I know it's a light saber, but he doesn't. And that sweet boy, who I love so much I could puke all over this computer screen, never stops talking. Never.

Honestly--and I mean this with every ounce of my existence--I don't know how moms of three, or four, or six kids do it. I'm not sure how they keep 'em all alive and keep themselves dressed.

Being a mother is so #$%^ing hard.

I used to think Oprah was an absolute a-hole when she'd say that stay-at-home moms have the hardest job on the planet. I mean c'mon, back when James was a baby, and I was chilling out in the afternoons watching Oprah, it wasn't really hard.

But these days? These days with my two super well behaved kids who regularly go to bed by 7 pm? I'm genuinely inclined to think that military boot camp would be a nice break. But then again, I really like to exericse. These days there are lunches to pack, and a business to run, and debts to pay, and projects to manage. There are conference calls to listen in on, and a lawn to mow, and unsolvable situations to solve, and hats to cover with glitter.

And me? Well? I ran out of eye liner three weeks ago and haven't been able to replace it yet.

I'm so mixed up by the fact that being a parent can be so frustratingly hard, and so intensely joyful at the very same moment. The love and the chaos makes me want to roll over and die for completely different reasons. My life is good, we don't have any problems worth speaking of, but still, some days feel pretty stinkin' problematic.

One minute I'm all, "I would rather shovel mud than stand in this kitchen with these kids for another thirty seconds." And the next minute I'm like, "No one on this planet can make juice-drinking as cute as Maggie makes it! Oh my word I LOVE HER SO MUCH!"

Please tell me I'm normal here. Please, please, please tell me I'm normal. Becuase if I'm not, and I need therapy, or counseling, or anger management, or energy work, or some other shiz like that, I have no idea how I'll squeeze that in.

And that reminds me, one of these days I really need to tell you about the nurse who tried to do reiki on my dog to cure him of his obsession with the laser pointer. You really need to know about this. Like you REALLY need to hear this story, because believe it or not, funny things still happen to me forty times a day. I'm just way to covered in boogers to be able to type 'em out.

Thanks for letting me vent. I wish we could have a group hug. I feel so close to you right now.

Things That Piss Us Off Thursday: Volume Three

2011-06-09T09:09:00.001-06:00

June 9, 2011

It's time for another round. In fact, this round is ridiculously overdue. So, without hesitation, I bring you:

Things That Piss Us Off Thursday!

You know the drill. Leave a comment outlining a thing (or six) that really craps on your carpet. Remember, I'm in charge and I can delete any comments that I feel like deleting, so HA!

Okay, here I go....

1. The fact that Melissa's blog will NEVER FREAKING LET ME LEAVE A COMMENT! So Melissa, congrats on the Vegas wedding, the last picture is the best (because that second one looks like your head is floating...in a beautiful way), and for real, put some jeans on.

2. I'm not rich.

3. There's not a high-end deli, a Thai restaurant, or even a drive-thru in the my office.

4. I'm out of eye-liner.

5. Suddenly, my husband is a hopelessly devoted Bruins fan, and he MUST NOT MISS A GAME. Maybe he can name three players, maybe.

6. People who chat for way too damn long and can't take the social cues that the conversation needs to wind down.

7. Packed meetings, in un-air-conditioned school gyms, when it's 90 degrees outside.

And you?

What Now?

2011-06-02T09:30:00.000-06:00

June 2, 2011

I think I'm tired of running. Either that or I'm just wandering around like a lost, little lamb. It's pretty much the same thing I do after every big race I finish--or don't finish, I guess.

I'm just so inclined to find another marathon to run. A fall marathon, or a summer marathon, or an I-don't-care-what-season-it-is-just-give-me-another-marathon marathon. Maybe I need to accept the fact that I'm a marathon runner.

But here's the thing, I'm so much better at the short distances. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure that with the exception of one half-marathon, I've either won my age group, or placed in the overall top three of every shorter race I've run since Maggie's been born.

Wait. Before you get impressed, please remember that I live in Maine, where everyone's chunky, very few people venture out of their recliners, and our winter lasts for 9 months out of the year. This isn't exactly a running Mecca, and actually, the competition is usually wearing summer sandals or Ugg boots. But still, when you're a trophy ho like me, a win is a win is a win is a win.

So these races are a little less than fierce, but hey, they're a good time and it never feels bad to have some success. But it's not just that, they're so much more manageable in every single way:

The training is 1,000,000% less time consuming.
There's pretty much no travel time to get to a little 5k.
Jared doesn't have to wrangle the kids for 4 hours while he tries to see me at 6 different spots along the route.
The entry fee is usually $15 instead of $893.
If you fall on your face and fail, you can try again next week.

So, for the first time in years, I think I've maybe convinced myself to stick with the shorter, faster stuff for a while. But more importantly, I've decided to focus on other people for a while. I'm just so damn sick of myself. So sick of me.

I'm coaching a beginner's 5k training group this summer, and it's shaping up to be an awesome group of women--about 10 so far. And let me just say that if you're local, you should totally think about joining. Mostly because I'm fun, and also because I will personally guarantee that we have the dopest t-shirts in all of Central Maine (as long as you think lime green and jogging smiley faces are the dopest).

Then I'm running the Disney Half Marathon in January with my most awesome friend, Megan. She hates running more than any human being I've every known, and this will be her first, and she says I'll probably have to carry on my shoulders for the last 5 miles. So blam, there's another act of selfless service.

I have so many heaven points, that it's almost starting to get unmanageable.

So I guess I have a plan. I'll run some shorter things for me, and help some other people get started.

Either that, or I'll sign up for another marathon. Because I'm an idiot.

Onward and Upward: Details of a DNF

2011-05-31T06:31:00.001-06:00

May 31, 2011

Before this weekend, I always wondered what race officials do when a runner decides they can't finish the race. Welp, I now consider myself an insider on the whole process, which involves a lot of walkie-talkieing...and a bus.

It's true. It happened. I DNF'd the Vermont City Marathon this year. Fifth marathon, first DNF, but honestly, I've accepted it and I'm completely fine.

If you're one of my Daily Mile* friends, you know that I whined, complained, and wretched about my stomach for the entire week before the race. Basically, I came down with a stomach bug last Sunday and it held strong through the whole week--I even had to leave work early on Thursday because after my nineteenth trip to the bathroom, I started to feel a little embarrassed.

On Friday morning, when we were getting ready to leave for Vermont, I knew I wouldn't be able to brave the car ride in my natural state, so I swallowed a cocktail of stomach meds and it seemed to do the trick. I had no appetite, but I had no accidents either, so I considered it a win.

When I woke up on Saturday, I still felt 'off.' My stomach was churning, and I just didn't want to eat. When I got to the expo to pick up my number, a happy Ben & Jerry's employee tried to hand me a free sample of their newest flavor. Usually, I'd put on a variety of disguises--you know, whatever trash bags, scarves, and childrens' hats I could find on the floor of my car--and hit up the sample guy as many times as I possibly could. But this time, when I wanted to tell the Ben & Jerry's guy to _____ off, I knew I had a problem.

When I stepped up to the line on Sunday morning, I knew in my heart that the race would be a crap shoot. I could have the race of my life, or I could make it three miles, but either way, I wanted to try.

It poured at the starting line, so before the gun even went off, I was soaked and feeling a lot like Maggie:

My pacer went out a little bit fast , so I hung with him until mile five, and then decided to back off and stay closer to my pace. I ran happy until mile ten, and then, all of the sudden, I just kind of started to wilt. By the time I got to the half-marathon mark, I was slogging along. At that point, I decided I'd give myself three more miles to try and bounce back. If I couldn't, I'd run to the medical tent and call it a day.

Well, I never bounced back.

I got slower, and slower, and slower until finally, I was being passed by people dressed up like Christmas trees and tubs of Stoneyfield Yogurt--and to be perfectly honest, it felt like they were zooming right by.

I spotted the medical tent just after mile twenty, and felt a huge sense of relief as I veered in.

I borrowed the medic's cell phone and called my Dad. I said something like, "Hey Dad. I'm at mile twenty. I need the world's best pep talk, or else I'm getting a ride back to the start." He opted to forgo the pep talk and wait for me near the aquarium downtown.

After I hung up the phone, I told the medic that I was done for the day. Then I asked, "So...what happens now?" Since I wasn't any kind of emergency case, I didn't know what they'd do.

He walkie-talkied to someone, told me to wait across the street, and that a bus would come and pick me up.
I sat down on the curb, and one by one, people started lining up next to me. There was the guy from Maine who just felt like crap, there was the guy from Massachusetts with the bum knee, and there was some lady from somewhere who kept screaming, "I'M NOT A QUITTER! I'M NOT A QUITTER!"

I turned to the two guys and said, "Um, if she's not a quitter, then she should probably get off of this quitter bus." They whole heartedly agreed.

The quitter bus pulled up to the curb, and much to our surprise, this wasn't a van, or an SUV, or even a short bus--this was a full sized school bus. And let me just say that I've never been so happy to see a full sized school bus in my entire life.

We rode around Burlington, picking up relay runners here and there. One relay runner hopped on, sat down behind me and was beaming with pride. He'd run a five mile leg, and never in his life had he run farther than four. He told me that he could have kept on going and going and going. He had white hair, glasses, and must have been close to Medicare age. This guy completely made my day. Those are the kind of races that all runners live for.

The bus dropped us near the start, and I walked with the guy from Massachusetts until we found our families. I walked up to mine, we hugged and laughed. Then I looked at James, shrugged and said, "Well, I made it twenty miles!"

"Yeah, but you didn't make it the whole way. Here's your sign, Mom."

Okay, that stung. And that six year old comment was probably 89% of the reason I cried for a minute in the car. But James doesn't know any better--he still doesn't understand why I'm not winning these things.

So there, that's my DNF story. It wasn't nearly as bad as I imagined. I'm proud of myself for making it twenty miles with a stomach bug, and I'm proud of myself for knowing my limits. One of these days I know my stars will line right up on race morning.

But in the mean time, I made myself this sticker:

Onward and upward!

*If you're not, you should be! Just tell me that you're a blog friend so I don't delete you in one of my semi-annual deleting sprees.

A Spicy Mix of People

2011-05-24T11:17:00.001-06:00

May 24, 2011

What do you get when you take a Mormon, a Jehovah's Witness, a psychic, and mix 'em all together?

A whole lot of blog material--that's what you get. Please, allow me to explain....

Last week, I walked into my office, and much to my surprise, there was a woman sitting in the office next to mine. I hadn't heard that anyone was renting the space, so I went right over to introduce myself.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Amy. I work next door doing very important things for very important people making very large amounts of money."

Okay, fine. Maybe I've switched the details around a little bit, to protect the innocent...and make it more exciting, but that doesn't matter. The woman was friendly and warm and very pretty. Her office was completely bare, except for one upholstered chair and two lawn chairs.

"Hi," she shyly responded. "I'm Stacy. They haven't painted the walls yet, and I'm waiting until they do to move my things in."

"What do you do, Stacy?"

"I do spiritual readings," she replied, just as un-self-consciously as some other person might say, "I'm going grocery shopping."

In my head I was thinking, NO SHIZ! YOU'RE A PSYCHIC! I'm scared of you! I think you're cool! I should probably stop going on facebook at work, because you'll totally know! THIS IS INSANE!

But with my voice I heard myself calmly saying, "Spiritual Readings. Fantastic. Very wonderful."

And then we parted ways.

And then I immediately moved my work station to the other side of my office, up against the shared wall.

And then I strained to listen to every word of every spiritual reading she gave--but not too hard, because that would be disrespectful. (p.s. some people really need attorneys, not psychics)

And then I moved it back, because she'd totally know I was snooping.

Then I tossed up a quick blog post about the psychic over my lunchtime.

Then I took it down, because she'd totally know what I wrote.

And then, I finally settled for doing my own damn work, with the door open, watching the spiritual readees come and go and come and go. Occasionally I got to play along, letting them know that no, they didn't need to check in with me before they met with Stacy.

In my mind, my office life was about explode with a healthy dose of f to the u to the n. Or, at the very least, it would be at a smidge more spicy than it had been when I'd break up my days by farting in various vacant cubicles.

The next morning, I came in to work, and I was so early that I was only person in the building. A few minutes later, I heard footsteps coming down the hall, and before I knew it, someone cracked my door about four inches, slinked through the opening, and was standing in my office with a frowny-nostril-flarey kind of thing happening.

It was my friend from down the hall, and her eyes were the size and the shape of quarters.

She pulled up a chair, sat down, took a quick breath and said, "I don't know if you know this already, but I'm one of Jehovah's Witnesses..."

"No way," I interrupted! "I'm Mormon! You can knock on my door, then I can knock on your door, then you can knock on my door, then I can knock on your door, then you can knock on my door, then I can knock on your door! Why didn't I know this sooner???"

She scrunched down in her chair and whispered, "Have you met our new neighbor?"

I nodded.

"Well," she went on, making her eyes even bigger, "as far as I'm concerned, that woman is possessed by demons."

I had no idea how to comfort my friend, and all I could think to say was, "Her sneakers were very white."

Well I don't know?! What was I supposed to say?! As far as I'm concerned, I think peanut butter is possessed by demons since I a) can't stop eating it, and b) almost accidentally put it in James's snack bag every day, even though c) it's just about as dangerous as a loaded gun to some of his classmates. Evil, evil stuff I say.

Any way you slice this thing, I'm not about to get in the middle of it.

Does the psychic creep me out? Absolutely. She induces heebie jeebies every time we cross paths. Not because of the devil stuff, more because I'm worried that she knows I think she's chunky, even though she's not chunky, but I'm worried she can detect that I'm thinking it, so I think it just to test her out and then I regret it in case she's really magical and ends up thinking that I think she's flabby even though she's not. See? Creepy.

And the Jehovah's Witness? No creeps there, none whatsoever. She can hand me her pamphlet, and I can hand her my pamphlet, and she can hand me her pamphlet, and I can hand her my pamphlet, and she can hand me her pamphlet, and I can hand her my pamphlet and, so on and so forth.

So. Tell me. Who works next door to you?

I've Changed.

2011-05-18T10:46:00.001-06:00

May 18, 2011

I've changed.

Last night, I was standing in the bathroom, mulling over a question that all American women occasionally (or obsessively) ponder throughout their lives...

If I could magically change one part of my body what would it be?

Fifteen years ago, or maybe even five years ago, I would have had a list a mile long: thinner thighs, a firmer butt, silkier hair, a clearer complexion, a super flat stomach, and so on and so forth. But not last night.

Last night, the answer came to me like a flash of lightening. If I could magically change one thing about my body, I would...beyond the shadow of a doubt...heal this damn freaking hemorrhoid that's been plaguing my existence for the entire last decade.

That's it. That's all.

That hemorrhoid is quite literally the only think I'd change about my body. Hitting thirty has either provided me with exceptionally solid self esteem, launched me into an unfixable slump, or both.

My hair's frizzy? So what! My stretch marks make my stomach look like a road map of Boston? Who cares?! It feels like I'm pooping out shards of glass every time I hit the pot? OH PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!

Now Jared on the other hand, has had the same, unwavering answer for the entirety of his adult life. If he could change one thing about his body, he'd give himself a super penis. Fair enough.

James, hearing this conversation through the vent hole in his bedroom floor piped in and told us that if he could change one thing about his body, he'd have, "six heads on the top, four legs on the bottom, and six eyes tossed all over the place." Not surprising in the least.

What would you change?

I Will Bow Down to Bud White

2011-05-10T08:40:00.000-06:00

May 10, 2011

Did I tell you guys that I'm running the Vermont City Marathon at the end of the month? Because I am, and I have three twenty-milers down, and one long run to go. I'm officially at the point where I have a continuousI cycle of thoughts running through my head like, I hate running, and I hate running, and I really think I hate running.

I don't actually hate running.

My main goal is to not have to take any walk breaks, like I've done during my last two marathons. My second goal this time around is to run a personal best, which would put me under 3:48. And my third goal is to run a 3:40. Since Boston's qualification process is all changed up, I'm not even thinking about it right now. 3:40 would give me the right to try to register, and I'd be okay with that. So let's say that it's number four on my list.

My plan this time--which is my plan every time, which I end up thinking I'm way too cool for and blowing it--is to stick with a pace group like glue. I don't care if the pace feels like a bunch of nursing-home turtles at the beginning, I'm sticking with Bud White like we're duct taped together. Bud White is my Buddha. Jared told me, that if the pace still feels too slow at mile twnety-two, then I can run ahead. I don't think any pace could ever feel too slow at mile twenty-two, so I agreed to the plan.

Jared is my rock, Twizzlers are my motivation, and Bud White is the guru unto whom I'm a faithful follower.

