December 22, 2007

Before I head out on my Christmas vacation while trying to live free and separately from my computer at the same time, I wanted to first play along with Boomama’s interwebby game of Christmas time splendor. Her Christmas home tour is SO MUCH fun, ya’ll have to go check out all the houses out there in bloggy-mom land. Plus, it’s like an un-weird way to stalk your favorite bloggers.

Ready?

Welcome to the Battle Station.

Feast your eyes upon the Battle Station Christmas Tree. Wee One helped pick it out this year and I do have to say that I don’t think we’ll ever go back to the fake, plastic BARF tree again. The smell of a real Christmas tree is too perfect. The baby Jesus aroma welcomes us home every time we walk in the door and I do love me some baby Jesus aroma.

Taking a closer look upon the tree, you will find real, live, hand-made, made by hand, authentic, sewn-by-Mike’s-Mom -when-she-was-a-poor-newlywed ornaments. Aren’t they SO PRECIOUS! They are easily my favorite things on the tree and every year I put them on and think about how not unlike Martha Stewart Mike’s Mom is and how not unlike Kid Rock I am.

I inherited this snow-couple from my Great Grandma after she died. She made these, I can’t help but smile every time I look at them. We have named them Svetlana and Harold and it really isn’t Christmas until they reside in the living room each year.

Behold, the Fireplace. And yes, thank you, I realize that there are only 2 stockings but Delaney was bad this year, so, consequently, she doesn’t get a stocking or any presents. You may think it extreme but, you know, kids have to learn. Delaney’s unsatisfactory behavior will not, however, deter Mike and I from celebrating and so, those are OUR stockings perched upon the fireplace mantle with care.

I ordered new stockings for all of us at this adorable, hand-made stocking store but they haven’t arrived yet. This is not the Adorable, Hand-Made Stockinger’s fault though, it is mine, as I continually procrastinate and it will eventually be the death of me.

Add around the house some one-of-a-kind handmade delectables like this one and you have a complete and truly fully operational Christmas time battle station. This here Santa face is cautiously watching over Delaney to make sure she eats all her bites at the dinner table. There’s nothing quite like the fear of Santa continually barraged into your child to help bring forth any and all desired behavioral results.

And last but not least:

My most favorite Christmas time thing. Wild Thing, clothed in the sweetest Christmas time dress you have ever seen. I got it here. And I already asked her if she would make it in grown-up girl size, and it’s no use…. I know, selfish, isn’t she?

Conclusion of Christmas time pictures is upon us now. Thank you for joining. Have yourself a merry little Christmas! See you after the break! Ho Ho Ho…

December 17, 2007

Bowing to popular demand, I am posting pictures of the minivan. I have to say, though, I was reluctant to post these. As you will see, the potential for bitter jealousy and full-on minivan envy is HUGE with this kind of sexiness. I didn’t want to disrupt the vehicular circle of life as we know it. Everyone is comfortable and happy with their theologies and century-old stereotypes and just as people that live in Idaho know it’s the coolest place to live and we LET everyone else believe otherwise so it is for us minivan owners.

And well, the consequences could be detrimental, to say the least, if EVERYONE now gets a minivan because of a few humble little photos that I posted on my blog. Think of the economy and view with caution, people, view with caution.

Disclaimer: Results may vary. Sexiness may manifest itself outwardly in many different forms depending on the make, model and color of your minivan.

Mike and I about to go grocery shopping.

Oh and here’s me taking Delaney to school, I’m mid-motion as you can see. The remote operated sliding door is beyond sensational, it’s downright Risque the way you can load kids in there like a semi-automatic.

There’s Mike, he’s chillin, waiting for Delaney to come out of pre-school.

Heading home. Minutes before this photo was taken, I rammed someone off the road.

Mike driving now, showing a little leg. Mike’s minivan owner sexiness manifests itself in the form of an English, Strokes fan, Transvestite.

And here we are back at home safely with the kid.

Please soak in the sexiness while you can, this post and all it’s contents will self-destruct in 5 minutes. This is serious. Our minivan sexiness could annihilate the world.

December 15, 2007

We got new Fugees. More on that later. But they are wonderful. Young couple with 2 young kids. From Burundi, Africa.

Americans for 2 DAYS now.

Holy crap.

Jamie

This post may come as a surprise to many friends who know me. Many family members who love me. And you all, who may or may not think I’m cool.

