April 4, 2008

Last night, I bugged Mike long enough that he finally gave in and took me out of the house so that we could go get ice cream as a family.

See, how it works is, when Mike is on the computer, that’s when I find I really crave and need some family time, some interaction and quality memory making moments. So, obviously, he needs to get off the computer. Family time is a special time. What deadbeat Dad chooses computer time over family time at the ice cream shop?

So since there is absolutely no arguing or follow-up to that sort of moral obligation, we attend to the family time. See how that works? It’s wonderful. And then when the memories have been made and you’re en route back to the battle station, you then mentally calculate your tactics of ensuring the computer is in your control for the remainder of the night. After the manslave puts the children to bed, of course.

What would you all do without me, I don’t know. “Fully Operational Battle Station, the things you DIDN’T learn in Marriage Prep 101 at BYU Idaho” that’s what our slogan should be. (Our, as in, all one of us here running the website).

So, back to where I was, where was I? Oh right, I WIN with my powerful and clever ways and we leave the house to go get ice cream.

We pull into the parking lot and are walking in to the joint, getting into the groove of our family adventure, when we see these two high school boys, the cool ones with the complicated hair, eyeing us from inside. They’re really obviously staring at us. When we open up the door and step inside, we aren’t sure what their deal is, when they go:

DUDE! It’s BURKE’S family!

And then they proceeded to be seen with us in public, like in our CLOSE proximity, exchanging words, eye contact, in and around our uncool circumference, by us and with us, an old married couple with a child. It was unclear exactly what was happening. But we played it cool. Because, dude, the complicated hair kids were talking to us and moments like that, you appreciate them when they happen, you don’t rush these things.

Burke is my kid brother, by the way. He looks like this:

Burkey? Don’t be angry, come on, show us your angry eyes Burke. Your tortured eyes.

I’m kidding. We treat him like a Gothy Emo kid when he acts all moody and teenagery (we love ourselves, it never gets old) but in actuality, he looks like this:

And so he’s all cute and smelly and awkward like that. Which, apparently, girls really dig cute, smelly and awkward.

Burke with some of his punk friends with their outfits and their hair that they all meticulously scrutinize to look as though they JUST DON’T CARE WHAT ANYBODY THINKS!!

The cool kids, they talk to us and leave. We are feeling really good about ourselves, like we are maybe cool again ourselves, just by briefly being in the good graces of the cool kids like that. And we order our banana split and our better batter cookie dough extra thick milkshake, still on our high of being talked to by the un-talkable-ones. We even look around the shop like, that’s right people, if you need a teenager translator, we are currently taking cases now at this time. WE HAVE BEEN CHOSEN TO COMMUNICATE WITH THE COMPLICATEDS.

But it gets better. Because once we get our 2,874 calories of goodness all ready and over to the cashier, we put our bowls on the counter and take out our magical make-it-all-go-away card to pay and are told by the punky cute 16 year old girl “Don’t worry about it. You don’t need to pay. I like Burke.” And then walks away.

I LIKE BURKE, she says, and gives us our ice cream for free.

The hookups and coolness have now reached an all-time high. Apparently all we have to do is mention my brothers name and our social status is elevated to that of rockstars! FREE ICE CREAM. That’s what I’m sayin. Mike thought he’d test the theory by dropping Burke’s name in a phone call to our Mortgage Company. I have a SNEAKY feeling our next payment will be waived.

The funny thing is that we’re still old farts. We sat down to eat our totally free ice cream and felt bad. We now relate more with the ice cream shop Owner who inadvertently hired 16 year olds who hand out free ice cream to whoever they feel like deserves it.

Sorry Ice Cream Shop Owner. But your ice cream was amazing.

January 10, 2008

So, I have to tell you, you MUST shop at Antique stores for Christmas next year. Because this is the difference:

At the mall where Avril Lavigne is the store manager, “Lady, I can’t help you right now. Or in a minute. Or ever. I don’t care enough about this job and they don’t pay me enough to care about you. Plus, I’m totally Avril Lavigne, where do you get off asking me to do ANYTHING.” Not to mention that there are fifty BILLION people trying to get Avril’s attention at the same time as you and you HATE to have to body slam anyone to the floor again like last Christmas.