I even made this Bud White prayer card:

Bud White has no idea what he volunteered for.

If you're a runner, and you ever think about running a marathon, you should definitely consider Vermont City. The streets are lined with fans the entire way, the scenery is awesome, the hippies are so encouraging, there's a little church service before the race (which I'm totally into as it's 99% effective in elimating Sabbath Day guilt), and there's bread and butter at the finish line. It was my first marathon in 2004, and it's my favorite by a long shot.

I ran 18 miles this past weekend, and took an enormous digger right on the side of the biggest road that runs through my neck of this state. If I had to guess, twenty cars saw it. Thankfully, no one beeped and no one stopped to ask if I was okay--because clearly, I would have had no choice but to cuss them out.

In my world, there's A) Nothing funnier and more satisfying to the soul than watching someone fall, and B) Nothing more embarrassing and soul crushing that being the one who falls.

Isn't it funny how that works?

So that's what I've been up to lately. I've been running, I've been grocery shopping, and I've been working. It's a damn shame I don't write about work on this blog, because work has been Дали всушност само пребарување на интернет за македонски преведувач? Се колнам дека ќе те вработи на генијалност, ако имав секаков вид на авторитет as of late.

(I wrote that part in Macedonian, just to protect my professional integrity.)

Is anybody else out there training for any races right now?

Listen Up!

2011-05-09T10:41:00.000-06:00

May 9, 2011

There's a small possibility that this blog could suddenly switch to private access for a little while. If it does, and you're not expecting it, just send a request to LawsonAmyB @ yahoo.com. I'll let you in, I swear I will. So write that email address down somewhere. If I'm able to give you a heads up, I will.

I'm not planning to mention why it might go private, but it might. And if it does, you should all be excited for me. If it doesn't go private, that means I'm crying myself to sleep. Kidding. Kind of. But for now, no more details. And believe me, you wouldn't be able to guess this if I gave you thirty-two thousand tries.

In other exciting news....

I passed a Hunter's Safety class, and now I'm licensed to shoot anything from a crow to a bear. So watch the hell out. In reality, I probably won't shoot anything at all. Jared has trained Coach to be a really excellent bird dog, so I want to be able to tromp around the woods with those two. Plus, I love to fire off a round every now and again. Okay fine, maybe I'll shoot something...but probably just a bird. Or a moose.

I'm coaching a Couch to 5k kind of class in Maine this summer. My runners will get to learn everything they'll ever need to know about my sport of choice. From choosing the right shoes, to properly taking a whiz in the woods, it'll be covered. Send me an email if you're local and interested in hanging out with me on Saturday mornings.

On Friday, James, my six year old worked up the courage to tell me that I'm not giving him the life he wants for himself. Well kid, it's either this or farm labor....take a pick.

I have a book review and giveaway coming on Friday.

And finally, I need parenting advice. Should I let James practice his beat boxing while he's in time out or should he have to sit quietly? I'm really conflicted over this...

A Touch of Clarification

2011-05-03T03:51:00.000-06:00

May 3, 2011

Since a few of you asked...

The missionaries come to seminary on Mondays--I forgot to tell them that it was cancelled. And anyone who comes to seminary is instructed to walk right in the door and down the basement stairs. If they ring the doorbell and wake up my family, I punch them in the teeth, really, I do.

As far as locking the door at night goes, I swear I'll start doing that.

Early Morning Wake Up Call

2011-05-02T11:02:00.000-06:00

May 2, 2011

I've said it before, and I'll say it again: My husband's sky-high level of oblivion will never cease to amaze me. Never.

Last night, I decided to cancel my early-morning religion class. For those of you who don't remember, every morning, from 6:05 until 6:55, ten teenagers come to my house to fart, complain, and learn about the Gospel. Most Mormons call it 'Seminary.' I call it, 'Holy hell, you're asking me to volunteer to do what?!?!'

Anyhoo, I drove to Connecticut for my cousin's baby shower this past weekend, and I got back into town a whole lot later than I though I would. Always being one to look for a good (or bad) reason to cancel seminary, I called it off. I texted the kids who text, I called the kids who've lost their texting privileges, and I snuggled in for a sweet night of sleep.

As a side note, but a side note that's completely relevant to this little story, springtime in Maine arrived about a week ago--and even now, it still gets pretty cold at night. Being me--a girl who's never on top of anything--our bed is still sporting its winter layers.

Sometime during the night, the combination of extra blankets, pajamas, and spring air made me hot--like sweating out of every pore hot. As such, sometime around 3am, I stripped down to nothingness and got back into bed, happy to enjoy a perfect combination of nudity and wool blankets.

It was flawless. I slept like a baby/log/my father.

Around 6 o'clock in the morning, I heard a very disheartening noise--my front door opening, and the terrible sound of laughing young-adult voices. I shook Jared awake...."Jared, Jared. One of the seminary kids showed up and they just let themselves in!! I'm totally naked!!!! You need to get up and tell them it's cancelled!"

"Oh, you get up," he huffed.

"Jared," I said in no uncertain terms, "I'm NAKED!!!!" And just to drive the point home, I threw all the covers down to my feet, and puffed out my belly so I'd look six-months pregnant and wicked hot. Sometimes I just like to do that. It's fun.

Finally, Jared pieced it all together and realized that he needed to get up and tell the teenagers to GO HOME! Because they're NOT WELCOME HERE! So he jumped out of bed, walked out of our room and left the door hanging 100%, completely, all the way open. And I was 100%, completely, all the way naked. With the covers 100%, completely, all the way at my feet.

And here, just to give you some perspective, is the view when you step in to my house through the mudroom door:

That thing, all the way at the end of the hall is a bed. I don't know, maybe you can't really tell it's a bed? Could you tell it was a bed if someone was sprawled out in the nude?

No seriously, I really need to know.

Jared walked down the hall, in what actually proved to be slow motion, allowing me the time to think thoughts including, but not limited to, the following:

What kid could that be?...Who didn't I get it touch with?...Did I remember to do my crunches last night?

As Jared got closer, a few things became glaringly apparent. This was a boy...no, wait...two boys. The two boys had let themselves in and were already standing in the dining room. And according to their accents, these weren't local boys, these boys were from the West.

In other words, these were Mormon missionaries. And they were standing right about where that picture was taken from.

The last thing I wanted to do was call attention to myself, so I wasn't sure what to do next. Grabbing for the covers, rolling off the bed and hitting the floor, or screaming something like WHY ME?????, were all solid attention grabbers in my estimation.

What could I do? What could I do? What could I do?

All I could do was call upon my inner-Animal Planet senses, and play dead. I froze like nobody's ever froze before. No breathing, no blinking, no wiggling, no nothing. I pretended to be a body pillow--a deceased body pillow.

Finally, the missionaries wrapped up their conversation with my #1 husband, and vacated the mudroom.

Jared tromped back into the bedroom and said, "It was the missionaries."

And I said, "I know. You left the door wide open."

And he said, "Lucky guys.....you're way hotter than any of the naked girls I stumbled upon when I was a missionary."

How was your morning?

Jesus had an earring. No really, He did.

2011-04-25T10:45:00.001-06:00

April 25, 2011

Everyone knows that yesterday was Easter, and as such, we spent a lot of time talking about Jesus in our house. You know, "We're trying to be like Jesus," and "Jesus loved the little children," and "Jesus came to me in a dream and told me the last piece of pie always goes to Moms." The regular sort of stuff.

But I've to to say, amongst all the normalcy, there was something very, very strange going on. Every time I'd mention Jesus, or Easter, or The Savior of the World, James would mention something about getting an earring. In his right ear.

Errrr?

Conversations like this...

ME: Remember James, it's not all about the bunny, it's about Jesus.

JAMES: I know, Mom. I'll get an earring to be like him. In my right ear.

And this...

ME: Christ the Lord is risen today!!!!

JAMES: So I will get an earring to be more like Jesus! In my right ear!

Finally I was like, "Listen kid, I don't know where this is coming from, and really, it's fine. Just don't mention it in front of your Grampy. He'll faint."

This morning, while I was sifting through James's Easter haul (organizing, not skimming off the top...), I came across this picture of Jesus. He probably got it from Primary--the kids' Sunday School program at church:

Then I looked a little bit closer:

Blammo!

Call it a printing error, or call it a miracle. Some people see the Holy Mother Mary in the bread of their grilled cheese sandwich. As for the Lawsons? We see Jesus with an earring. In his right ear. Or both ears. The world might never know.

If you can't join 'em, cheer for 'em.

2011-04-19T09:18:00.000-06:00

April 19, 2011

Now that our taxes are signed, sealed, and delivered, I can blog again! I can also find friendly words to use toward my husband, and in my opinion, that's even better. But wait.......on top of that, I can have my choice of beans, rice, or oatmeal for every one of my meals for the next three months! Woo hoo for taxes!

In honor of the fact that Jared and I didn't keel over from stress before/on/around April 15th, we took a trip to see the Boston Marathon yesterday. What can I say? If you can't join 'em, watch 'em. I'm so glad I did, it was incredible.

We lined the fence somewhere around mile 25.5, and I've got pictures to prove it:

This was the first pack of women to come by. I kid you not, they were like three feet tall and probably weighed sixty-four pounds with a load in their pants. When they passed up, they were at 2:18. The elite women got an early start, and I've got to say, it was pretty inspiring to get to see the women pass first.

Speaking of inspiring, that's Kara Goucher up there. I love her so damn much that the magnitude of my girl crush alone almost propelled me over the fence and into her arms. When she ran by I was like, "Kara! It's me! Amy! Your best friend! Remember?!"

She didn't seem to remember. Huh.

The guy in the green ran something insane like a 2:03--that's 4:41 per mile. Look at the guy on the left. He's just boinging down the road like a kid on Christmas morning. When they ran by, I think I yelled something like, "Holy @#$%!"

That's Ryan Hall on the left, about to set the new American record. Seriously, what other sport lets you get so close to the superstars? And what other sport encourages the superstars to wear nothing but tiny underpants? I love running.

And finally, here's the back of the sign that Jared and I brought along for our friend, Seth who was after the elusive sub-three hour marathon. Hoo boy, I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone hit the wall so hard--oh wait, right.

Poor guy was walking along the opposite side of the road, spotted the sign, and made his way toward it like a moth to the light. Runners (possibly dressed up like ballerinas and apes) were bouncing right off of him while he zombied over toward the sign. He was like, "Oh look. That's my name."

He leaned on the fence and I said, "Do you want me to take your picture?"

And he said something along the lines of, "No I don't ____ing want you to take my ____ing picture right now. What kind of ____ing question is that?"

So I was like, "Are you sure?"

He was sure.

It wasn't a good day for everyone, but it was a great day for us. A 100% kid free trip to Boston. We even held hands.

Your Good Deed for the Day

2011-04-11T11:13:00.001-06:00

April 11, 2011

Are you a prayer ninja? A good thought thinker? Maybe you're a postive vibe sender?

If you're any of the above, I'm asking you to go visit this blog, and then hope your guts out for this little family who's experiencing such a living nightmare right now.

Nathan, the dad, is a friend of a friend, and I just can't get these people out of my mind. Please, please, please visit their site, leave a positive comment, and follow their blog. They really need to know that people from all over the world are supporting them while their baby (that's right, I said baby) is battling leukemia.

Plus, I'm pretty jealous of Sadie's hair. I mean c'mon, aren't you?!

No Seriously, FML (Fart on My Life)

2011-04-06T16:32:00.001-06:00

April 6, 2011

If you haven't been to the old blog in a while, I'd ask you to start by reading yesterday's post titled Fart on My Life. If you're already familiar with that post, then mmm mmm mmm, you're in for a treat.

There's good news and there's bad news, and just for the sake of keeping things exciting, I'll start with the good news.

GOOD NEWS: Thanks to a strapping combination of testosterone, persistence, and brute force, my ultra manly husband was just barely able to stretch the shrunken cover back on to the couch cushion. Yay! Go Jared!

BAD NEWS: The bad news is, well, they do say that a picture is worth a thousand words...

Fern Maggie Lawson, Artist

F to the M to the L.

Running Late

2011-04-06T07:29:00.001-06:00

April 6, 2011

I've been doing the same job for three years, and for those last three years, I've had a fairly consistent meeting schedule. Every first and third Tuesday of the month, I have a committee meeting at seven o'clock in the morning. So, according to my calculations, I just attended my seventy-second early morning meeting.

Needless to say, I'm completely used to this schedule. So used to it, that if I'm ever taken hostage, the second thing I'll probably say is, "We're gonna need to settle this out before my executive committee meeting next Tuesday morning." You know, right after I say, "If you don't buy me a box of ice cream sandwiches on the way to your secret cave, you have no idea how much you'll regret picking me."

Jared on the other hand, he's jusssssssst, getting used to this arrangement. I don't blame him. Some times it takes me three-thousand reminders and seventy-something dry runs to let something settle in, too. Like losing five pounds--pretty sure I'm on try number ninety.

Yesterday was one of my meeting days, and Jared was so incredibly proud of himself for not scheduling any early morning patients. He got a sticker and a rub on the head for his remembering skills. Unfortunately for him, my meeting ran late, and even though his remembering skills were a force to be reckoned with, his spur of the moment problem solving skills weren't ready to cope with a situation of such magnitude.

I pulled in to the driveway to find a stunned/confused looking husband, and two crying kids. The kids were crying because they were hungry, and Jared, well, Jared always looks a little turned around:

"Sorry I'm late," I said.

"The kids haven't eaten," he replied.

"Why not?"

This question was answered with a blank stare, a shrug of the shoulders, and a sincere, "I don't know."

"Well," I went on, "did you make yourself a lunch?"

This time he looked down at his feet.

"You didn't pack a lunch? What have you been up to for the last half hour?"

"I don't know," which again, was sincere. "I guess I was just standing here, wondering if you'd get home in time to make my lunch for me."

I love him, I swear I do.

Fart on My Life*

2011-04-04T11:38:00.001-06:00

April 4, 2011

Lately I've been seeing the same three letters all over the internet, and up until three days ago, I had no idea what they meant. The letters? FML.Honestly, when I see the letters FManything, I automatically assume it means For More Somethingorother. So this FML thing? I just couldn't figure it out...

For more love? No, no.

For more loving? Possibly.

For more leisure? Man I'm an idiot.

So finally, after three-dozen completely stupid stabs at the whole FML thing, I decided to ask for Google's help.

Ooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Well that's what it means.

Ten or so minutes after my FML discovery, I really started to ponder the term. "Man," I thought, "who would write that?" And, "I think I'm really grateful for my life. No, actually, I LOVE my life! I would never write those three letters!"

And then Saturday happened. A day that can only be summed up by a certain three letters. F to the M to the L.

I swear, if I could do it all over again, my daughter wouldn't be plain old Maggie Lawson--she'd be Farrah Maggie Lawson, or Fern Maggie Lawson, or Fanny Maggie Lawson. Are you catching on here?

(But holy crapness, how cute is she?)

(So cute it makes me want to pass gas.)

As you can clearly gather from those pictures, Maggie loves to color. Actually, it's more like this: Maggie LOVES TO COLOR! Which is funny, because James would rather walk ten miles with a burning cigarette in his shoe that color for four minutes. Their personalities are so extremely different, but I'm almost 97% sure that they have the same father. Isn't it crazy how that works?

Before I move on, here's another smidge of proof that Maggie LOVES TO COLOR!!!!!!!

(Holy stinkin' cuteness overload!)

Okay, so just to review, by this point you should know two things:

1) Maggie loves to color, and

2) Maggie has a cute problem.

On Saturday morning, I walked into the living room, and to my horror, I found Maggie coloring all over the middle couch cushion....WITH LIPSTICK!!!!! Not only do I not use lipstick ever (it came from one of those damn-freaking Clinique free gift bags), but my parents just gave us that couch three years ago, after they used it for ten years and got sick of it, and I happen to think it's very nice, probably the nicest piece of furniture we own--you know, in a plaid kind of way.

I immediately ran to my computer, searched for something to the tune of HOW IN THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO GET RID OF LIPSTICK ON MY COUCH? I TOTALLY SUCK AT LAUNDRY!, and moved into action. I peeled the cover off of the cushion, doused it with goo gone, and carried the whole wet mess down to the laundry room.

I flipped up the lid to the washing machine (because I probably won't get a front loader until my parents get one, use it for ten years, get sick of it, and give it to us), and noticed washing directions for all kinds of stains. Believe it or not, there was even special directions for how to launder items that were soiled with cosmetics. Turns out, you should wash those kinds of things on hot.

So I did. I washed the cover to my couch cushion on hot.