I haven’t even forewarned my girlfriends about this post. Or about this life changing decision that I ALREADY made. I couldn’t let them know because they would have talked me out of it, they would have told me that my actions were IRREVOCABLE and FINAL in their eyes. And in God’s eyes.

But it was such a deeply personal and emotional decision that I knew it had to be made within the confines of our family unit. Just Mike, Delaney, Myself and our two future kids. And Rick and Wendy.

Because who else do you call while in such a grievous position but the people who have been there themselves? Who else CAN you call? It’s the same in virtually all aspects of life, you call those who know, who KNOW KNOW, and you bind together to love and support each other. We would not have been able to make this decision, to come to these terms, to CHANGE OUR LIVES as we have without Rick and Wendy. And this post is dedicated to them for that reason. They were the first call we made. It went like this:

(This is Wendy, please leave a message after the tone) “Wendy?! Wendy, I need you, it’s Jamie. I need you to call me right away. We did it. We really, truly went through with it and now I need you to guide me through this difficult time. Call me back.”

A couple minutes later, the phone rings back.

“Hello?”

“WHAT’S UP MINIVAN MOMMA!?!? YOU SEXY AWESOME MINIVAN DRIVING MOM!!!!”

And that’s how it went. Because if she would have called back any other way, I might have stared crying. I was in such a fragile state of mind considering that I had voluntarily and single handedly morphed into my Mother overnight, that I took what’s left of my reckless unbridled soul and STABBED it to death with the equivalent of a fanny pack and that right then my new inner soul was wearing mom jeans, any other response from Wendy would have sent me over the edge. Anything even remotely close to “It’s okay, you’ll get used to it, you’ll adjust” would have sent me into a catalytic state of minivan remorse.

And once you let yourself go there, go into minivan remorse, it’s a slippery slope down to shopping at walmart with your wet hair in a side scrunchy. And before you know it, Oprah found you and plopped you on her stage while exclaiming “Can you BELIEVE she has been wearing this moo-moo for THIRTY YEARS PEOPLE!”

You simply can’t go there. You must OWN IT, you must OWN that son-of-a-van like it’s your mother-ownin dream car, friends. And Wendy. She helped me do that. And it is now my mission to make sure EVERYONE, EVERY SINGLE WOMAN has a Wendy to do the same for them.

She told me of how her and Rick have never regretted having a minivan, how it’s the most amazing vehicle ever created. She told me of how it drives like a dream and it’s only until they catch site of themselves in a passing window do they forget that they aren’t driving a fancy SUV. She told me tales of comfortable road trips and abundance of storage space. And best of all, she told me of how delusionally easy it is to transport 3 young kids around.

In our old car (with a JOKE of a third row seat that was only accessible by folding down and then CLIMBING OVER the middle row), with three car seats in there, I know myself, the VERY FIRST time I tried to take all three kids somewhere I would have lost my mind. I would have had a major meltdown in the Target parking lot and would have called Mike to have him come meet me there to help fasten all seat belts and tell the staring people that “there’s nothing to see here, move along”. Anything to prevent a meltdown at Target is advisable. Target needs to stay my happy place.

After my pep talk with Wendy, I told her to have Rick call Mike and “do for him what you just did for me”. And so, on the way home, in our minivan, we discussed our new selves in our new minivan.

Me: Our friends. They are going to die.

Mike: Whatever. They are almost here. They are almost to the crossroads of minivan life. We are forging the way. They’ll thank us Babe, they’ll thank us. We’re making Minivan cool for the group and they’ll thank us for it later. We’ll get that call, just like Rick and Wendy did.

Me: That person is not letting us in because we’re in a minivan. We get NO RESPECT NOW! They hate us!

Mike: No, honey, they don’t hate us, they just don’t SEE us. We are the invisible minivan drivers now. We should rob a bank!

The End.

But, I’d like to formally introduce you to Wendy now. She is not only the COOLEST minivan driving Momma I know, she is also incredibly talented and skilled in the ways of creativityness. For example:

For ordering, go to www.landslidejewelry.com or it’s on the right sidebar under “Paprazzi always ask where I get my jewelry. Wendy makes it”. Also, because Wendy loves me, she says she’ll give 10% of any orders to our adoption cost if you mention my name (my name holds incredible power whenever mentioned). But really, her stuff is the most stylish, classy and well made stuff out there. She rocks.