Then pan over to the Antique store where Old Mother Hubbard is the cashier, “Come along Dear, I’ll open that display case for you, you don’t fret. And then I’ll hold the item ever so carefully in my charming, wrinkled hands and give you a brief history on the origins of the delicate, wee item of interest. We can then walk back up to the front desk while listening to the muted elevator music playing over the store and I’ll ring you up while making you feel like this purchase is the most thoughtful and sweetest gift anyone has ever given anyone.”

You see?

Occasionally, there would be one or two other people within a 6 foot radius of me in the Antique store but a body slam was not needed. In fact, the weirdest thing happened! They would whisper “excuse me, sorry” and then we’d move out of each other’s way! It felt, I dare say, Christmasy!

So. To the gifts. Here’s how it went down:

Mom
Vintage purple perfume bottle with the puff ball thing on the end.
Madonna (not the pointy-boobed Madonna, the other one) print to go next to it on her dresser.
Wendy necklace.

Dad
Reprints and Enlargements of Old Boise street scenes.
An 1889 Land Deed from Salmon Idaho (He teaches Real Estate).

Carla (Dad’s Fiancee)
Retro kitchen serving tray (orange, black and white).
Retro Carafe.
Retro Apron.

My sister
A vintage-looking necklace where the pendant is a silhouette of her daughter (really cool site where you email a profile shot to the artist and she turns it into a sillhouette and puts it on a necklace).
Wendy necklace.

My brother
An old school skateboard that I found on Ebay.

Mike’s Dad
Several vintage issues of Life magazine on topics that we knew he’s like (Olympics, War, Presidential Campaigns etc…)

Mike’s Mom
Season 3 of The Office - vintage edition.

Mike’s Sister
Funky vintage red felt hat.
Vintage purse.
Vintage Icecapades plate for decoration.

Mike’s Brother-in-law
Vintage 48 star flag

And that’s a wrap. Fun, right?

My favorite part about Christmas was when Delaney would run up to different family members and exclaim “AUNT NINA! WE GOT YOU A RED HAT!” or “UNCLE BURKE! WE GOT YOU A SKATEBOARD!” before anyone had the chance to open their presents.

Speaking of, my child was adorable on Christmas. She opened up a jump rope and acted as though she had just discovered Dora the Explorer herself in our living room. She HUGGED the jump rope and yelled “OH SANTA! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU! SANTA KNEW JUST WHAT I WANTED!” And I couldn’t stop my heart from exploding.

How was Christmas for ya’ll? How did the kids do on present overload?

Jamie

November 16, 2007

I remember it well. Sitting there in a classroom at Rick’s College surrounded by 30 or so giddy college students discussing our upcoming sacred marriage vows in a CREDITED college course entitled “Dating and Marriage Prep”.

The instructor laid out the main reasons married couples fight and at the very top were “Finances” and “Family Holidays”. VERY CLEARLY I remember this. “Family Holidays” she said and she warned. And I remember hearing her say that and then thinking to myself “Mike is so hot. He is so everything. So hot and so spiritual too. Mike can be hot and spiritual at the same time. I think I’ll tell him tonight when we have our scripture study session together how spiritually hot he is.”

And after class when we were walking across campus holding hands but leaving enough room between us for the Holy Ghost to be there we discussed the notion of Families and Holidays being an issue.

So, your parents, what are their names? Are they crazy about holidays?

That’s EXACTLY what I was thinking!

And so was our preparatory period for marriage. We really weren’t all that concerned. We knew what we were doing, thankyouverymuch.

And to our credit, and our families credit, we have not had ANY issues with holidays whatsoever over the last 6 years. It just always seemed to work out just fine. We’d head down to Utah for one holiday, stay in Boise for another, go to my Mom’s for the morning and then my Dad’s for the evening etc….

But then it happened.

The motherload.

The Big Family Holiday Fight.