Enter the three letters I sincerely hate to love: FML.

That's right, I took that lipstick covered couch cushion cover, and I shrunk the hell out of it. Actually, I shrunk that cover so good, that I haven't been able to squeeze it back on to the cushion. Hopefully no one will notice the difference. Honestly, is it obvious?

Stress Management

2011-03-31T08:33:00.000-06:00

March 31, 2011

It's true. As you might have gathered from this week's Things that Piss Us Off Thursday post, I'm a complete stress case over here. And I'm mad at myself for spending so much energy worrying about something, that's in the grand scheme of things, very very minor. So yeah, the fact that I can't let this roll of my back? That's stressing me out even more.

Don't you wish you could hang out with me right now? Don't I just seem so fun?

I've been trying so hard to push my feelings out of the way and be my normal old funny self, but, as evidenced by the complete lack of humorous posts for the past one zillion weeks, that approach has clearly been a massive fail.

D- on the stress management, Amy! D-.

Now before you get yourself all worked up, rest assured that this is really nothing huge. The fact is, we own our own business, and when you own your own business, crappy little problems creep up...and then they steal your happiness and stomp on your soul while you innocently sleep in the night.

Oh wait, was that dramatic?

It's just a business-related blip, that's really (truly, honestly) all it is. I just wish my feelings would act accordingly. And I wish these feelings would get out of my damn way and let me blog the way I like to.

You see, I want to tell you guys that it's a horrible idea to let an almost six-year-old chose his own party supplies from the dollar store--really, take my word on that. From the inflatable hats that won't hold air, to the strange-ass-eighty-year-old-woman cat figurine that he wants to use as a cake topper--it's a terrible, meltdown inducing idea for so. many. reasons.

And I want to tell you about the morning I looked at the ten teenagers and two Mormon missionaries sitting in my basement at 6:27, felt like my poor innocent house was being completely violated, and I couldn't stop myself from screaming this:

I'M NOT A YELLER! I HATE YELLING! I LIKE SWEARING A WHOLE LOT MORE! BUT JESUS IS WATCHING THIS CLASS, SO I HAVE TO YELL AT YOU ALL INSTEAD! JUST IMAGINE ME SWEARING RIGHT NOW.....THE BAAAAAAD ONES!

Or yesterday, when a disgustingly smelly hippy showed up at my door asking me to sign his petition--it had something to do with the evils of BPA in our plastic products. I nodded in agreement, damned BPA to hell, and left him with my emotional testimony of how desperately I long to protect my children from the toxic chemicals of our fallen world.

Yeah, well, it turns out Maggie was standing behind me the entire time--sippy cup in one hand, 99 cent pitcher from WalMart in the other, begging for a sip of orange juice. You could pretty much smell the BPA wafting out from under our front door. Whoops!

Hey. Guess what? I'm already feeling better. Like much, much better--maybe even like my good old normal self....

Man I love you guys!

Things That Piss Us Off Thursday: Volume Three

2011-03-31T07:13:00.001-06:00

March 31, 2010

I'll start.

Getting a foot of snow in April.

People who beep at you THE SECOND the light turns green.

Not feeling even the teensiest bit funny for over a month because of a stupid, stressful situation that I can't do anything about.

When I let life get to me.

There......and go!

Piper Jane

2011-03-27T18:43:00.000-06:00

March 27, 2011

I hate to be bossy, but....read this post, about this fabulous little girl:

If you happen to be royalty, or a Kennedy, or a Clinton, or God, maybe you could fix this?

And Gracie, Too

2011-03-22T10:14:00.000-06:00

March 22, 2011

Speaking of dogs, here's a recent picture of my Gracie:

Not only does she hate wagging her tail, walking around, being pet, or making eye contact--she also hates having her picture taken. I honestly had to sneak this one in before she could look away. Sometimes, I swear she'll just close her eyes and pretend I'm not in her vicinity with a camera.

My kind of dog.

This morning, we had a really unfortunate incident:

(See? She's totally pretending that she doesn't notice the camera. LOVE this dog!)

I've never actually measured it, but if I had to estimate, I'd say that Gracie's tail is somewhere between two and three feet long. Fine, maybe it's not that long, but it's about an inch away from dragging on the ground when she walks.

Somehow, we've always managed quite well with this monstrosoty of a tail--probably because she only wags it bi-annually. But today was a completely different story. This morning I had Maggie on one hip, Gracie's leash in the other hand, and I was rushing out the door before she peed a lake in our mudroom. I'm sure you can see where this is going....

I accidentally slammed Gracie's tail right in our mudroom door.

She yelped, and honestly, I thought nothing else of it. That is, not until I saw a trail of blood in the snow (six new #$%^*! inches of snow, by the way). I picked up her tail to see what I had done, and that's the moment I: 1) yelped, 2) cried, 3) almost dropped Maggie, and 4) hyperventilated all at the very same time.

I'll spare you the really intimate details, but I will tell you that I now know exactly what dog ligaments look like.

I rushed Gracie into the vet, where I promptly proceeded to close her front, right paw in the door--this time with a waiting room full of dogs, cats, people, and one parrot watching. The lady at the front desk was like, "Is this the dog with the severed tail emergency?"

And I was all, "Yes. While you have it open, can you put a dislocated toenail on her chart, too? Thanks a mill!"

Thankfully, after an examination and a whole mess of deliberation, the vets decided not to amputate the end of Gracie's tail. It's not that she wouldn't have had enough tail left to go around, I just didn't want her to have to go through anesthesia and surgery. And I also, possibly, didn't want to have to pay for dog surgery either.

Am I a bad person?

Either way, they did a procedure in the office, and Gracie's not good as new, but she's as good as any other anti-social, eldery greyhound. And to that I say, "Phew."

The Other Woman

2011-03-21T08:41:00.000-06:00

March 21, 2011

I just realized that I haven't written about Coach in a while--and some of you guys are dog people.

In case you don't know about Coach, he's our ten-month old German Shorthaired Pointer. His full kennel name is Heeza Royal Coachman, but I like to call him AAHHHHHNOYOUDIDN'TJUSTDOTHAT!!!!!

He's up to seventy pounds, he's got brown and white polka dots, and that's totally not his toy:

This wasn't his toy either. It was mine. From 1980:

And let me tell you, Maggie was ready to bite a tail when she came across this one:

Now that I've gotten all of that out of the way, I've got to admit that Coach is an exceptional dog.

When he's around Jared.

Because they're in love.

Romantically, I mean.

Two or so months ago, Coach and I hit our limit. I don't remember what he chewed up or pooped in, but it must have been unbelievably important, because I hefted all seventy pounds of that dog, carried him into the living room, and dropped him onto Jared's lap. "Him or me, Jared. Him. Or me."

Since Jared couldn't make that hard decision--you know, between his beautiful wife, or the dog who licks the inside of the trash cans at highway rest stops--he vowed to help Coach become a better dog. And honestly, I'm blown away by the progress they've made.

Jared's been taking Coach to a special training clinic for hunting dogs every single Wednesday night. Being a wise and loving woman, I decided a long time ago that I'd never ever ask how much these classes costs--but if I had to guess, it's gotta be at least a date night and a cute pair of ballet flats from Target every week.

But who's counting? I hate new shoes.

These days, Coach can do all kinds of fancy things. He'll heel all the way to the bus stop and back with no leash. He'll sit, stay, and let you skip around the block without moving a muscle until you say it's okay. He poops in a designated spot behind the wood pile, and he does this force fetch thing with a rope covered dowel.

I don't know what the last one means, but I pretend to think it's cool while Jared makes me watch the routine for a million minutes in a row.

He's so good at his tricks....when Jared's around.

My days with Coach are more about chasing him into the yard next door, while he stands on top of my neighbor's snow covered RV and takes a long, slow pee. I've totally become the woman who's standing braless, in the middle of the street screaming, STOP! STAY! COME!!!!!!!!!! COME, COME, COMMMMMMEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dogs really bring out the best in me.

Things That Piss Us Off Thursday: Volume Two

2011-03-17T07:52:00.000-06:00

March 17, 2011

For some reason it feels a little bit sacreligious to do this on St. Patrick's Day, but hey, it's Thursday, so what can I do?

Also, I've really always hated the word piss. In my opinion, it's by far, one of the worst four-letter-combinations that was ever conjured up. But Things That Get Our Goats Thursday? That unbelievably lame. What to do?

Here's my list for today:

Really dirty snow in March.

Forgetting things at home and having to go all the way back.

When there's no bread in the house.

The fact that Coach ate the hands and feet off Maggie's baby doll.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnndddddd........GO!

Maybe the Worst Run Ever

2011-03-14T11:16:00.001-06:00

March 14, 2011

I had the absolute worst run in the history of the planet Earth yesterday. Instead of trying to recreate the scene, I'll just cut and paste my running log entry from The Daily Mile:

The world would be a better place if this run had never happened.

Let's really break this one down here....

Sometime around 2 o'clock, I decided it was time to venture out for a long run. Since I didn't preplan so well, I didn't have the chance to stash any water along the route. Therefore, I decided to carry my water with me. Not being able to find a handheld water bottle or my camelback bladder, I did the next best thing and opted for a baby bottle. With Winnie the Pooh on the side. And the big old nipple thing that was clearly big enough for cars to see as I got not one, but two honks and cheers from cars filled with teenage boys.

My bottle and me, we felt sluggish today, so I opted not to look at my Garmin until mile 10. It confirmed that yes, I kind of suck.

Somewhere around mile 11, I had the quick and hard urge to take a poo. Let me just tell you that there is a 0% chance of pooping in the woods during the winter in Maine and maintaining one's dignity. Since there's absolutely no leaf coverage, I opted for the 'WHY THE HELL NOT?!' route, dropped trou, and took a poo right next to the lake near a big drainage ditch thing.

I pooped all over the back of my pants.

Then my foot slipped off a little rock pile and into the lake.

At mile 14.5 I got thritsy and finished off my baby bottle.

At mile 15 I thought I was about to die of dehydration. I found the only clean patch of snow I could, and started packing it into my Pooh baby bottle. A nice family was getting out of their minivan and saw the whole thing.

They also saw me stick the bottle between my boobs to try and melt the snow.

It melted, I drank it, and I've been sitting on the toilet for three hours straight.

I really could have used some contact from and SOL in a SBC* today.

The End.

*SOL in a SBC = Super Old Lady in a Super Big Car

I've got to say that peoples' comments have been the funniest part of this entry. People are saying things like, "Way to finish it up!" and "Wow, so committed to your running!"

Uh, no.

I didn't run around with poop on my pants because I'm devoted to the sport, I ran around with poop on the back of pants because it was the only way home. Since I hadn't brought my cell phone, I had three options:

1) Knock on a stranger's door, ask for a ride, and poo up the interior of their car.

2) Knock on a stranger's door, ask to use their phone, and poo up their couch upholstery while I waited my sympathy ride from Jared.

3) Run home and don't poo up anything that doesn't belong to me.

Even in my world, the third option was the only option. This was desperation, not devotion--very different concepts you guys.

So tell me, do any of you have running horror stories? If you do, can you give me the abridged version in the comments, or a link? Something? Anything?

Top me. Please.

March in Maine: The Ugly of all Uglies

2011-03-09T14:26:00.000-06:00

March 9, 2011

Just like anywhere else, living in Maine has is pluses, and living in Maine has it's minuses.

March in Maine is most definitely a minus.

Now don't get me wrong here, I really don't mind a cold, hard winter. But by the time March rolls around, and the snow's all dirty and brown, and I've fallen square on my ass in the icy Hannaford parking lot seven or eight times, I'm totally done.

Even James is done.

Today, in an effort to get him away from the television and out into the wonderful world of trees, air, and frozen dog poo, I filled a spray bottle with green-tinted water, and sent him outside. "Go tie-dye the snow, James!"

Three seconds later, he came inside with a major pout on his face.

"Mom," he said, "this water doesn't look green. It looks yellow."

"Yellow?"

"Yup, yellow," he sadly confirmed.

"Well James, you get back out there and make it look like our neighbors peed all over our yard!"

He smiled.

"Actually," I continued, "I don't want to see you back here until it looks like every single neighbor came to our yard with a friend and a dog, and they all peed three times each! Got it?!"

He got it alright. He's been out there for an hour and our yard looks 100% wretched right now.

Believe it or not, you actually can make March in Maine even uglier. But hoo boy, it's a whole mess of fun to do.

Get Our Goat?

2011-03-08T10:22:00.001-06:00

March 8, 2011

Maybe I'll change it, to Things That Get Our Goat Thursday. It's not as intense.

And after all, I'm a mature adult now. I never utter words such as 'piss.'

Things That Piss Us Off

2011-03-08T10:09:00.001-06:00

March 8, 2011

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, back in the 1990s, I used to hang around with a red headed girl named Maureen (By the way, Maureen, do you read this? I desperately owe you a phone call, I know...In the meantime, please enjoy this unsolicited slice of attention.).

That's Maureen, all grown up. She likes toys.

Back in the day, this girl was full of ideas--good, bad, genius, asinine, slightly dangerous--they were just constantly bubbling out of her brain.On a quiet, snowy night in '97, one of these ideas snuck up on her like a thief in the night, and hoo boy, it fell squarely into the Beyond Ingenious category--it was even better than the Rear End Game.

I'll let you figure out that one on your own.

If I had to guess, I'd say it was two o'clock in the morning. She was tucked cozily in her bed, I was snuggled up in a pile of clean laundry, and Maureen casually said, "Amy, let's make a video about things that piss us off. We'll take my mom's video camera, we'll set it up, and we'll just list the things that piss us off."

Then she gave a thoughtful glance up toward the ceiling, looked back at me and said, "We'll call it Things That Piss Us Off. By Maureen and Amy. Just a list...of things that piss us off."

"Things that piss us off?" I repeated.

"That's right," she confirmed. "Things that piss us off."

Obviously, we were both strictly prohibited from uttering the words 'piss off' in the presence of our parents. Clearly, we were about to make up for that. We wasted no time in setting up the video camera [that happened to be the size and weight as a cinder block], we plopped down on the pleather futon, and we went to work.

Now keep in mind, we were seniors in high school, so our list was like:

Ugh, forgetting my locker combination!
When the school nurse thinks I'm faking!
Boys who smell like cheese all the time!
Volleyball!
Gas that costs $1.29 a gallon!

...and so on and so forth.

The videos continued sporadically through college and evolved into things like:

People who backwash in beer!
Economics!
When my Gap jeans get all bunchy in the butt!
Phone bills!
People who wear puffy-painted cat sweatshirts!
Sweatshirts without hoods, period!

The videos eventually came to a stop, but the concept never did. Really now, how could it? A zillion years later, I still call Maureen after a solid six months of communication hiatus to say things like, "Things that piss me off....the IRS. And The Chrysler Motor Corporation. And baby poop in my mouth."

Trust me, it's way more fun than starting a call with a simple 'hello.'

People, I believe in this concept. Actually, I believe in this concept so much, that I've decided to open up the floor to my internet friends.

Don't faint.

I'll start.

Highly politically charged/argumentative people.

Dog urine on my carpet.

The grout on my kitchen floor.

Calories.

Icy roads.

Go ahead, take a turn. It feels really good. Like really good. And seriously, it's so much better to take your teeny, little frustrations out in a comment section than on your poor, unsuspecting spouse who's just trying to cook you a damn meatball.

I know it's only Tuesday, but I'm thinking we'll do Things That Piss Us Off Thursdays a couple times a month. Has a sweet ring to it, doesn't it?

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnd.......go!

(...as always, I have veto power over any not-niceness that I don't like)

The Semininja

2011-03-03T08:36:00.001-06:00

March 3, 2010

I've been completely out of the blogging mood lately.

Sorry.

If you give me the greatest post idea in the history of the world, maybe it'll light my fire. But for now, I'll eat this banana and think about how much I don't feel like standing on a ski mountain today when the wind chill is slated to be somewhere between -15 and -30 degrees.

Then I'll think about how much I love teaching religious education classes to a bunch of teenagers in my basement every morning:

High school kids, they're always so predictable, don't you think?

Ten points to Brit for the charming smile in that first picture.

A Day Brightener

2011-02-23T12:04:00.002-06:00

This post has been making me snicker all day long.

The Runs

2011-02-21T14:13:00.002-06:00

February 21, 2011

So I have this section on the blog up there called 'The Runs.' You're supposed to send me your running questions, and I'm supposed to answer them. Except I've never answered them.

I'm about to do that right now.

I think I have five or so questions that I need to dig out of my inbox. Some of them are from a looooong time ago.

If you happen to have a question, email me really soon and I'll include yours in there, too. Otherwise, you might have to wait until 2014 for an answer.