Love,
Jamie

December 6, 2007

You know your husband loves you when:

You go to the coffee shop to buy a 6 pump Vanilla Latte and when you go to pay for it, after already having sipped the first few scrumptious sips of sweetness off the top, you realize you have no debit card, no check book and no cash. Absolutely no money to pay for anything. None. NAKED of money, that’s you.

You call your husband and the conversation probably goes like this:

Hello?

BABE?

….. uh, Ya?

I just went to the coffee shop and got a drink and went to pay for it only to realize that I had NO debit card, NO checks and NO CASH.

HaahaahaaaHAAA…… oh, that’s funny.

……… NO. It’s not. You TOOK ALL my money!

(realizing now that the call is not a call of humor story exchanges) Well, it wasn’t on purpose.

Well! I am really annoyed!

Well, honey, it was just funny timing.

………………………. (silence)

I’m not crazy husband guy, I didn’t TAKE all your money on purpose so you couldn’t spend money.

Well, I KNOW THAT. But. I want you to care more! I want this to be your problem too! I want you to be ANGRY! AS ANGRY AS ME!

Okay, I’ll see you in a little bit. Love you.

AND THE CAR CLOCK IS STILL AN HOUR FAST! YOU STILL HAVEN’T CHANGED THE CAR CLOCK!

(click)

And then probably 2 hours later, the same husband gets yet another call from his sweet, angelic wife.

……… Hello?

What are you doing?

Watching TV, what are you doing?

What?! You’re watching TV?! You didn’t mess up my shows did you?!

Um, ya, I think I did.

WHAT?!

Sternfalter (code word for totally, completely, no b*llsh*t telling the truth)

I can’t believe this!

Well, it wouldn’t let me change the channel without canceling one of your recordings.

So, you just CANCELED THEM?! MY SHOWS?! MY PRECIOUS SHOWS?!?!?!

Okay, I’ll see you when you get home in a bit, okay? Love you.

WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!

(click)

(calling back)

Hello?

ARE YOU BEING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!

Babe, I said Sternfalter.

(huge, big frustrated air sound)

Okay, I’m going to go now, I’m tired of being in trouble for the day.

FINE!

(click)

So. Back to the beginning. You know your husband loves you when you come home after ALL this and he still pats the couch next to him and says “Wanna watch America’s Next Top Model together?”

December 4, 2007

Oh hey guys! What’s up?

Sorry about the, um, delay in service around here the last couple days. Or weeks. Or however long it’s been.

But, you know. You know how it is….. my grasp on time is irrelevant. Irrelevant when suffering as I have.

I’m a writer, guys. I am an artist of words, okay? I suffer with writhing discontent for my current reality and that which causes my lonesome and deep depth in despair. It’s a delicate process, this coming out of the emotional gray, this retched creative abandon. Nobody understands me. Nobody knows my brilliant mind. It’s hard, guys, like, really totally hard. And so sometimes I have to channel Van Gogh or Hemingway and this hopefully explains my lack in presence. I am often likened unto them. I find comfort in their souls.

But I’m back now.

In all honesty I haven’t lost track of time, I have been furiously trying to keep up with it. Did you guys realize it’s Christmas time? I know, right? Neither did I until I tried to go buy some panties at the Gap the other day and nearly DIED in the parking lot. And so I’ve decided that this whole mall shopping stuff is not going to work for me and I have since implemented my GENIUS idea of buying ALL Christmas presents for ma familia at antique shops. Cute, aren’t I?! I’m already loving the plan and am knee deep in vintage compacts and vanity mirrors and scotch bottles and tea pots. It’s so fun!

And on another note. Please look for the newest addition to the Boise Public Library. The Battle Station Wing. Dedicated in loving memory of Mr. Battle Station who fell over dead after having to pay $80 in late fees for his wife and child. Fees for such books as “Mo’s Stinky Sweater” and “The Lorax”. EIGHTY DOLLARS! When did library fines go up from 5 cents a day? Here I was trying to be a hip Mom and instead of buying the kid her own Dr. Suess collection, I spent $80 on 10 books we’ll never see again. Awesome. WHY do I do this to myself?

WHY?!

I’m all worked up again. I must go converse aloud with myself and twitch for awhile. This is what we do, us Greats. You wouldn’t understand.

Love,

Jamillasulleyeka (I’ve named my alter-ego that. We all have alter-egos. You wouldn’t understand.)