I’m not even sure how it happened. Truly, as most big fights are like that, you’re in the throes of it, freaking out and then you go “What are we even fighting about? How did this start? What’s happening? I don’t know but it’s obviously really important to me that I win so I will continue to be mad.”

And we were mad.

Mike was under the impression that Thanksgiving was HIS family Holiday this year. I had already told my family that we would at least be stopping by THEIR Thanksgiving dinner this year. And so then it was the battle of the families. And we NEARLY had to go to emergency marriage counseling THAT VERY NIGHT. Because I am not usually a cryer. I don’t cry. I am a robot. I have no feelings or emotion, just sarcasm. But I cried. And don’t feel bad for me just yet because I then proceeded to scream a big giant “F YOU” at Mike and slam the door.

These things happen.

And we actually laughed about it a few hours later when we reminisced on how the last time I did that was when we were first married and Mike wouldn’t stop playing his video game and come sit with me by the bath. I wanted him to SIT next to the Bath and TALK with me WHILE I was in the Bath and he WOULDN’T so I screamed F YOU at him and then stormed out of the house. You can see the ramifications of marrying a teenage bride, yes?

But we hashed out the fight. Thanks to Mike again. He always fixes it usually by injecting me with a tranquilizer but nonetheless, it’s fixed. And even at the end when little bits of craziness were still erupting out of my mouth like little aftershocks, things like “NO! I WANT to go to your family’s house now. I WANT TO GO! I DEMAND that we go! I change my mind!” He knew what to do. He shushed me like Cesar Milan does with those little yippy dogs.

“But I…” Sh!

“I’m seriou…..” Sh!

Sh!

That’s enough!

October 16, 2007

Mike: You didn’t do anything, did you?

Me: No, did you?

Mike: You promise? Because I haven’t done ANYTHING

Me: Really, I didn’t and am not planning to.

Mike: Do not get me a present. Do not buy me anything. DO NOT write me a nice letter, okay?

Me: Okay. You don’t either. I hate nice letters.

Mike: Okay.

Me: I guess I should make some dinner reservations…..

Mike: Ya. What are you thinkin? Arby’s? heh heh. Get it? Thinkin Arby’s?…….

(silence)

Me: This is going to be our MOST romantic anniversary EVER I think.

Six years. Six whole years together. That’s a long time. Over the last 6 years of marriage, Mike has done some pretty extravagant acts on our Anniversaries. There was the private flight over Boise in his buddy’s twin engine plane, there was the time he rented a Limo and took me to a fancy Fondue Restaurant, the surprise weekend to Nevada, the Bed and Breakfast on an Elk Reserve in the mountains and plenty of spa pamperings. All of which, I won’t lie, I loved.

But this year, we’re broke as a joke. Brrr-oke. And really busy. So busy, in fact, that the most exciting part of our Anniversary was that we were actually TOGETHER for it. Alone, together.

I don’t know if it’s because we are broke and tired or if it’s because we are getting old and boring, but we really were relieved that all we were doing was a simple dinner and movie, something that we used to do on a weekly basis in our previous life (previous life as in 6 months ago).

Don’t get me wrong, being able to pamper your Lover (eww I HATE that word. My Lover. Blech.) is fun but there’s also something really …. nice about just kickin it wit cha gangsta, yanno? Just bypassing all the hoopla and enjoying each other’s company for a change. We went to dinner, I talked Mike’s ear off, we had dessert, we walked hand in hand to the Theater and watched a pretty decent flick (3:10 to Yuma). It was… perfect. EXACTLY what both of us needed and wanted.