I Need a Therapist. And a Coach.

2011-02-18T04:52:00.000-06:00

February 18, 2011

Jared, who happens to be the most supportive husband on the planet, read my Boston post yesterday. And last night, while he was folding laundry in our bedroom, he let me know that he thought it was total and complete crap.

"You still care," he said.

"No I don't," I insisted, "I'm over it."

"How long ago did you decide that you want to run the Boston Marathon?"

"In 1995 when I first read an article about it in Runners' World," I replied. "But I swear I'm over it."

"No you're not. You're discouraged that it just got harder. You're not over it, that's not you."

And so on and so forth.

He says he knows me better than I know myself.

I say he farts every time I walk into the bedroom and it's starting to piss me off.

He says he knows that I'll never give up on my dream.

I say I know he'll never get a manner.

Truth is, I don't know what in the hell I'm feeling. I guess you can say that I'm simultaneously discouraged and encouraged--and that's what makes us human, being able to feel two opposite things at the very same time, right? I mean, buffalo can't do that, can they?

So there. Whatever. I'm conflicted. About something that's not so big in the grand scheme of things, but on my mind a lot of the time.

Maybe I still care. Maybe I really don't care so much anymore.

Maybe I should drink some melted butter. I've always wanted to do that.

My Thoughts on the Boston Marathon Stuff

2011-02-17T10:23:00.001-06:00

February 18, 2011
(for those of you who care and know what I'm even talking about...)

I just had a realization.

I'm done with my whole Boston Marathon dream. I don't think I'd wear the jacket anyway.

It's not that I don't think I can qualify under the new rolling admission standards and the 3:35 age group cutoff--because I know I'm capable of all of that. I was a great runner in high school, I can still run a sub-six mile without much trouble, and I'm lucky to have a VO2 max that allows me to gain fitness quickly.

I know, in my heart of hearts that I'm capable of qualifying for Boston--I just haven't had my day.

But you know what? The new rolling admission system is already stressing me out, and I haven't even run a qualifying race yet. I sat up last night doing math over and over and over in my head...

"....Okay, so if I go ten minutes under the 3:40, what's the probability that I'll get in? What if I go five minutes under? What's the pace for a 3:35? What'll happen to the BAA website when registration opens up to all qualifiers?"

If it sounds complicated, that's because it is. And let me tell you, the last thing I need is one more complicating factor in my life.

Do I think the BAA is wrong for the way they're approaching registration? Of course not. They own the race, and they can do whatever they want with it. Honestly, if they required that you walk across the finish line on your hands to be able to register, I guess I'd just start practicing my gymnastics skills if I wanted it badly enough.

I've seen a lot of comments from enthusiastic, well-attituded runners that say things like, "Well, just another reason to train harder!" and "I guess I'll have to get faster!"

You won't hear that from me.

If I train harder, it's because I want to train harder--not because the BAA has cornered me into making that choice.

If I get faster, it's only because I've been working harder for my own sense of self-satisfaction--not because of an outside standard that's been placed on me and my community.

My motivation to run comes from somewhere in my gut, not from the BAA. From this point forward, you'll never hear me say that I'm trying to qualify for Boston--I'm just trying to run my race. I'm trying to reach my personal potential. I'm trying as hard as I possibly can to do what I love, and to do it well.

From this point on, I'll never feel disappointed when I cross a marathon finish line again, because damn it, I just finished a marathon. There should never be any shame in that. And these days, even with a respectable "BQ," there's not guarantee that you'll get to run the race anyway.

Now don't get me wrong here, if I happen to meet the Boston qualifying standard, you bet your ass I'll try to register and run that race. But the difference is, this is no longer about being good enough for them, this is about being good enough for me.

I'm not planning to get a boob job because the media tells me I should, and I'm not about to take on a different career just because my paycheck seems wimpy compared to other peoples'. I'll never convert to a different religion that the masses accept as more mainstream, and you can mark my words right now--I'm not gonna start training harder because the bar's been raised by a race organizer.

I want to get faster. There's nothing, nothing, that beats of feeling of running quickly and with ease for mile after mile after mile. But I want to get faster for me, not for the jacket--and believe me, up until today, I really, really, realllllly wanted that jacket.

So I'll run, and I'll try to run well. I'll run the races I feel like running, when I feel like running them. I'll have babies when I want more babies--not after I finally get to run Boston. And I'll celebrate every single marathon finish like, well, like I just finished a marathon.

Thank you for the changes, BAA. You've finally set me free. I mean that.

What else can I say? The sun is shining and it's a great day for a fast ten miler.

P.S. There's another new post down there.
P.P.S. I hope it doesn't sound like I'm bagging any BQers out there. I think you're all incredible, and I'm jealous no matter what I say! This is about my feelings only...nothing to do with anyone else!

C'mon! They'll Rip Your Face Off!!!!

2011-02-17T08:30:00.001-06:00

February 17, 2011

I'm not sure if I've ever mentioned this before, but James, my five-year-old, is ridiculously picky about the shirts he'll wear. Basically, if it doesn't have something super fierce and obnoxiously gigantic screen-printed on the front, he won't take a second glance.

Luckily, this doesn't pose too much of a problem in the warmer months when Spider Man t-shirts and Lego BatMan tank tops flow like wine. But I'll tell ya, dressing my kid on Sundays and during these cold winter months might be enough to do me in.

It's not a rare morning when James shows up in the kitchen wearing a Star Wars t-shirt over a thick, winter sweater. And this past Sunday, he actually came downstairs wearing a super nice church outfit--khakis, a belt, a tie, a white button-down--with a BumbleBee golf shirt on top of it all. I actually thought it looked pretty dope. I was definitely cool with his outfit choice. However, for reasons unbeknownst to me, Jared most certainly wasn't.

He opted to take on the good fight in the name of reverence, respect, and Jesus.

Better him than me.

Now I know what you're thinking: Amy, why don't you just buy the kid some sweatshirts with crap printed on the front? And some super hero ties?

Well let me tell you why I won't. Because we have enough hand-me-downs to keep this child covered through college. If there's any money getting spent on clothes, you'd better believe that shiz'll be hanging in my closet.

Anyhoo....

This morning, Jared thought he'd found a way to completely avoid the daily outfit fiasco--a long sleeved shirt with a bear printed on the front.

No dice.

You know, since the bear couldn't fly, or run faster than the speed of sound, or navigate a spaceship--basically, since the bear is a naturally occurring entity--James refused to wear the shirt.

Finally, after a full five minutes of back and forth between my husband and my kid, I knelt down, looked James bang in the eye and said, "Listen bud, bears rip peoples' faces off ALL THE TIME. EVERY SINGLE DAY. That's cool. Now wear the damn shirt."

And he did.

The End.

A Very Recycled Valentine's Day

2011-02-14T09:51:00.000-06:00

February 14, 2011

See this card?

Outside:

Inside:

It's two bears sleeping in bed. He's hot, she's cold--Jared and I could be those bears.

But that's not the interesting part. This is the interesting part...

I sh!t you not, I've been giving Jared this same, unsigned card every year for Valentine's Day since 2007. He's gotten this card in a crappy apartment in Texas, my parents' house in Massachusetts, and our house up here in Maine. Every year I hand it to him in the unsealed envelope and say, "Oh my word, isn't it perfect? Those bears might as well be us!"

He snickers, gives a little bouncy nod and goes, "Pfft! You're totally right."

Then he puts the card on the table, walks away to investigate something shiny/stinky/loud, and I slip the card back into the drawer of my sewing table....until next year.

You know, just my little contribution to saving the planet.

Change of Plans and The Retro Lunch Hour

2011-02-09T08:55:00.001-06:00

February 9, 2011

Jared and I had a ski date planned for today. We had an insane deal on lift tickets and a babysitter all lined up. We were planning to stop along the side of the road for pee breaks, and sing to our very favorite songs from the retro morning show. You know, the music that wasn't released until after I'd lost my virginity, but now it's 'retro' because I'm so damn old? Does anyone else hate that, too?

Anyway, we were planning a totally perfect day of swishing, and laughing, and falling, and marital joy. And then we saw the weather report. Sure it's sunny and it looks really beautiful through the window, but it's also 0 degrees with a wind chill of -32 and the ski mountain.

Needless to say, there will be no skiing on this fine Wednesday.

Instead, I headed into work for two or three hours while Jared stayed home with the kids. And then this afternoon, while James is at school, I'll hang with Maggie while Jared hauls firewood across our yard and into the basement. We'll probably fight a little bit, too. And there's a dog pee spot on the carpet that I need to work on.

Maybe -32 wouldn't have been so bad? Next time we'll probably brave it.

So seriously, does the 'Retro Lunch Hour' on the local radio station make anyone else want to crawl into a casket and nail down the lid? When did Nirvana become classic rock? Why is my metabolism so sluggish? When did I get this old?

Elder Dance-a-Lot: My YouTube Debut

2011-02-07T06:27:00.000-06:00

February 7, 2011

There are a lot of days when I look back at my college years and think, "Dang. I really should have majored in [insert random field of study that I probably would have sucked at here]."

My missed opportunity changes drastically depending on my mood that day. Sometimes I pine for lots of money, other days it's about flexibility, and every now and again, I guess I just feel like smoking a touch of weed in a Vanagon down by the river. Nursing, art, finance, women's studies, pre-med, agriculture, education, equestrian studies--I've mourned my missed path in each of those fine fields.

Thanks to this weekend, I have one more major to add to my list of regrettable college 'should haves.'

Film Making.

Behold:

Is it just me, or does everyone feel like they're on the verge of a really big break every time they post some crap on YouTube? Either way, I think I'm pretty famous today.

Someday My Prince Will Come

2011-02-04T11:45:00.000-06:00

February 4, 2011

I'm a really fortunate person in a whole lot ways. Especially in the fact that I'm not married to a jealous man. I don't know what it is about jealous guys, but I have zero tolerance for that type of neediness.

Jealous guys and guys who drive automatic sedans--in both cases I'm like, "Dude, grow some nuts. Today."

But of course, we're human. He's a little bit jealous of my sewing talent, and I'm just the teensiest bit envious of the relationship he has with his German Shorthaired Pointer (that's a dog breed, not some crazy phallic nickname), but other than that, we're good.

Now I should admit, we're not big on the whole 'friends of the opposite sex' thing. I have a few and he has a few, but we have a pretty firm policy that we don't find ourselves alone with a person of the opposite sex unless they're a relative or it's a professional situation.

The last thing I need is some pretty lady stealing Jared, his dog, and his student loan debt away while I'm not looking.

So caution? Of course.

But jealousy? Not a whole lot...well, maybe a splash or two in this billion year old post.

This is why I was so surprised over what happened this morning.

I was perched in the middle of the kitchen, innocently sweeping the floor, singing 'Someday My Prince Will Come.'

He was like, "What are you singing?"

And I said, "Someday My Prince Will Come."

"That's what I thought. Why would you sing that?"

So I said, "You really want to know why I would sing that???? Really, Jared? Because I want to know why you know that song! Did I marry a softee or something?!?!?"

From that point on, it just got really, really messy.

This is exactly why I don't like jealous men. Drama, drama, drama.

Barrel Magazine

2011-02-03T12:16:00.000-06:00

February 3, 2011

Check it out! I was featured in Barrel Magazine this month!

Before you know it, I'll be sleeping with Matt Lauer, or Sponge Bob, or someone else really fancy!

If you haven't read Barrel Magazine, go ahead an click on the link. It's super well done and completely fun to flip through.

Seriously, behold the fabulosity:

A Monday Lift

2011-01-31T06:30:00.000-06:00

January 31, 2011

If you want to laugh until your guts fall out, the solution is very simple. Just search the term "ski lift" on YouTube.

Here are two of my most beloved clips:

(if you squint really hard, I think you can see some schnuts)

Happy Monday!

Happy! Happy! Happy! Mormon Housewives

2011-01-28T15:14:00.000-06:00

January 28, 2010

My response to this article.

If you're Mormon, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about when I write the phrase, "Relief Society Voice." For those of you who aren't Mormon, let me explain.

Twice a year, the LDS Church holds it's semi-annual General Conference. Basically, the leaders of the church, men and women alike, give talks to members all over the world from the Conference Center in Salt Lake City. The talks are broadcast on the internet, on television (even on basic cable in Maine), on the radio, and everyone is encouraged to listen to each of the four two-hour sessions.

The female speakers, who tend to hail from the West, all seem to have the exact same sing-songy voice, or as it's commonly coined, "Relief Society Voice." Even my father-in-law, who is the Momonest Mormon in the whole entire universe, can sometimes be seen quietly excusing himself from the room when the "Relief Society Voice" comes on. It's a great time to refill your bowl of peanuts.

Now don't get me wrong, the talks given by the women are usually the best talks of them all. But the voices, ohhhhh the voices, are not so easy to swallow. Usually, I end up reading their talks after the fact because I love the content, I just don't love to listen to them. They're deep and insightful and lots of times they make me cry--but only when I take 'em in through the church magazine. The audio brings me to tears in an entirely different way.

There's this particular talk called "Hold On" by Ann M. Dibb that's become one of my favorites. I've used it over and over and over in Sunday School lessons and Seminary because the message is completely powerful, but hoo boy, it's a perfect example of this phenomenon.

As reluctant as I feel to do this (because it's a great talk, she's an amazing woman, and I don't want people making fun of someone who's trying her damnedest to make the world a much better place), here's the link to the talk on Youtube. You only have to watch the first minute to see how cheerful! Sister! Dibb! is! as she describes a completely tragic accident.

I'm sure she was nervous, and in the end her talk has a positive, encouraging message. But the tone and the voice is really kind of strange.

And really kind of normal for middle-aged Mormon women.

You don't hear it so much in Maine, but you hear it a lot when visitors come from out West, and I heard a whole mess of it in Texas. Enough to last me a lifetime. Also enough to lead me down the path of swearing.

But this voice, this Relief Society Voice (by the way, Relief Society is the name of the women's organization of the LDS Church), never ever comes out of the mouth of a thirty-something female Mormon. The voices is saved for women who are forty and up--and probably more like fifty and up.

So what happened to the Relief Society Voice? Where did it go? Why has my generation failed to carry it on? It's a well-known fact that that energy can't be created or destroyed--and this voices appears to take a hell of a lot of energy--so really now, where has this energy gone?

Clearly, the voice has morphed, and it's taken on the form of the current day Mormon Mommy Blog.

You might know what I'm talking about. They have three or four kids, they haven't hit thirty, they're beautiful, and they bake. Considering all these factors, why should today's Mormon women be so sing-songy? Makes no sense when they can make a blog header with little happy birds, and a model-looking husband, and kids with perfectly mismatched clothes.

These blogs portray perfection. And you know what? No one is perfect. These blogs place an intentional slant on life. I doubt that those fifty-year-old Mormon women used to yell at their kids with happy! happy! princess! voices! And I know for a fact that these picture-perfect bloggers aren't happy! happy! happy! day in and day out.

I don't consider my blog to be the typical Mormon Mommy Blog--or a Mormon Mommy Blog at all, but to be fair, I'll admit that my blog is just as slanted as theirs' are. They paint it to look like their husbands fart flowers, and I've pretty well convinced you all that I'm the life of the Tupperware party. Trust me, I'm not. Total party dud....right here.

I wrote about a tween flashback sometime last week, and a couple of commenters couldn't believe it was true. "How," they questioned, "can so many funny things happen to just one person?"

Well, I guess I could have summed it up this way, to make it sound more believable:

Once upon a time there was a really frazzled mom on my street. Her kid was an only child and he was bored. She paid me five bucks a week to take him up to the park and play so he wouldn't be so annoying. The End.

But that's no fun, now is it? These Mormon Mommy Bloggers are doing a really similar thing. The only difference is, they have some serious photography skills.

If I had to guess, those girls watched Sleeping Beauty when they were little, and wished, wished, wished for a prince of their very own. I, on the other hand, watched Pee Wee's Playhouse diligently, and still want a set of talking chairs so, so, so, so badly.

Different perspectives, same degree of slant.

Bottom line? These girls are sugar coating the sh!t out of their lives. And maybe I am, too.

Do Mormons tend to be happy people? I guess so. I think most people who find truth and meaning in their religion (or community, or a cause) tend to be happy--at least most of the time. But we haven't cornered the market on happiness, or family fun, or cute husbands. And as much as Mormons value motherhood, we haven't cornered the market on the fact-of-life either.

I was Catholic for my first twenty years, and trust me, that whole Mary thing? That's some very powerful stuff when it comes to venerating the role of mothers.

And don't even get me started on my super hippy friends. They not only stay home with their kids--they sleep with their kids, cloth diaper their kids, grow food for their kids, knit hats for their kids, nurse their kids forever, write songs for their kids on the guitar, and you get the picture.

It's an absolute true fact that Mormons have something that outsiders don't. We believe certain things that make atheists roll their eyes and give some born again Christians a nervous twitch. But every religion has a richness that other religions don't--and if you believe what you're devoting your existence to, chances are, you'll be very happy.

But just because you're happy, don't expect to have kids who wear Mini-Boden, and a perfectly decorated house, and vintage party dresses, and perky boobs, and an insane sewing talent.

Because that? Well that's art. And Photoshop101 is the prerequisite.

(Aaaaaand commence with the hateration. Or the love. Either way.)

My Response is Coming

2011-01-28T08:41:00.000-06:00

January 28, 2010

After two weeks of rumination over this article, I finally feel like I know what I need to say.

Apparently, there's been all sorts of hoo-ha over this snippet--on the internet, and pretty much every form of media out West. I've seen a few responses, but I live in Maine, Utah's hoo-ha is a world away for me.

Stay tuned. Between my long run and kid chasing, I'll rope my thoughts onto this blog.

In the mean time, go ahead and read the article. But in case you're not up for it, I'll give you the jist--a self-proclaimed youngish, feminist, over-educated, athiest woman can't figure out why she's so obsessed with blogs written my Mormon housewives. Actually, it's her guilty pleasure.

My guilty pleasure is x-rated texting and chocolate/peanut butter desserts. But you know, to each her own.

Sit tight. But remember, I suck with deadlines.

Makes a Bad Day Good

2011-01-27T09:03:00.001-06:00

January 27, 2011

Ya know. I'm just having a day. One of those days where the craptastitude completely overshadows the fabulosities of being alive. I really, really hate days like today.

Sometimes, when I stop and think about it, I have a lot going on my life. But please don't get me wrong, for a person like me, that's a good thing. For some reason--and I honestly don't know why--I thrive when I have a zillion balls in the air. When I think back to my undergrad days, there was only one semester that I landed myself a 4.0 GPA. It also happened to be the semester that I was taking 21 credit hours, working two jobs, and planning my wedding.

Blamo. Nailed it. Four. Point. Oh.

These days, I've got a lot going on, and just like the good old days, I really seem to like it. The calendar on my phone is jammed full of business meetings, crazy hat days, road races, dates with Jared, sit-downs with the accountant, and I really, really feel happy with the way my life is shaping up.

But just because I like it, doesn't mean that everything is always going well.

To help you understand the triumphs and vicissitudes of my life, I drew you a super scientific graph. Actually, it's so scientific, that it has legend to go with it, too.

Behold:

As you can see, when one thing, for example motherhood, is unbelievably good, something else, like work, might be a complete and utter shizfest. And when I'm rockin' the whole 'awesome marriage' bit, chances are, I'm constipated as all get out.

Very rarely do all the forces work together for good. And very rarely, as evidenced by the big black circle on the graph, do all the forces line up to kick me in the front teeth.

Guess where they're lined up today?

Right. In the circle. Sucker punching me over, and over, and over.

Thankfully, at 3:45, the world will tip back up onto its axis, and I won't care about the stupid, stupid, bad stuff. Take a look:

I've finally, after thirty long years, found something on this planet that's more fun than skiing....WATCHING MY KID SKI!

Skiing might be an expensive hobby, but if I die with one dollar in the bank and a whole mess of kids and grandkids who love to ski, I really won't give a damn.

So listen up you crappy poopfest of a day. At 3:45, you can get right out of my way. James is going skiing.

Ten Links

2011-01-26T12:36:00.002-06:00

January 25, 2011

I'm a really bad blogger. Probably one of the worst I've ever come across.

Good writer? I guess so.

Good blogger? Absolutely not.

I rarely comment back to my commenters, I'm not so good at commenting on other blogs, I don't share a lot of links, and I have no idea what a 'blog carnival' is supposed to be. I don't troll the internet for new readers, I don't have a button, I'm just a complete under-achiever in this blogging game.

But the one thing I'm really proud of, is the fact that this blog is still here. So far, I haven't fallen victim to the whole 'vanishing blog syndrome' that snatches my favorite characters away all too often. And really, that's pretty much my only goal--keep doing it. Because I like to do it.

If you're offended by my severe lack of blogging etiquette, I really am sorry. But if you're offended by my seriously immature humor, I'm not sorry. You'll have to get used to it, because I bet you anything, that there will be all kinds of great quotes recited at my funeral that I'm tentatively scheduling for 2085.

Anyhoo, I do read blogs. Actually, I love to read blogs. In no particular order, here are ten of my favorites. You should probably read them all:

Sweet Cheeks in the Kitchen -- I'm lucky enough to know Brianne in real life, and I'm even luckier than I've gotten to eat some of her kitchen amazingness. She can photograph a cupcake like no-one else, and I regularly find myself leaving comments on her facebook page that say things like, "How do you not weigh 800 pounds?" Thanks to her ridiculously cute baby, she's been light on her blogging lately, but if you sift through her archives, you'll drool yourself to sleep.

Life Begins at Thirty -- I just love Pam. She runs, she has a couple of dogs, and she takes vacations that I'm jealous of. I feel like I know her, even though I totally don't. Maybe someday!

Fast Punx -- Another running blog. This guy is actually married to Brianne from Sweet Cheeks in the Kitchen. He qualified for Boston last fall and has 85,000 tattoos. I think he even has a tuba tattooed on his back--I don't know, he runs too fast for me to tell.

Runner Belle -- Another real life Boston blogger. I really wish this girl was my neighbor. We have similar running styles and I hope I can get to her level in the next couple of years.

Then She Made... -- A crafty blog. Amy is one of my favorite people in the universe and her projects are just really stinking cute. If you're crafty, you really have to check her out.

Honey Rock Dawn -- Some random girl who lives in Wyoming with a coyote, a goose, some cattle, and I don't know what else. She has this wicked hot cowboy boyfriend and I want to touch his butt.

Carrots n' Cake -- The last thing this girl needs is another link. She a bazillion readers already. I'm not sure why I'm so drawn to this blog, especially since I don't like pugs. All I know is this: Her blog is like crack cocaine. The first time I read it I said to myself, "Not gonna do that again!" And now I find myself always clicking for more.

Easy as ABC -- If Caitlin and Adam aren't the cutest couple in the history of the planet, then paint me red and roll me in some feathers. They're a college-aged married couple and I completely love them. Their little, tiny apartment and their HUGE haul of wedding gifts reminds me so much of my marriage to Jared in the early years. Someday, when they have a baby, I'm sure I'll send them a cute little gifty from Etsy...even though we've never met.

Reagan's Blob -- Okay. Reagan's blob will simultaneously make you laugh, cry, hug your kids, want to be a better person, lose twenty pounds, and put on some make-up. Oh yeah, and move to New York. You absolutely have to click on that link and get to know Piper Jane--she's probably the specialist little girl on the face of the earth.

Georgia Snail -- A nice, southern gentleman who likes to run at a nice, leisurely pace. One of his favorite words is 'asshattery,' which automatically makes him one of my favorite people on the internet. Please, please, please read his January 19th post. Seriously, January 19th. Do it. For real. And click on his link. Seriously.

Now Don't Get Me Sarted -- Okay fine. Eleven links. This one goes out to my A #1 commenter, Karen. If you want a New Englander's view on this wintry weather, click on Karen. But I'll give you a preview--she thinks you're all a bunch of wimps.

Happy procrastination!

Finally Back on Track

2011-01-25T10:29:00.001-06:00

January 25, 2011

Well phew. After a whole bunch of months with ass-crazy computer issues at my house and at work, it's finally all taken care of. Every last issue is wrapped-up, solved, over and done. How often do I get to say that about anything in my life?

In honor of this new ability to actually turn on a computer and connect to the internet, stay tuned for some of my very favorite links tomorrow. And you know what that means....! You'll have a whole variety of new and creative ways to not cross things off of your to-do list! Yay!

But in the mean time, here's a little preview:

I love this blog.

Strength Training for Runners: A Tween Flashback

2011-01-20T10:31:00.001-06:00

January 20, 2011

I wish you all lived in my neck of the woods, because something really ridiculous is happening tonight. In an effort to bolster up two things I love--my local running club and my husband's chiropractic office--I'm hosting a group called Strength Training for Runners at 7 o'clock.

I can't do a push-up. I can't touch my toes. Actually, I kind of have a hard time wrestling a gallon of milk from the fridge to my cart at the grocery store. Oh, and sometimes I fart when I do squats.

This is basically the equivalent of me hosting a book club meeting about anything longer than 89 pages. Or teaching an Intro to Etiquette class.

All I keep saying to myself is, "Welp, at least they won't be intimidated by my strength and skill."

I will admit that I'm having some crazy flashbacks to my tween years as a result of this insane idea. You see, once upon a time in 1989, my dad bought me a forest green tennis racket from Caldor. I couldn't hit a tennis ball to save my life, but honestly--honestly--I thought I might have had a chance at Wimbledon. If I practiced enough.

And practice I did.

Lots of afternoons--especially during middle school--I'd get home, grab my racket, and walk up to the elementary school, where I'd hit a ball against the outside wall of the school gym for a zillion minutes straight. You know, the brick wall that said, NO GAME PLAYING AGAINST THIS WALL? (Really now, the swearing Mormon thing shouldn't surprise you one bit. Even back then I had no respect for the rules.)

Despite my hours and hours and hours spent at that wall, I never could get a handle on the backhand. Or the serve. Or making contact with the ball in any way, shape, or form. I was a huge, clumsy mess. One time, I actually walked home with the racket tangled to high heaven in my ponytail. That's how awesome I was.

One day, as I was leaving for the elementary school, my neighbor across the street came out to her front stoop and called my name. She was all, "Amy! Aaaaamy! I'm wondering if you'd be willing to teach Matthew some tennis lessons."

I was like, "Uhhhmmmmmm. Yes?"

And she said, "Great. Can you do it twice a week? I can pay you five dollars a week."

And I was like, "Uhhhmmmmmm. Yes?"

And then she said, "Can you start today? Matthew's really anxious to learn the basics."

And I said, "Uhhhmmmmmm. Yes?"

So off we went, me and the token neighborhood chunky kid. We were about to have our first tennis lesson. This, I recall, was also the first time I crapped my pants in public.

We walked up to the school mostly in silence, and when we got there I turned to him and asked, "So what do you want to learn first."

He said nothing.

Not knowing the names of any tennis-related skills and absolutely dying to break the awkward silence, I said something like, "Well Matt, how about the double loop-de-loo? That's a really good one."

His eyes lit up, so I showed him how to do it.

For those of you who are curious, basically all you do is throw the tennis ball as high as you can, do two giant arm circles with your racket, miss the ball, and go get it out of the ditch.

That spring we also learned the triple loop-de-loo, the quadruple loop-de-loo, the mega-slam....and yeah, I'm pretty sure that's it.

Needless to say, those were the only tennis lessons I ever taught.

So tonight? My Strength Training for Runners group? It could be the first and only. Just please pray that no one gets hurt.

The Accidental Power of the Written Word

2011-01-18T09:41:00.004-06:00

January 18, 2011

Yesterday, I was scrounging around the house looking for some kind of notebook I could use as a running log. As much as I love the online options, there's just something about a good old fashioned paper and pen that lures me in.

I logged all my training miles for my first two marathons in cheap little notebooks from CVS, my next two marathons I logged online. These days, I do both. I like the graphs and fancy crap on The Daily Mile, but c'mon now, I also like the stickers I give myself on long run days--can't do that on the ol' internet, now can ya?

So anyway, we have a whole bunch of built in book shelves in our super-seventies basement, and they really are lined with books--old college text books, empty baby books (I swear I love my kids), paperbacks, phone books, I dunno. I scanned the collection and spotted a spiral bound journal that I didn't quite recognize.

"Perfect," I thought. "I'll just rip out any of the pages that are written on." I figured I'd find another failed attempt at keeping a personal journal. You know, two entries and then never again? Don't you dare pretend that you haven't done it, too. The blog is so much easier--we'll just have to see if my posterity believes all the lies in the 23rd century.

Anyhoo, I opened up the journal, and sure enough, the first [and only formal] entry was about a month after we moved to Texas. It talked about how lonely I was, how I had no friends, how I was ready to hop a plane to anywhere in New England and never look back. Honestly, it was really sad to me since there's nothing in the world I hate more than loneliness, and that entry was nothing but sob, sob, sob, lonely, lonely, lonely. I just wanted to rewind time, give my 23-year-old self a big hug and say something encouraging like, "Appreciate your boobs, Amy. They won't be so perky when you're 30."

But I don't have a time machine, so I just kept looking through.

There were some random notes for my graduate thesis, some happy little love notes back and forth between me and the J-man, there were a few things that I'll purposely fail to mention, and then, the real piece-de-resistance, there was a six page marital spat completely written out.

There's no other alternative, we must have done it during sacrament meeting at church. Seriously.

As far as I can tell, sometime back in 2005, we sat in church, writing out all manner of curse words, unpleasantries, and lines starting with phrases like, "You're wronger than wrong because....." I was pregnant with James, Jared was working at a dog food store, and it was his first semester of chiropractic school. Definitely not the good old days...not by a long stretch.

I ripped up the fight pages before I showed the rest of the journal to Jared--actually, I didn't read it from start to finish either. I think it would have been totally humiliating for both of us to read. Definitely not constructive.

But you know, it got me to thinking. If my life depended on it, there's no way I could even begin to remember what that fight was about. Six years later, the subject matter of that squabble couldn't be more inconsequential. But the words I wrote to him. The words he wrote to me. I wonder if any of those have stuck with us.

Deep down, does he really think that I think he's an idiot, because once-upon-a-time I told him he was?

Oh man I hope not.

Instead, I hope he remembers the fights when I yell things like, "Make your own damn sandwich! The ham is in the DELI MEAT DRAWER! Right where it's SUPPOSED TO BE!" Or, "If you don't learn how to sweep up the dog hair, I swear I'll SHAVE YOUR LEGS IN THE NIGHT!"

Those are the words I hope he remembers, because those are the words I really, truly mean. Well, those words, and things like "I love you, but I'll love you more if you take me on a vacation."

In the grand scheme of things, none of us will remember the Great Tax Bill of 2010, or that time he got that speeding ticket. We probably won't even remember the secret purchases I possibly made during those secret trips to TJ Maxx.

My point is, the stress fades, but the lasting effect of the stressed-out words might not.

Today I pledge to be a nicer wife to Jared. And then maybe he'll finally take me to Aruba.

Love Stinks: The Story of a Slightly Dislocated Shoulder

2011-01-13T09:48:00.001-06:00

January 13, 2011

Every two weeks or so, I go to the library. And for some reason, I never go to the library alone. Sure I have time to go to the library by myself--I could always go during one of my work days--but every time I end up at the library, I'm there with an over-tired baby and a kindergartner who's about to pee his pants.

Our routine is always the same. We enter through the back door in the rear of the building--the door that opens right into the children's section. We wander over to the movie section where James picks something completely random that will hold his attention for four seconds (documentaries, Baby Einstein, princess stories, and so on and so forth), I pick out a movie that he can watch fourteen times in a row without a speck of boredom, and then we get a Star Wars book.

We pay our late fee (because I'm Amy Lawson, we always have a late fee), and we walk upstairs to the adult section. By this time, James is inevitably doing that way-too-close spitty whisper thing into my ear. He's all, "I NEED TO HAVE A CHEESE STICK WHEN WE GET HOME," and Maggie's flopping around like a haddock out of water--I can barely hang on to her.

You can imagine that I don't have a whole lot of time to chose a book for myself. I've come to realize that browsing, and words like hmmmmmmmmmmmmm, are for library patrons who don't have kids. As a result, I've gotten into the habit of walking straight over to the New Non-Fiction shelf, picking two books based on completely on their covers, and getting the hell out of dodge.

I've done all kind of reading on account of this method. I now consider myself to be an expert on drug addiction, gardening, cheese making, reflexology, and business.

This past week I ended up grabbing a sewing book, and a book called The Power by Rhonda Byrne. For those of you who don't know, it's a sequel to the wildly successful book/movie, The Secret. According the The Power, it's all about love. Love, love, love, love, love.

Want to get rich? Love.

Want to be famous? Love.

Want to have ginormous boobies? Love, love, love.

To sum it all up, if we can all just learn to love, we can all achieve our wildest dreams--every single one of them.

After reading the first three chapters, I thought to myself, "Well sh!t. Here's what I've been missing! I'm just gonna love my way into the Boston Marathon. Love, love, love, love, love."