If you’re doing the math right now and realized that I am 25 celebrating a 6 year wedding Anniversary, then you’ve probably realized that I was indeed a fetus when we married. An Embryonic sac, really. When people ask how long we dated, Mike says “Well, we went to lunch, so… about 45 minutes I guess?” and that’s about right, joking aside. It’s not our faults, entirely, that we rushed into marriage. One of the only negative things you’ll ever hear me say on this blog about the Mormon church or it’s culture, and most of our Mormon friends will agree, is that the topic of and expectancy of young men and women marrying is prematurely discussed and altogether too commonplace in the Mormon church. It worked out in our case but I have seen, first hand, the confusion and devastation that follows a quick divorce, in particular a young divorce. And it’s not their faults. It’s, in my opinion, a mixture of outdated traditions and customs and a strong-willed, overly confident and optimistic young couple. It seems and feels like people just trying to do what’s right. That’s why we did it, for those same reasons, but we don’t consider ourselves any MORE in tune with God or any MORE dedicated to each other than those people with failed marriages under their belts. And that’s all I got to say about that (GET OFF YOUR TANGENT).

Edited to add: I should probably step in here and make it clear that my parents did NOT encourage me to get married, they were not THOSE parents. My dad made me sign numerous contracts growing up stating that I would not date until I was 35 and my Mom tried everything short of murdering Mike to stop the wedding. But alas, I was 18 and in love. And both of their stubborn traits were genetically mutated to triple force when handed down to me. They now like Mike, I should also point out.

Let’s take a stroll down memory lane.

Our wedding day.

I wish that was my Grandma’s wedding dress or that the fabric held some sort of emotional meaning for me but truly, it was the cheapest one and had sleeves, so I got it. It’s a very traditional Mormon wedding dress. Looking back, I could have made it MUCH more stylish. My Cousin, also married in the Mormon Temple, wore the most adorable 50’s modern wedding dress and completely blew me away with the pizzaz and flare that most Mormon wedding gowns lack, in my opinion (honesty is the best policy folks, just being truthful here). Or I could have done a Spanish themed dress with the long sleeves and beautiful Spanish veil, that would have worked as well. Thinking of it now, we probably COULD have done a Spanish themed wedding since everyone assumes Mike is Spanish anyway. Speaking of Mike, here’s the dashing Groom himself:

Mike hates this picture. We both hate ALL our wedding pictures. I had to go digging through piles of old boxes to find these, that’s how UN-DISPLAYED they are in our home. We never look at them because they make us both so agitated and annoyed that we start fighting. “WHY didn’t you tell me that my hair was at it’s ugly length!? I have helmet fuzz in every picture! This is YOUR fault” He says. “Why didn’t YOU tell ME that the lame phase I was in where I REFUSED to wear makeup or do my hair was a PASSING PHASE and could be over-ridden for special occasions, special occasions like MY WEDDING DAY!? Huh?!” I say.

I look like I’m playing dress up. It really does. Because 1. I look so young and 2. It LITERALLY looks like I was watching tv, flipping through Oprah and decided to GET UP and THROW ON a WEDDING DRESS, except that NO. This isn’t dress rehearsal, this isn’t pre-show before hair and makeup, this is the REAL DEAL, the BIG DAY. I have nothing more to say. I mean, I’m adorable, but seriously… CAN I GET SOME FRICKIN MASCARA HERE? A curling Iron perhaps?

See how my body language in this picture is all “What are you doing? What’s happening right now? Uh! Wait. You’re getting awfully close to my mouth.”?? Well, our Virgin wedding night was JUST as suave. JUST. AS. Polite. It was ….. pretty hot. I would go on, but I don’t want to make anyone jealous.

Moving on to the Reception. Held in our church basketball gym.

One of the few things I remember from the Reception, it was all a big blur, was that my Grandpa came from out of State to be there. His wife (my Dad’s sort-of kind-of Step Mom but not really) wouldn’t come because she couldn’t go to through the Temple for the actual ceremony. You have to have a Temple Recommend to go through a Mormon Temple and she didn’t have one because she wasn’t Mormon (no brainer, I suppose) but nevertheless, she boycotted the wedding. Which, in a way worked out for the best since her presence would have made my Grandma uncomfortable and I love my Grandma more than anything in the world. So, Grandpa’s wife wouldn’t come but Grandpa did and although he ALSO couldn’t go through the Temple, he was a perfect gentleman about it and instead mingled with other family and friends. He mostly stayed along the sidelines and mingled with guests for the entire wedding. I saw him while I was dancing with Mike and I had no idea at the time that seeing him standing there along the sidelines right then would be the last time I would ever see him alive. Technically, I saw him one last time before his death but it hardly counted. It would be six months after the wedding, he would be lying on a hospital bed with all his kids surrounding him but he wouldn’t be fully there anymore. He would be in the process of leaving. So the wedding day was the last time. He came ALL the way down to MY wedding and I didn’t dance with him. I didn’t even THINK to dance with him and I REALLY should have danced with him. I always remember that when I see the pictures of the reception dance, how I had the perfect opportunity to share a dance with my Grandpa before he died and I didn’t take it. I blew it and it makes me cry.