So I went down into my basement, I hopped on the treadmill and thought, "I love running, and I love this treadmill!"

Then I turned on the television, you know, the television I love, flipped through the channels and found The Real Housewives on the CW--a show which I happen to looooove. I watched the girls for thirty-eight minutes or so, came to love each one of them individually as if they were my rich aunts, and was cranking along at a 7:45 pace.

It barely felt like I was working. It felt a lot more like I was gliding. Effortlessly. Like a winged gazelle. There was no other explanation--it had to have been the love. After all, I was even loving on my red carpet and dark wood panelling. I was like, "I loooove1970s home style choices!!!!"

Love, love, love, love, HOLY #$%^!

Right in the middle of my looooove fest, my treadmill--the one I love so much--went and gave up the ghost.
It went from 8.5 mph to 0 mph in less than a second flat. Clearly, I was on my ass--and let me make it abundantly clear that the foot to ass transition was not even slightly graceful.

James, who was down in the basement practicing his ninja skills, turned toward me with huge round eyes and his mouth hanging open. When he finally had the wherewithal to speak, he said, "Wow, Mom. I really, really LOVED that trick."

And I was like, "Well bud, I really, really think I dislocated my shoulder. Go get your father."

The End.

The Instruction Manual!

2011-01-11T11:03:00.000-06:00

January 11, 2011

I have a few statistics for you:

88% of parents mutter the phrase "Where's the instruction manual?" within 48-hours of having a baby.

Another 11.5% turn to their hospital roommate and say things like, "What are you? A fart head? Of course there's no instruction manual!"

The remaining .5% are just all, "Oh hey! You're cute! Let's snuggle!"

And here's my last statistic for you:

By the time that baby reaches preschool, 100% of parents will say something to the effect of, "Seriously, what the hell am I supposed to do with this child?!" or "My hair is on fire!" or "Children are a blessing....now really, where's that instruction manual I asked about back in '06?"

Today, I come bearing good news...and I'm dead serious here...

There is an instruction manual.

Okay fine, it's actually a blog--but that makes it even better since it's free. And you can read it while you're 'working.' And your kids won't feel all curious when they see a book called How to Handle Your Very Terrible Child on the nightstand.

The blog is written by my sister, who's far more than just a fabulous couponer. She's way humble, so she'll probably kill me for writing this, but Katy is the child/adolescent social development expert on the South Shore of Boston.

She works with all kinds of kids--some are on the autism spectrum, some struggle with being shy, some are just your run-the-mill tween who can't seem to get the grasp of making friends. Schools call her for help, parents call her for help, and I call her for lots of help (ie How do you get Sharpie marker off of a face?!?! Oh yeah, and what are the deep seeded issues that caused him to do that? But seriously...Windex maybe?).

Lucky for us, she started a blog. So now we can all get snippets of her fantabulous parenting tricks without getting an invoice in the mail. What a deal!

Check her our at http://katyshamitz.blogspot.com. Make sure you tell her I sent you, so she'll send me a thank you gift in the mail.

And just so you know, she gets her good qualities from me. All of them.

Bedroom Secrets: The Glitter Raisin

2011-01-10T14:25:00.001-06:00

January 10, 2011

I don't know where it stems from, but I absolutely love to eat in bed. My husband, on the other hand, feels very strongly that food in bed is the equivalent of wearing saran wrap to church--a total and complete no no. To me, it doesn't matter what kind of food or what time of day--a steak and cheese, some chips and salsa, two or four cupcakes--it all tastes better on my queen-sized pillow-top.

On our honeymoon, when I looked at the room service menu I was like, "Oooooh, Jared. We'll have to order breakfast in bed!"

And he was all, "Gross. What if a dollop of syrup drops on my pillowcase? I'll die."

So I was like, "Doesn't matter to me. I was planning to see if they could cook me up a pillowcase made out of pancakes."

We both should have known right there that our long haul would feel much longer than average.

Last night, when Jared slipped into bed, he was feeling kind of cranky. So when something squishy and food-like landed between his two little toes, it didn't go over so well. Once his inner storm had [finally] calmed enough for an investigation, he bent down and came back up with a raisin pinched between his thumb and forefinger. A lint covered raisin.

He held it up to the light, then turned to pierce me with the fiercest of gazes. "This is your raisin," he demanded.

"Yes," I said. "I had raisins last Tuesday. That must be mine."

"Then eat it," he said. "Eat it now."

So I did. Lint, glitter, dust and all.

And then I slept like a baby.

A Post for Moms

2011-01-07T12:10:00.002-06:00

January 7, 2010

(Wow, I don't think I used potty humor once during this entire post. I prrrrromise I'll bring you some on Monday.)

I've never, never, never been a player in the whole 'working mom' versus 'stay at home mom' debate, and believe you me, I'm not about to become one. I'm a huge believer in the idea that we're all individuals. What works for one family doesn't necessarily work for another. If my dogs--you know, the ones who voluntarily eat out of the trash can?--are special enough to have their own personalities, preferences, and routines, then damn it so am I. We all are.

What I do believe is this:

Happiness is that state of consciousness which proceeds from the achievement of one's values.

That's a quote by Ayn Rand, and it's my absolute favorite phrase in the world--I buy it hook, line, and sinker. I truly believe, that if a mom can honestly identify her personal and family values--flexibility, stability, attachment, education, faith, adventure, etc--she'll wake up and find herself and her family, for the most part, happy.

Will challenges come? Yes. Will plans fall apart? Probably. Will every minute of every day be fun? Of course not. But I do think that living according to a set of personal values can make for and undertone of happiness--a better default mode if you will.

Honestly, I find it hard sympathize with the plight of the unfulfilled mother. I can definitely commiserate with the frazzled, overwhelmed, stressed out, I-can't-handle-this-whining-for-another-second mother. Of course the depressed mother gets so much of my compassion and understanding. And the I-don't-have-enough-minutes-in-my-day mother? To her I say, "What up, sistah?!"

It's the I've-lost-my-identity-and-I-think-I-hate-it-but-I-won't-do-anything-about-it mom, that I find hard to handle.

My point is, if you can figure out what makes you tick, go for it. Finagle a way to make it happen--even if it takes eight years. Working, staying-home, whatever you feel you need to be doing--just please make your kids believe that it's a great/happy/nice thing to be alive on the planet Earth.

Don't convince them it's a crapfest. Because it's not.

Before I go on with my random (and probably obnoxious?) soap boxery, I can't ignore how fortunate I've been since I've become a mother. I've always been lucky enough to have a foot firmly planted in both worlds. From the time James was born, I was able to adjust my story depending upon who was hearing it. If I was talking to a working mom, and she asked what I did for work, I was able to say, "I'm in grad school." When I was chatting it up with a group of stay-at-home moms, I'd say something more to the tune of, "I'm home with James and go to school part time."

Either way, I was able to fit it. Somehow, I still am. I work part-time. My kids are in daycare part-time. I can 'pass' with either group. I'm so glad to say that I've never been the subject of the "How can you leave your kids all day?!" or "You're only a stay-at-home mom?" type of questions. Either way, those words make me want to barf.

And as a side note, I just need to say that there are some really crappy day cares out there. But I can promise you that there are some really great ones, too. I'm sure this sounds cheesy as all get out, but I love my daycare provider like she's a member of my family. I'm pretty sure I'm not deluding myself when I say that her time with my kids enriches their lives and she adds a whole different dimension to my parenting. I feel happy when I drop them off and when I pick them up. Plus, she feeds them organic food and plays classical music--beats the heck out the saltines and PBS they get at home. Seriously, if James and Maggie ever turn out to be the valedictorian of their high school class, they'd better thank their daycare provider in that speech, because hoo boy, it didn't come from me.

Moms, let's be nice. Let's help each other along. We all love our kids so much that watching them do something as mundane as eat soup makes our head want to explode into a million, little pieces of heart-shaped confetti. Really now, doesn't it?

A happy mom makes for a happy kid, so go ahead and figure out what has value to you, and find some happy for yourself. Teach your kids that they're loved. Show 'em that life is good. Chances are, they'll be just fine--after all, they've got you for a mother.

(That was, hands down, the corniest ending I've ever mustered up.)

The Day After the Marathon

2011-01-05T12:03:00.006-06:00

January 5, 2010

I know I just posted thirteen seconds ago, but I saw this video on facebook and had to share it with the runners of the bunch.

I wanted to embed it here, but it was too wide....or something. So click this link instead.

Is it true or is it true?

Don't Wake the German Shorthaired Pointer

2011-01-05T11:54:00.000-06:00

January 5, 2010

When it comes to mothering, I've never been a DON'T WAKE THE BABY!!! kind of girl. If someone decides to ring the doorbell, or call the house phone, or let me know in a ridiculously annoyed tone that I should have ironed his work shirts during nap time, so be it. If the yearly urge to vacuum the stairs comes to me once the baby's down for the night, I whip out the Hoover with no hesitation.

I'll freely admit that I'm not afraid of waking my kids. Probably because they're pretty good sleepers, and when they're awake I'm a moderately neglectful mom. Trust me, when your kid spends 90% of her waking hours in a high chair with a mountain of Goldfish on the tray it kind of eases things up. Try it. Really.

But I'll tell you, as hard as I try, I just can't relax around this dog:

I'll let you guess which one.

If he's not eating my potato peeler, he's pooping out a baby sock. If he's not stuck between the couch and the wall, he's doing laps around the house with a cereal box stuck on his head. He eats tampons. He shreds diapers. He eats the shoes right off Maggie's feet.

Right now, I swear on all things powerful, he just trotted through the dining room holding my casserole dish in his mouth.

So let me tell you, I completely relish the moments when Coach is sleeping. Seriously, if you wake him up from his nap, I'll kill you.

Happy Wednesday!

The Happy New Year Post

2010-12-31T10:44:00.000-06:00

December 31, 2010

Given the fact that it's the end of the year, the end of a decade, and the end of a great run through my twenties, I feel like I should do some kind of 'Year in Review' post. But man, that sounds like a heck of a lot of heavy memory-wracking and picture finding, doesn't it?

So, instead of all that clicking around, I'll give you the quick version--the first seven or ten things that pop into my head:

1. Maggie was a tiny baby at the beginning of the year, and now she's walking around getting all attitudinal about things. She has some hair, but not enough for piggy tails just yet. I hope that happens in 2011. Let's go ahead and officially mark that as 2011 Resolution #1: GET MAGGIE SOME PIG TAILS. She started part-time daycare and in August and seems to be having fun. From what I've seen, she likes to swap binkies with the other little girls and whip Barbies around by their hair.

2. James lost four teeth and pretty much all of the curl in his hair. I don't know where it's coming from, but he's a fluent reader--things like, "Hey Mom, the cook book says you're supposed to separate the egg and whisk it all together 'til it's fluffy. You're just mushing it up." He played soccer, he's getting ready to hit the slopes, he's made lots of new friends in Kindergarten, and he thinks he's a black belt ninja. Which brings me to 2011 Resolution #2: CONTINUE TO MAKE JAMES THINK HE'S A MARITAL ARTS MASTER WITHOUT EVER ACTUALLY SIGNING HIM UP FOR KARATE.

3. I was lucky enough to gain a niece and two more nephews this year, which brings the running total to ten. My newest nephew Andrew is four days old. I can't wait to hold that little bugger!

4. I'm working the same job, which is always a good, good thing.

5. Jared's office is pushing along, growing like we want it to. Lots of physician referrals, lots of success stories. There have been some pretty uncomfortable growing pains during the fourth quarter, which is normal and expected, but not totally fun. So I'd have to say that 2011 Resolution #3 goes like this: LOVE THE MAJOR INSURANCE COMPANIES SO MUCH THAT THEY HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO LOVE US BACK. Jared's awesome at what he does, and I'm probably the proudest wife on the block.

6. We have a German Shorthaired Pointer puppy. I hate him. So 2011 Resolution #4 says: BOTTLE UP THE DOG HATRED. NO ONE NEEDS TO KNOW.

7. Jared and I are still married! 2011 Resolution #5: STAY MARRIED TO JARED.

8. I ran two half marathons and two marathons by the time Maggie turned one. I'm proud of that. I'm not sure what next year's running goal will be. Let's say 2011 Resolution #6: KEEP ON RUNNING. HAVE FUN WITH IT. TRY SOMETHING NEW AND MAKE ANOTHER NEW RUNNING FRIEND. I made a few awesome running pals in 2010, and they were far and away the highlight!

9. My bathroom was still ugly in 2010. So 2011 Resolution #7: PAINT THE UGLY BATHROOM...MAYBE...IF I FEEL LIKE IT.

10. And finally, I had the best Christmas ever, getting together with the cousins I love dearly, but don't see nearly enough of. We laughed until the farts were popping out like gumballs. So Resolution #7, which is the most serious of the bunch, goes like this: KEEP IN TOUCH WITH MY COUSINS, VISIT OLD FRIENDS, POP DOWN TO CONNECTICUT FOR NO REASON, HUG MY AUNTS AND UNCLES MORE OFTEN.

All in all, I had a great year and I had a great decade. My twenties didn't come without challenges, but they brought me more than I ever could have imagined. I'm thrilled to be facing a new year.

I know that some of you reading this post had a terrible 2010--the worst of the worst of the worst. If that's you, I wish you nothing but peace, happiness, and perseverance in 2011. I hope each and every one of our lives travels in an upward trend this coming year.

Happy New Year!

A Marriage Tip...Among Other Things

2010-12-30T08:42:00.000-06:00

December 30, 2010

I've taken the last day or so to simmer down, and I'm over it. Not my ill-will toward WalMart, just my heart ache/barfitude over the situation. I really do hope the Random Acts of Christmas man magically stumbles across yesterday's post, but if not, maybe one of you guys won't be as quick to take a crap on a good Samaritan as I was. I thought about writing an editorial to my local paper to help me find this guy, but the last thing I want is for 'Jan' to get busted and lose her job. I did, however, send the post to peopleofwalmart.com--I really couldn't fight the urge.

In other news, a few people have asked me to put the 'follow' widget on the side of my blog. I kind of hate that idea, but I guess I'll do it. If you click to follow my blog through the widget, it will automatically dump the link into your Google Reader, or do something else....I have no idea. But please, please click to follow--the widget's so new, and my following looks so weak, and I'm feeling so vulnerable today. I did also add the new 'popular posts' widget--you know, to offset the whole 'not enough people love me' thing.

And finally, Jared and I found ourselves knee deep in a marital spat this morning. Nothing major, just the typical 'You don't know how to love me!...Oh yeah, well your mother told me that you're adopted!' kind of thing. As usual, it ended in the silent treatment....

Me silently making Jared's lunch, Jared silently driving away, Jared silently driving back to get said lunch since I never told him about it because we weren't talking, silently kissing each other good bye and then silently wiping our lips like five year old since we forgot how mad we were at each other.

Don't you even pretend like you're not familiar.

Well today, I'm happy to say that I've found a way to bring the silent treatment to a whole new level: silent phone calls. I know, it's freaking brilliant.

Thirty-or-so minutes ago, my phone rang. It was Jared. "What to do?" I asked myself? "We're not talking."

And then came the moment of inspiration. I answered the call, and said absolutely nothing--just a little throat clearing so he knew I was there.

Ten seconds later he was like, "Hello?"

I cleared my throat again.

Ten more seconds later he was all, "Amy? You there? I think I hear you."

Finally, after a whole minute, I piped up and said, "I was trying to give you the silent treatment. But you screwed it up."

You should all try it. You can also place silent phone calls, send silent texts, silent facebook messages, the options are endless.

You're welcome.

Even Jesus has an Issue with WalMart

2010-12-28T19:55:00.002-06:00

December 28, 2010

WalMart.

Love it. Hate it. Love to hate it.

I don't know about you, but for me, those very seven letters conjure up so much. So many feelings, so many memories, so much frustration, rage, confusion, and a host of disturbing images that are forever seared into my cerebrum. If you're not sure what I'm talking about, and longing to understand, go ahead and hop on over to People of WalMart--whoa my word.

Whoa. My. Word.

Aside from a cheap eyeliner or two, I can't say I've ever had my ups with WalMart, but I've certainly had my share of downs, and as a result, in April 2010, I made a solemn vow to never step foot in my local WalMart ever, ever, ever again. Click here and here to read the story of the straw that broke the camel's back--you know, I'm the camel.

But from time to time, as we all know, even the most benevolent of nuns has been known to sell her soul to the devil. That's right, eight months later, I broke my vow and I went back. I did it in the name of an iPod Shuffle.

It's embarrassing to admit, but I think I love my iPod more than I love my husband. It's my sanity on my runs, in the car, at work, while I slave around in the kitchen. Its company and support are unconditional. My husband? Well, he only hangs around when I'm being pleasant. Clearly, the iPod wins.