This dance picture is sweet, though, isn’t it? I’m looking into Mike’s eyes thinking “who ARE you?”

Here’s an interesting one for you:

What’s happening in this picture, I don’t know. It LOOKS like I was having a meltdown and collapsed into the fetal position on the floor of the basketball gymnasium during the reception and this shot is of Mike reassuring me that everything was fine while also reassuring the cameraman and everyone else that I was actually quite well indeed, just a humorous little moment we are having on the floor right here, heh heh heh. I wish the story was that interesting, so I let people believe that. But in actuality, I was probably checking on my swollen ankle. I TRULY DID have a swollen ankle that night. I tried to use it as a decoy later that night in our hotel room for awhile as I was contemplating postponing forever our wedding night inauguration.

But the inauguration happened and so began the next 6 years of me trying to use clever excuses to get out of woopee. But in the end, I usually thanked him for sticking with his game plan. And the same goes for this. Thanks, Babe, for sticking with your game plan. The last 6 years have been fantastic.

(The ONLY wedding picture we allow to be displayed in our home)

September 18, 2007

Oh yes, plastering pictures of myself and my family all over the internet. OF COURSE! I know ya’ll have been waiting and waiting with baited breath to see pictures from our Oregon Coast Holiday (I love saying Holiday, it makes me feel British) so without further delay, I present:

Overt and Shameless display of Narcissism in the form of “Family Holiday Photos” (Who loves the camera?!)

In chronological order, first up, the car ride.

Started out great. Lots of snacks, music, cartoons, stories, clarifying of discrepancies from this post (APPARENTLY, there was never tomato sauce, the giant holes were perc holes to test for a septic system, the trees were not Ponderosas, they were Evergreens and my Dad was NOT there for all three near-drowning instances which is completely ironic since he had SWIMMING SCHOLARSHIPS in college. But I still say they’re all just jealous of my super powers), yada yada yada, drive drive drive. We EVEN sang songs together, it was very Disney commercial.

Then casually, slowly…

The mood inevitably went south

and by the end…

And what’s embarrassing is that Audrey (my sister) was in WORSE condition than I was in at the precise moment of this picture. Except, when Audrey gets to this point, this level of stirring claustrophobia and frazzleness, everyone avoids making eye contact, speaking to or around her or making any sudden movements in her presence. I’ll get all up in psychoville but Audrey gets all kinds of NASTEH. Flippage of the Outtage, for real. (one other nice thing about turning comments off for the time being is that Audrey can’t get on and yell at me in the comments anymore. HA HA. Take that, you Shrew! I’m not stuck in the car with you NOW, aren’t I?! HA!)

Next up, of course, as soon as we got there, was the beach

I was excited to be there. I was excited to not be in the car, really.

We were all a bit giddy and excited to be there. Elation was back. Euphoria set in. We loved each other again.

My brother Burke and the cute backside of my husband Mike.

Fralalala. Making memories. So lovely.

Burke being “Emo”. The whole trip, if Burke was ever being quiet, walking by himself or trying to distance himself from us in public in any way, we usually asked him if he was having an “Emo” moment, the question was typically accompanied by an exaggerated sad and serious face. This sarcastic tactic works really well, for those of you who have teenagers. The teen will be shocked that you are using such a modern and recent slang term (short for Emotional, by the way, typically used to describe the all black, skinny jean and bandanna wearing posse these-a-days) they’ll try to fight back a smile while at the same time shaking their head and saying something to the effect of “Why am I in this family”. This picture was posed and we were all laughing while it was taken, but it should be the poster worldwide for “Emo Kids” what with the beautiful and fun surroundings and then them, skulking within their confines of treacherous emotions. Ha ha. Teenagers. What a joke. Emo. Use it in a sentence today, it’ll be fun!