Tragically, I lost my love a few weeks back. I think it happened after a trail run near the local high school. When I piece it all together, I'm quite sure I left it on the roof of my car and carelessly drove away. It's so sad I could cry just typing this--it's cold and alone, probably sitting in a puddle attached to my $23 ear buds that are specially designed for people with completely stupid shaped ears. Ugh, I mustn't go on.

In a moment of desperation, combined with a splash of middle class crunch, I decided I couldn't wait long enough to save up the money for a new iPod Nano. I'd bite the bullet and use a Sam's Club gift card to buy a Shuffle for $40 today.

Except my neighborhood Sam's Club was fresh out of Shuffles.

I didn't want to do it, I really didn't, but I glanced at the back of the gift card and sure enough, it was redeemable at WalMart. So I checked their website, and dang, my local store had plenty of Shuffles in stock--green, orange, and pink. My old iPod was green, so I decided I'd get the green one and pretend it was my Nano's little newborn baby.

At three o'clock, I picked up two hungry, tired kids from daycare and drove twenty miles to the crappiest place on Earth. We parked fifty miles away, and I pushed a cart with a bum wheel through a super slushy parking lot, in ten degree weather. We walked through the doors, were greeted by the same greeter who was there in April, and headed straight back to electronics.

Where were proceeded to find no iPod Shuffles in no colors because WalMart sucks.

But we were there, and I had broken my vow, and since the groceries truly are an arm and a leg cheaper at WalMart, I decided to load up on everything we could ever possibly need. From bags of flour to four pounds of cheese, my cart was completely mounded over. My sweet, little fourteen-month-old was wedged between two gallons of milk and six bags of frozen peas because "I don't care how cold you are! Muscle through it, Maggie! We're gonna save some money, damn it!"

After we packed every cubic inch of the cart with every food item we possibly could, we took one last spin through the electronic section, just to be sure that WalMart still sucked.

Yup, it did. Not a Shuffle in sight.

So we headed to the checkout, where Jan (names have been changed to protect the woman I'm dying to tackle) started to scan my items. When she was on the fourth or fifth item, a 40-something year old man (tall, good looking, great hair, nice jeans, and super fancy ski jacket--not your typical WalMart patron) approached her.

I heard him say, "Hey Jan, after....[whisper, whisper, whisper]...Okay? Okay?" Then he walked away.

I don't even know how to describe it. Jan had the most horrified look on her face that I think I've ever seen. I had no idea what he'd just whispered in her ear, but according to her expression, it couldn't have been remotely acceptable. He didn't fit the profile of your typical creeper, but she looked genuinely disgusted.

I said, "Are you okay? What'd he just say to you?"

And Jan said, "He's a creep. What a creep. He's just a creep. And a pervert."

So I said, "Are you sure you're okay. He's right over there. Should we tell your manager? Or security?"

"No," she said, "he's just a creep."

Jan continued to scan my items, and when there were three or four left, the man came back. And this time, he wanted to talk to me. Obviously, my guard was up. I didn't know what he was trying to do, but I had my two kids, so I decided I just wouldn't engage him.

He came up to me and said, "Hi!"

I looked at Jan, she gave me a very cautious shake of the head, and I said nothing.

He held out some sort of business card and I simply said, "No thank you."

He politely said, "Are you sure?"

And I said, "No thank you."

He smiled and said, "Really? You're sure?"

This time, I glanced down at the business card and noticed that it was black and said Random Acts of Christmas across the front. I didn't know what to think, so I made eye contact with the cashier one more time, and she shook her head and warningly widened her eyes again.

"No thank you," I said, in the most assertive tone I could muster.

The man shrugged and walked away, looking a smidge defeated. He met up with his wife and two daughters and they walked toward the exit. He looked innocent enough, but the cashier had convinced me that this guy was no good. According to her expression, he pulled that card straight out of his butt, or the card was an evil piece of paper that wanted to beat me up and steal my wallet.

"What a creep," she said again. "Pervert."

"What'd he say to you? I have no idea what just happened," I replied.

"Ugh," she continued. "He wanted to pay for your entire order of groceries. That just didn't seem right to me. What a disgusting creep!"

Did you catch that? HE WANTED TO PAY FOR MY ENTIRE $150 ORDER OF GROCERIES. It was exactly what the card said it was--a Random Act of Christmas.

"He what?" I asked, thinking maybe I had misheard.

"He wanted to pay for all of your stuff! What's he trying to do?"

He was trying to be nice. That's what he was trying to do.

I silently took my receipt and pushed the cart with the bum wheel past this really weird middle-aged couple that was chopping their daughter's hair off with a jack knife (seriously, what the hell WalMart?). I trudged the fifty miles back across the slushy parking, feeling like an absolute turd for treating a random good Samaritan like a creepy pervert--you know since the WalMart employee told me that's exactly what he was.

I went home, and before I took the groceries out of the car, I Googled "Random Acts of Christmas." Go ahead and try it. He was a nice guy, who had worked up the courage to do a nice thing for a total and complete stranger. I so wish I had taken him up on it.

I wish I could find this guy.

I just want him to know that if he prayed to find the right person, he succeeded. He has no idea how much we could have used a cart load of groceries right now. Even though I completely ruined it for him, I want him to know how grateful I am for his kindness and generosity, and for trying to help a frazzled mother on a really tight budget.

And more than anything, I want him to know that WalMart sucks so much. Not only have they managed to find another creative way to crap on spirit of Christmas, but they took it a step further and told me that my Christmas Angel was a "creepy pervert." Completely not cool.

Honestly, I want to find this guy--not for the groceries, just so I can explain how it all went down, say sorry, and tell him how much I hate that store. I don't usually ask my readers to link to my posts, but if you're willing, today's the day. If we find him, I'll do a really awesome giveaway in his honor.

He was maybe in his forties. He was tall, had a sweet ski jacket, two daughters, one wife, and goes to a nice church that challenged him to commit a Random Act of Christmas. He didn't look like he was from Maine, but he was in the Augusta WalMart around 5 o'clock, hanging around the actual creepy people who decided to lop of their kid's hair with a leatherman (really, that was one of those cerebrum-searing moments that I'll carry to my grave). Maybe he was taking his family on a ski trip?

Will you give me a link and help me find him? I'll swear I'll host a kickasstic giveaway to celebrate.

I'm telling you, I can't rest until I can look this man in the eye, thank him, and testify to him that WalMart has managed to ruin the whole "Peace on Earth Good Will to Men" thing.

I've said it once and I'll say it again--WalMart sucks.

Now where's m'damn Shuffle?

A Zillionteen Hundred

2010-12-28T13:11:00.000-06:00

December 28, 2010

After a Thursday off from work, Christmas over the weekend, and the first blizzardy wallop of the season, I'm completely confused as to what day it is. It kind of feels like Monday and Friday humped and had a strange and confusing baby called Plurshday. So really, Happy Plurshday you guys!

I don't know about you, but I had a really great Christmas. James is still buying the Santa story hook, line, and sinker, which made Christmas morning a jillion times more magical for all of us. When I walked around the corner into the dining room at 6:45, he was standing in the middle of the living room facing the tree. I peered in, trying my best to maintain my fly-on-the-wall-ness, and I could see his hands shaking from excitement. Honestly, they were shaking so hard he could barely hang on to his stocking.

Cute freaking overload.

Aside from a fabulous vacation, or a new car, or plastic surgery, or free groceries for a year, or instantly bigger boobs, it was the best present any mother could ever wish for.

Maggie got a baby doll, and I'm thrilled to say that she's already whipping it around my the ankles and tossing it down the laundry chute. Have I written about how much I love it when little girls commit inadvertent acts of physical abuse on their baby dolls? Because I do. Nothing, and I mean nothing, makes me smile so much.

We were on a tight holiday budget this year, so Jared got a book about fish--I know, how lame. Anyone else would have cried, but thankfully, Jared gets all starry-eyed when he glances at a picture of a trout. I got some new cake pans, some measuring spoons, and a really huge ass. I'm trying to return the ass, but I have no receipt and it's turning out to be pretty complicated--I'll probably bake a red velvet instead.

James told me, that on a scale of one to ten, he'd give this Christmas a zillionteen-hundred. Funny, because that's the same number I picked!

The Annual Christmas Letter

2010-12-23T21:50:00.000-06:00

December 23, 2010

Dear Real and Virtual Friends,

As another year draws to a close, I feel the pressing and urgent need to draft the Annual Lawson Family Christmas Letter. I must apologize for not popping a handcrafted card in the mail, but with filling the role of what some like to call "Super Mom," where's the time? Also, I do hope you'll forgive me if I sound haughty or pretentious, but what can I say? 2010 was an excellent year in this neck of the woods.

(As always, click on the pictures for a close-up view.)

Lately, we've been packing our days with all kinds of Christmas cheer and service to others. We built our very first gingerbread house, and as a result, our home is simply bursting with the Ho Ho Happy Holiday feeling! I sure hope yours is, too!

Unfortunately, the dogs have been after the gingerbread house non-stop. According to James, they've managed to gnaw everything that's not peppermint flavored right off that sweet little cottage. Every time I ask a question like, "James, what happened to the gumdrop roof?" he's kind enough to track down Gracie and spank that geriatric greyhound for her misdeed. What a helper!

This year I made my first go at baking cinnamon rolls, and what an adventure it was! All it took was four hours, my mother-in-law dropping off some flour, my friend swinging by the grocery store while Maggie napped, a trip to Rite Aid (behind a woman with many coupons and ~~an argumentative~~ a feisty spirit) and every dish in my kitchen. Oh, and I missed Maggie's first steps while I was kneading. I think it's fair to say that homemade cinnamon rolls aren't the simplest way to get fat, but they sure do smell good!

Looking back, it's clear that Jared had the biggest year of all us Lawsons. He scored the deal of the century on a free, propless bass boat. So what if it doesn't run, isn't she a beaut?! ? We love it so much that we decided it could sit in the driveway alllllll winter long. I don't know about you, but I think the SS Lawson looks magical with a light dusting of fresh, fluffy snow!

And speaking of magical, we have a new addition to the family! His name is Coach, and I must say, every time I catch sight of the little bugger, my heart wells right up with joy. Doesn't yours? As far as I know, my husband doesn't have a uterus, but if he did, believe you me, he'd let that testicle-clad german shorthaired pointer nestle right up in there. Those two I'll tell ya, they're thick as thieves!

As I alluded to earlier, I'm still topping the charts as Mom of the Year! Not only am I working a job and keeping the house, but this year I've been blessed with the opportunity to enrich the lives of other peoples' children, too. Every morning at 6:05, I'm graced with the smiling faces of ten teenagers who are eager as all getout to learn everything there is to know about the Gospel. Oftentimes, I'm able to add another snippet to my morning routine by bringing a carload of these always-respectful teens to high school. Fun!

I ran two marathons this year, and continue to get progressively slower. What can I say? I always like to leave a teeny bit of room for self improvement. And that doesn't just hold true for running--2011 will be a year to make strides in my laundry management skills, too. The way I see it, the laundry chute is just filled with opportunity. Everywhere I turn, there's something to look forward to!

The kids are--what's the word I'm looking for???--AMAZING! They're friends 'til the end!

Maggie turned one in the fall and she's a smidge behind on all of her developmental milestones, but she sure is cute! The kid grunts like a caveman and slithers around like a snake wearing princess pajamas, but she's excellent at using a straw. She also loves bananas and smiling, and I'm pretty sure she'd sell her soul for eight ounces of chocolate milk.

Somewhere along the line, James's excessive television watching paid off, and now I'm proud to say that he's a fluent reader at five years old--the best in his class. Between you and me and the bathroom wall, this early reading of his is a starting to become a serious issue. Now, instead of the having the freedom to say things like, "Jared, look at me one more time and I swear I'll F-L-A-T-T-E-N-Y-O-U-R-P-E-N-I-S," James is asking questions like, "Mom, what does the word lubricate mean?" What will we do?

He played soccer this fall and scored three goals for the opposing team. He also made his bed one time in September. What a kid!

We were able to take a fantastic family vacation this past August...to my parents' house...where we slept in their barn. We also took several trips to Sam's Club so we could save money by purchasing paper products in bulk.

All in all, we had an excellent 2010 and hope that you did, too.

Merry Christmas to You and Yours!

The Lawsons

Self Expression

2010-12-20T18:47:00.002-06:00

December 20, 2010

Yes, it's Sharpie. He wanted to look "fiercer for longer."

Welp, mission accomplished, my friend!

Just in case you ever wondered, Windex kind of takes permanent marker off of faces.

Phrase of the Week

2010-12-15T13:30:00.000-06:00

December 15, 2010

Thanks to Chelsea, the Lawsons did Dallas! official phrase of the week is:

FART STUCK SIDEWAYS

Please refer to the comment portion of the previous post for clarification.

Time Out!

2010-12-15T09:55:00.000-06:00

December 15, 2010

You know what? I love so many things about my husband Jared. He looks great in plaid, he sings like an angel, his naked butt looks just like the David's, and so on and so forth.

Not to make you super jealous or anything, but I honestly can't remember if this is a picture of the statue or Jared getting into the shower:

Either way, don't you just want to cradle those things in your hands?

Of course you do.

Shapely rear aside, I have to admit that for every fifty things I adore about Jared, there seems to be one or six that I'm almost incapable of handling. For example, Jared gives too many damn time-outs. If time-outs were rainbow sprinkles, we'd be a happy, happy family.

According to my observations, moms around the world have somewhere between forty and fifty parenting tricks tucked away for any given situation. Men? They have one.

For some dads it's yelling, for others it's intimidation, some guys are straight-up push-overs, and then you have my husband's breed--the time-out issuer. This time of year, he'll occasionally venture into Santa related threats, but nine times out of ten, he opts for the time-out.

Now don't get me wrong, I truly believe that time-outs are one of the most effective parenting tools on the planet--but my husband, I kid you not, doles time-outs for things like dawdling.

For example:

JARED: You're not ready for church yet? What have you been doing?
JAMES: Sitting here on my bed, playing with my toes.
JARED: But we're late!
JAMES: But I don't like church. It's better when we're late.
JARED: Time out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

...and now we'll be five and a half minutes later. That's exactly why I like to use the 'threats of eternal damnation' parenting trick when James is reluctant to go to church.

Or here's another one:

JARED: Get in the car, it's time to go to Sam's Club.
JAMES: I don't want to go to Sam's Club, I just want to sit here.
JARED: We need forty rolls of toilet paper. We're going to Sam's Club.
JAMES: But I really just want to sit here.
JARED: Time out!!!! Sit here for five and a half minutes and think about this!

Mmm yeah. You know what he's thinking? He's thinking, "Ha! Foiled again, you fool!"

I saved my favorite for last:

JARED: Bed time!
JAMES: No thanks.
JARED: BED TIME.
JAMES: I want to stay up for a few more minutes.
JARED: Time out! Sit in the living room for five minutes!

What ever happened to the good old fashioned If you don't get in bed this minute I swear you'll have to sleep standing up in your closet followed by a long, rabid hissing noise? That's pretty much my specialty.

So tell me, what's your husband's one and only discipline technique?

A Holiday Update, Lawson Style

2010-12-07T11:55:00.001-06:00

December 7, 2010

So our new dog--you know, the German Shorthaired Pointer with the balls still attached?--is so going to hell. Earlier this morning, I caught him gnawing on the Holy Family, and I don't care who you are, that's just not right. Thankfully, he wore himself out whipping The Virgin Mary around by her feet, so he's sleeping now.

The good news is, he's unconscious and I don't think he's chewing on anything valuable at the moment.

The bad news is, I'm afraid to fart even an SBD, in fear of waking him up.

Between the paper shredder with testicles, the two footed one who drew an enormous monster on my upholstered living room chair with a ballpoint pen by accident, and the one who can barely pee in the potty, my life feels like a sink full of dirty dishes. You know--filthy, disorganized, overwhelming, and so on and so forth.

Right now, Maggie's the only one left on my 'nice' list. And believe you me, she's freakishly adorable. If I didn't have to risk waking up the polka-dotted dog with nuts, I'd totally post a picture. Trust me, you'd be completely jealous of her giant teeth. They're kind of like a mix between boat oars and Julia Roberts--they're kind of awesome.

Oh, waitwaitwait, I just pulled this one from my mom's facebook profile:

It's my mom with all her grandkids. I took it on Thanksgiving, and honestly, it's the best I could do.

Well, actually, maybe this one's better:

See what I mean though? She's even cute when she's busy hatin' on her Grandma.

So far, I've bought Maggie two sets of Elmo pajamas, a talking tea set, and a baby doll for Christmas--I'm really hoping she swings the doll around by the arm and drops it on its head over and over in public. I don't know why, but I think it's the cutest thing ever when little girls commit acts of abuse and neglect with their baby dolls. They're like, "LOOK! I'M A MOMMY!," while they bend their baby in three pieces and stick a bottle in its eye. I swear, it never fails to make me smile.

I love having a girl!

Canine Jewels

2010-12-01T08:44:00.001-06:00

December 1, 2010

In my opinion--and I'm pretty sure I'm right, since I heard it from the pulpit back in 1988--dog testicle are one of the most disturbing sights which the human eye can gaze upon. Cat balls are even creepier.

Sure we've all seen our fair share of cellulite wrapped in spandex and unflushed toilets at the neighborhood WalMart, but there's something about a canine nut sack that shocks me every time. Men wear pants for a reason, but male dogs? They just lets those good flap in the wind, bounce when they run, sprawl out when they lounge around.

It's not right.

Based on my strong and steadfast feelings surrounding male dog genitalia, I never even began to imagine that one day, I'd have a set of dog testicles living under my roof. But somehow, fate screwed with my plans, and they're chillaxing on my throw rug right this very minute.

It's true. And I'm absolutely sure that Bob Barker* is rolling over in his grave--Coach isn't neutered.

Go ahead and lecture me in the comments if you must, I'll forward them along to Jared--the junk preserver of the family. But before you get all fired up, rest assured that Coach isn't roving the neighborhood solo, hittin' it up with the bitches (that's the technical term for female dog, ya know). He practices abstinence.

Anyway, I wouldn't want you to misinterpret that disclaimer as a show of support. Make no mistake about it, his dog balls are DISGUSTING. Last night, while I was cooking dinner and he was lying on the kitchen floor, I had to cover them up with a paper towel. Otherwise, I would have been forced to make a dramatic scene to my husband--and dramatic scenes never go over so well in this house.

I guess we're keeping his testicles around so he can do a better job catching turkeys. Something like that. And Jared says that when he gets a little bit older, we can whore him out for cash, too. I hate that idea. I also hate pimp n' ho halloween costumes, so my feelings don't surprise me.

Long story short, my dog has balls and I can't stop looking at them.

*THIS JUST IN: Bob Barker's not dead after all! Hallelujah!

A Face Like an Angel

2010-11-30T08:45:00.002-06:00

November 30, 2010

Some days, I'm quite honestly blown away by the depth and thoughtfulness of the teenagers I teach every morning. Their insights on faith and miracles can be so innocent, yet so mature at the very same time. They help me learn so much.

And there are days like today.

Ho. Lee. Crap.

If I didn't know each and every one of these kids' mothers personally, I'd swear that they all came flying out of a clown's birth canal squashed in a little, tiny Volkswagen Beetle--probably hitting each other with props. You know, giant inflatable hammers and little mini purses....it doesn't really matter, my point is that THEY'RE FRIGGIN' CRAZY.

Today, the same kid who insisted on wearing his hood like this the entire class,

also insisted that he knew what the 'gift of discerment' means. According to him, if you've been blessed with the spiritual gift of discernment, you can push someone out a second story window and if they're an angel they'll float up, and if they're on the devil's team, they'll fall.

I guess I thought that whole falling-out-a-window thing had more to do with gravity--but really now, who am I to know? I don't wear my hood in such a way that my face looks like an anus.

Lucky for him, he's my favorite.

Adventures in Craigslisting: The Maine Woods Edition

2010-11-19T16:44:00.000-06:00

November 19, 2010

(Did I tell you I won the pizza? Because I totally won the pizza, and as my token of appreciation, I plan to dedicate every single pepperoni burp to all of you, my readers.)

So, the longer I live in Maine, the more I realize just how hardcore this place really is. James has been watching How to Train a Dragon today, and I've got to say, Mainers are about half a step beyond those Vikings as far as technology goes. They're like half a step ahead of us in terms of dress.

Right now, Mainers are furiously preparing for winter, so everywhere you turn, people are chopping their wood, insulating their windows, and tromping around trying to shoot a buck before hunting season ends next weekend. Up in this neck of the woods, hunting is 20% about sport, 70% about feeding the family, and 10% about putting bumper stickers on your truck that say things like "FIND ONE WITH A BIG RACK AND MOUNT IT" and "GUT DEER?" Or wait, my favorite, "IF GUNS KILL PEOPLE, THEN SPOONS MADE ROSIE O'DONNELL FAT!"

I kid you not, I saw all three of those on my way to work today. What can I say? It's home and I love it. I grew up thinking a $42,000 tuition bill was normal, James'll grow up thinking wearing blaze orange to the bus stop is normal. Truth is, we're all screwed up, so let's just be nice.

Two weeks ago, the wide world of craigslist brought me more than an hour away from home, and out to the middle of nowhere--Norway, Maine to be exact.

You like that sign? It's a Maine staple. We can't get enough.

The truth is, when you find a killer deal on bunkbed mattresses, you take the killer deal on bunkbed mattresses--wherever you have to go. And then, puh-lease pay attention to this, you NEVER LET YOUR CHILDREN SLEEP ON THE CRAIGSLIST BUNKBED MATTRESSES. Everybody knows that's how they end up with those crazy weird diseases like diphtheria, and cholera, and wildly crooked teeth.

But in pursuit of bunkbed mattresses I was, so off to Norway, Maine I went. By myself. On a night that was pouring buckets.

It took me longer than it should have to get where I was going--that was on account of the weather, the non-googleable address, and directions that included all kind of creative phrases like, "Ya tuhhhhn left aftah the fiyah hydrant, travel three miles 'til ya see the supah lahhhge wood pile, bump ovah two pot holes, and then pull into the driveway just befoah the mailbox shaped like a small mouth bass."

Pfft, no problem there! The car practically knew the way without me!

When I finally found that bass-shaped mailbox, the details started meshing together--and hoo boy, it wasn't looking good. I was in the woods, on a rainy night, with no cell phone reception. I was at what appeared to be a body shop, and I was buying mattresses from a total and complete stranger named Bob.

With all those pieces forming a perfect horror-movie-shaped puzzle, I did exactly what they tell you not to do. I gave myself a quick pep-talk (Kick 'im in the balls. Kick 'im in the balls. Kick 'im in the balls.), hopped out of my car, and went to claim my bargain.

As I made my way over to the garage, the giant door rolled up and back to reveal a whole fleet of classic cars, a circa-1980's Heather Locklear pin-up, and a forty-something year old man wearing a flannel shirt and some sweatpants with elastic at the ankles--good for keeping debris off the calves.

He came out, met me in the rain with an umbrella, and over the pounding of the weather he screamed, "DON'T KNOW IF YOU'SE OFFENDED BY THIS KINDA THING, BUT THOUGHT I'D GIVE YA SOME WAHHHNING THAT THEY'SE A DEAH CAHCUSs HANGIN' BY TH'RAFTAHS!"

Translation: I'm not sure if you're offended by this kind of thing, but I thought I should warn you that there's a deer carcass hanging from the rafters of this garage.

Clearly, not something I anticipated. Clearly, something I should have anticipated.

Honestly, I have nothing against hunting. It's a natural, cost-effective, super healthy way to feed a family. But you know, Jared's not a deer hunter and it's not something I've ever been up close and personal with. But I'm a Mainer, it was time, so I acted like it was no big deal.

I was like, "Psssshhht. A deer carcass? I'm so cool with that, Bob. No prob. No prob, Bob. I'm so fine with it."

And I was.

Until I saw it.

I'll spare you the really rugged details, but I will say that the legs and hooves were on the floor, the skin was draped over a chair, and that poor bastard was looking right at me.

I looked at Bob and said, "Wow. I've never seen a deer like this. That's really fascinating."

And thanks to my 'fascination,' I got the super detailed tour. Bob was all, "Well this heyah's the brisket. This is the mince meat. And this? Well this is the trachea!," as he plunked it with his thumb and middle finger. Yes, yes, definitely hollow.

I was somehow managing to view the deer through scientific, objective eyes, possibly gaining a deeper appreciation for the origins of my food...until I noticed the tongue.

That deer's tongue was all John McCain style. A whole lot like this:

Can I just mention that I found a picture of

'hairy tongue syndrome' while I was looking for

this? And that I'll never be the same? Ever?

The second I got wind of the big, black deer tongue, the contents of my colon were instantly transformed from solid poo into liquid diarrhea...liquid diarrhea with a very serious eviction notice. How does nature do that?

I felt my stomach hit my knees and I wasn't about to ask Bob if I could use his bathroom. So I glanced at my watch, told him I had to hit the road and we'd better load up those bunkbed mattresses--with haste. He [quite seriously] brushed the deer fur from the mattresses with great care, and loaded 'em up. I shoved a few bills into his palm, and peeled out of his driveway, on the prowl for a magical bathroom in the middle of the Maine woods.

I never did find that magical bathroom, but twenty minutes later I did find a bathroom at a really dirty discount store, and no bathroom has ever looked so nice.

The End.

Opposing Forces

2010-11-18T15:57:00.000-06:00

November 18, 2010

Today, my Facebook status update is something to the effect of,

I'm simultaneously convinced that we're about A) become successful beyond my wildest dreams, and B) have to sell everything we own and move into our Toyota Matrix. I'm grateful every day that I'm not married to myself.

Now tell me, is this a solo sail on the crazy ship, or has anyone else every felt this way? Because honestly, deep down in the bottom of my heart, I feel like I'm right on the cusp of something huge, something that fills up every nook and crevice of my personal potential.

And then, on the other hand, I'm pretty well convinced that my life is balancing on a house of cards and there's wind in the ten day forecast.

Let's think about this for a second. If I take the 'cusp of something huge,' add it to 'the house of cards,' and divide by two, what do we come up with? That's right--normal, average, fine, secure.

Chances are, that's exactly how my life will play out. I know this. So the real question is: Why can't I stop the insane mental ping-pong game? Why can't I just be logical and say, "Welp, I guess the gas is going on the Visa this month. We'll pay it off when that check comes in."

Doesn't that direction of thought sound so easy? So simple and appealing? So true?

So completely impossible for me today.

But it does have me thinking about one of my husband's very favorite songs. The lyric that always kills me is at 1:58 and it goes:

Everybody's troubled with the hustle and the bustle,

The payment on the house is late.

If I ever have a problem like that,

I guess I'll be in pretty good shape.

Luckily, the payment on the house isn't technically late. But either way, Ryan Bingham (who may or may not be on the list of people I'd make out with even though I'm married) managed to capture me, and the vast majority of other 30ish year old Americans, in four little lines. That's what I call good music.

So here I am, with two feet, each plotted firmly on an opposing side of the tracks. Half of me thinking that I'm about to put the moon in my pocket, and the other half convincing my husband that the car's about to get repossessed.

Is this normal?

Prepayment

2010-11-16T13:39:00.001-06:00

November 16, 2010

The pizza contest is still dragging on, but thankfully, there's now an official end time--tomorrow night at 11:59. I moved from really hoping we win this pizza to praying my brains out that we win this pizza, because I just heard from our accountant, and whoa. Now don't get me wrong here, you can't put a price tag on living in a nation wherein we have the freedom to post Bejewled scores and openly bash the government on our Facebook walls--but they kind of just did, and whoa again.

We have a colleague who was, not so long ago, sentanced to a smidge of jail time for tax evasion. Which has me thinking....if I were to hand Jared over to the state penetentery for say, oh I don't know, four or five years, would they take that as a prepayment on our taxes? Because right now, that's option number three, and one and two involve prostitution.

Nothing like a little middle class/privledged whining to brighten up your inbox, huh? I know, I'm totally making myself cringe with my brattiness.

Honestly though, it's times like this that might just bump me over the edge into doing something a little bit different with my life--a little less conventional and a little more risky. Because you know, since averageness isn't getting us leaps and bounds ahead of the game, what's the harm in straying from the norm?

Coach still has his testicles, maybe that's an opportunity right there.

Or you could help me win free pizza.

One Final Push for Pizza

2010-11-14T09:21:00.000-06:00

November 14, 2010

Remember that contest? The one wherein I was trying to win a free pizza every week for a year? Well believe it or not, it's still not over. It is, officially, the longest contest in the history of the world.

But, I think it ends today. Annnnnndddd, I'm still in the lead.

So I'm going for one final push.

If you haven't already, can you follow this link and 'like' Rooster's Pizza? Then, can you click on this link and 'like' it, too?

I've been bringing you humiliating stories for years and years and years. Let's face it, you owe me. Or not. But either way....won't you do it?

C'mon.

A Taste of Redemption, and Other Crap

2010-11-13T06:38:00.000-06:00

November 13, 2010

Clearly, the internet gods have a problem with me. After twelve days at the repair shop, and a new hard-drive, my laptop is still spontaneously shutting down. And guess what else? A certain German Shorthaired Pointer gnawed through the power cord.

Man I love that dog.

I swiped Jared's laptop while he's busy getting ready for work, but this will last approximately four minutes before he catches me and craps on me, because, "Oh my gosh, Amy (said in the whiniest tone you can imagine)!!! I hate it when you sign into your Google account on my computer (said even whinier)!!!"

Personally, I hate it when children in third world countries are rendered homeless due to war--but you know, those little things that drive us bonkers, they're different for everyone!

In happier news, I tasted a little bit of redemption on the running front. I ran a 5k on Veteran's Day with the goal of 21:30. I came in at 21:33, which I consider close enough. A friend from my running club paced me and kept me going with a combination of motivational phrases and creative curse words. Things like, "C'mon, let's pass that girl, she's got worse form than you do!" and "Alright, let's ramp it up and power past this @#$% wearing the #$%^&* smurf pants."

It was an ugly three miles--I was sucking wind enough to make a scene, and my only clean running clothes were in varying shades of pink. I'm not so good at keeping track of personal records, but high school aside, I think that's a new PR. Seriously, I'm thrilled. Three miles of success is so much more fun than twenty-six miles of craptastitude. I really do think I'll stick with the short stuff for a while. Maybe.

And other than that, I've got to ask...has anyone here seen those little pancake sausage ball things at Dunkin' Donuts? I really want a three pack.

Happy Saturday!

My Propane Company

2010-11-10T12:58:00.000-06:00

November 10, 2010

I really love my propane company. They ask about my kids, their customer service is over the top, they keep my family warm and alive. But you know what? I absolutely hate my propane company at the very same time. It's not their fault, but I despise the fact that I have to spend my hard earned money on heat instead of candy.

Hate. It.

Back in August, I was running by the propane company when I decided to stop for a drink from the spigot on the side of their building. Just as I was not washing the sweat out from under my armpits, Dave, my friendly local heating buddy popped out of the side door and said, "Hey Amy. Are you pre-buying this year or do you want to do the budget plan?"

Didn't I say they had fantastic customer service?

So I was like, "Dave. You think I can afford to pre-buy? Do I freaking look like Paris Hilton to you? Of course I'm doing the budget plan." And two days later the contract came in the mail.

For those of you who live in the warmer weather states, the budget plan allows you to lock in your propane price for the entire season, and break the cost up into convenient and affordable monthly installments. Yay!
So the contract came in August, and to be 100% completely honest with you, it's still sitting on my desk.

I don't know where the fear comes from, but every time I sign that heating contract, I feel like I flushing my future down the toilet. Whenever I pick up the pen and work up the nerve to scribble on the dotted line, the devil spits tricky little phrases into my ear, like, "Imagine the vacations you could take with that money!" and, "Oh, come on, just make 'em wear sweatshirts this winter! They get plenty of heat at daycare!"

So far, he's won me over. But somehow, just like usual, my propane company outsmarted the devil by virtue of their most excellent customer service.

Just a few minutes ago, while I was sitting on my bed, ignoring Maggie's crying, I heard the *beep, beep, beep* of a truck reversing. It sounded just like the UPS truck (not that I'm any kind of expert on the UPS truck,since I never buy anything for myself--especially not without Jared's permission and blessing.) I jumped off my bed, absolutely thrilled to tear into the mystery package, and hoo boy, my heart sank to my feet when I saw the fuel truck.

How could that wretched old bubble-shaped truck be here? I never even signed that contract!

So I called Dave. I was like, "Dave. Why's the truck here! I never signed that contract! Maybe I don't want any heat this year!"

And he was all, "Really, Amy? You're forgoing heat?"

"No," I said, "but maybe I decided to go with another company."

"Pretty sure you didn't."

"Fine. But really, why'd the truck come?"

"Because it's November, in Maine, and Jared's probably freezing his nuts off."

They seem to know me better than I know myself. And that's why I love my propane company.