We toured the sites and visited Cape Meares Lighthouse which was breathtakingly beautiful. Just like us. Other tourists there were confused, they were like “Which is the site here? This Lighthouse or this breathtakingly beautiful family? I’m not sure.” It happens all the time.

Can you see my wee wee little child in this picture? Running through the trees, so small? Like a little cockroach, so small.

The next day was a bit more chilly and we went to tour another lookout spot.

This is the picture we show everyone.

But this:

This is more like it. And this:

This is completely genuine. See how my kid is mid-strike? She is absolutely about to whack her cousin in the head, totally un-provoked. Mialee is going to use this picture as evidence for YEARS, I’m sure. “See? See how Delaney always starts it?!”

Here’s a nice educational moment. Educational, my arse! Ha!

No, really, here’s the real educational moment. Leave it to Mike to make sure the girls LEARN something while on vacation. Here, he’s teaching the girls how to tell how old the tree was before some redneck yuppy conservatives chopped it all up. Kidding! We ONLY use the term Bush-lover with the girls, we don’t want to burden them with REALLY ugly words at such a young age. (Man, I’m on a ROLL!)

Next, we decided to go check out the much-hyped and highly-anticipated SEASIDE BEACH. OOOOoooohhhh Seaside Beach. Must be nice since it’s so expensive and crowded and hyped up, right?! Surely, it’s WAY better than our humble little beach down in Rockaway, the SLUMS of the Oregon Coast. We are going to SO regret not staying in Seaside once we see it —- blah blah. Ya, well THIS is what we thought of Seaside Beach:

“WHAT? WHAT WAS THAT? I CAN’T HEAR YOU BECAUSE IT’S SO WINDY! I CAN’T SEE YOU EITHER BECAUSE IF I OPEN MY EYES, SAND WILL FLY UNDER MY CONTACTS AND CAUSE MASS AMOUNTS OF DISCOMFORT AND PAIN!”

“CAN I MAKE A SUGGESTION? LET’S GO.”

Seaside sucked. Sorry all you Seaside stand-byers, all you uppity Seaside Loyalists, you SUCK! You’re beach sucks. And you pay more to stay there. Maybe you should venture South a bit, into the slums where you can talk to each other without eating a tablespoon of sand.

That’s right, there are MERMAIDS down in the slums of OUR BEACH.

Burke is CONVINCED that he is God after seeing this picture since there is some obscure light reflection in the middle of the photo next to him. He talked about it for hours, obsessing over the “presence” in the picture and reconsidering a lot of unexplained phenomenons in his short life thus far. Like how he KNEW he’d hate that job at the golf course over the summer.

The girls at sunset. I love this shot.

The girls unknowingly about to embark on a 7 hour journey back home.

All in all, it was a VERY successful Holiday to the Coast. We can’t wait to go back. If anyone is planning a trip and wants advice on where to stay, email me.

Oh and I am leaving comments on for now. Mostly because you guys asked me to. I’ve decided to turn comments off on the posts that I feel are crap. Or not. I’m moody like that. Thanks for loving me anyway.

Love,

Jamie

August 30, 2007

Well, we are heading off to the Oregon Coast this weekend for Labor Day and I am reminded of all the times that I have SAVED MY SISTER’S LIFE when the two of us are within any sort of water proximity together.

Please let me explain.

Don’t stop me if you’ve heard this before.

I, Ms. Battle Station, have saved my feeble and helpless little sister Audrey, from drowning THREE times in our short lives together. THREE different times! And the most amazing thing is that I was such a wee bitty youngin, only between the ages of 5-7 when the miraculous events took place. When these sensational acts of wonderment that she will FOREVER be indebted to me for took place. Because the nice thing about saving someone’s life is that you can totally hold it over the victim’s head for basically INFINITY (I love using that word) due to the fact that pretty much NOTHING can be done to repay or equalize the heroic act in return, therefore giving YOU the upper hand in any argument. Like this:

Meagerly and helpless Audrey: “Well, I watched Delaney for you the other night!”

Heroic and phenomenal Me: “Ya, well, I SAVED YOUR LIFE!”

Defenseless and unprotected Audrey: “I have helped you move the last five times!”

Brave and fearless Me: “Mmmm hmmm and I SAVED YOUR LIFE!”

Impotent and weak Audrey: “I’m pretty sure I have paid for the last three lunches.”

Sensational and stunning Me: “That’s true, let me think, I think there was something… oh yes, I SAVED YOUR LIFE.”

The last setting in the restaurant is fun because I could always raise my voice in the tiniest degree and add something to the effect of “I can’t believe you are doing this! I saved your life!” and then the people at the next table would, no doubt, look over at me and Audrey and think to themselves “My goodness, this wondrous woman saved that helpless woman’s life and the helpless woman is trying to get out of paying for lunch? Astonishing!” Because everyone knows, everyone knows that you owe and are forever indebted to the person that saved your life. Like, duh.

Where to begin?

The first time took place at a lake. My Dad was on the beach area and my Mom was in the water helping me practice my swimming. She was facing the beach area and I was in front of her when I casually and nonchalantly mentioned that Audrey was floating face down in the water out a ways in the lake. My Mom said she turned around to see Audrey JUST BARELY IN TIME before she sunk so far beneath the surface that no one would have seen her. My Mom rushed over to the spot where she saw her daughter sinking and grabbed her, brought her to the surface and turned her over. Audrey smiled and said something to the effect of “Was I swimming?” The creepy part was how Audrey wasn’t moving a muscle. She just let her body depreciate and sink like dead weight to the bottom of the lake, almost like she was meditating instead of drowning. Creepy Audrey, that’s what we call her.

Okay, so I really didn’t have much to do with the actual SAVING part of that event but I WAS the one that saw her before it was too late. So I get some of the credit.

Next story was at a lake again, but on the dock this time. We were standing on this dock with a group of adults, I think this was for some church activity or something, I probably should have checked my facts on these stories before I blasted them all over the internet, but nevertheless, we were standing on the dock with a bunch of adults. Then the cosmic forces stepped in again and decided that little baby Audrey should suffer so ALL AT ONCE the dock broke RIGHT where Audrey was standing. BOOM, dock breaks. BOOM, my cobra-like reflexes snapped into play and I SHOT OUT and grabbed Audrey’s life jacket strap just as she was falling into the depths of the abyss below. Another incident of death, Averted.

Alright so, she DID have her life jacket on and the water was only like 4 feet deep and there were about 15 adults around, BUT I did have a hand in preventing her death should her life jacket have come un-sewn and all the adults around were rendered useless due to the dock breaking in such a way that they were corralled and imprisoned within a makeshift dock barricade.

The last and final event took place at our house. We used to live in Washington, in a farming community outside of Seattle, we had some acreage and lived on a hillside with lots of Ponderosa Pine trees. It was a beautiful setting. I still don’t know exactly why, but my parents had these massive holes dug throughout our land, I think to aerate or fertilize or something or other, but the holes were about (in my memory of them) 4 feet wide and maybe 5 feet deep? Something like that. They were big deep holes in our yard. And it’s Washington so it rains all the live long day of every live long day, right? So each hole had approximately 3 feet of water sitting in the bottom of them. Freezing cold water.

My pal Eden and I were playing in the front yard when I thought I heard a small yelp. I asked Eden if she heard it and she didn’t. I decided to investigate anyway and after venturing into the backyard, I found that Audrey had fallen into one of the giant holes. I laid on my stomach, reached down in the hole and held Audrey out of the water as much as I could by holding onto her hands. I told Eden to go get my Mom.

Audrey was so numb and nearly frostbitten that she was hardly making a noise. My Mom put her in bath with tomato sauce. Am I remembering that right? Was it tomato sauce? That’s weird.

And there you have it. Another quick-thinking and courageous move on my part.

I will point out that my Sister DOES know how to swim now and I’m not foreseeing any problems at the Coast this weekend, but you never know. I’m still coming prepared by brushing up on my CPR and bringing an orange Lifeguard tube. And just in case the tradition is being passed down to the next generation, I’m having Delaney keep an eye on Mialee, Audrey’s daughter.

Mialee and Delaney, cousins only 7 months apart

August 26, 2007

SORRY! I know! It’s been forever. I haven’t abandoned ship. I’ve just been overwhelmed, out of town or in a funk, depending on the day.

But I’m back! Get back a people, get back a HIT ME (little James Brown for ya there. You’re welcome)

Traveling to Ethiopia has been on my mind as of late. Basically, we are in complete denial that we are traveling to a Third World Country in as little as 6 months (if things go as planned - but realistically, it will be in 7-8 months I suppose) and I have been on a kick lately where I want AS MANY people AS POSSIBLE to come with us.

So this is my deal. I really do want as many family members and friends as possible to come. This excludes our three year old. I would rather travel with 65 Gollum clones than travel to Ethiopia with Delaney. The Gollum clones could argue with themselves, speak in raspy plural third person and try to steal my jewelry the whole time and I would STILL rather travel with them than Delaney. Our child, although she’ll argue that she’s one of the adults, is VERY particular about how she likes things. It sort of makes for me feeling like I’m serving a rock star rather than parenting a three year old, but nevertheless, I pick my battles and avoid meltdowns wherever possible so if that means she needs her chocolate milk in a RED cup by her RED plate on her RED blanket - so be it. But it doesn’t make well for ….. international travel to a third world country.

So Delaney’s out. But I would like darn near EVERYONE else to be IN. And my main reason is that I would like them there to experience the culture and actually SEE the country that our kids will come from. I think it will help everyone appreciate the history behind these kids and become a little more involved with this whole big crazy adoption thing, to learn more and maybe understand more. But mostly I just want help on the airplane.

But this is my other deal. What about traveling with a teenager? Have you ever traveled internationally with a teenager before? And if so, was the teenager as big of a cry baby as my brother Burke? My 16 year old, punk brother Burke?

My concern with Burke lies here. He could possibly be whinier and cryier than the three year old that we are vowing to leave home due to the foreseeable future of whining and crying on this journey across the world. The FOOD will be different, the SMELLS will be different, the AIR will be different, the TIME CHANGE will be different, the TOILETS AND BEDS AND SHOWERS AND ROOMS will be SO different than anything he has ever experienced and I have a big fat feeling that he’ll be a big fat baby about all of it.

Or, you know, he could totally man up and be great. It’s a risk. And it’s one that I remind him of EVERY time I see him lately. This is how it goes:

Me: “Burke, I’m concerned about you coming to Africa with us”

Burke: “……. what?”

Me: “I said, I’m CONCERNED about you coming to Africa with us”

Burke: “No, Ya, I’m coming to Africa with you guys”

Me: “No, I know you say you are coming to Africa with us, but I’m concerned about you coming”

Burke: “……. what?”

Me: “Ask me why I’m concerned about you coming to Africa with us.”

Burke: “…….. huh? what? why?”

Me: “I’m concerned because it’s going to be 30 hours of travel each way and the food and weather and accommodations are going to be really different for you.”

Burke: “…………………………..” (eating or checking his myspace or texting or watching tv or being TOTALLY distracted by something else)

Me: “I think you’re going to be a big fat baby about going and you’ll hate it and instead of us having 2 new babies in Africa, we’ll have 2 new babies and a third, slightly taller, slightly stinkier, English speaking baby to deal with too.”

Burke: “……..whatever. It’s cool Jamie, It’s cool.”

I really get through to him. He respects me and my abundance of wisdom.

But my other deal is that I really want Burke to come. I think it would be life changing and amazing for him to come. I remember the first time that I saw extreme poverty and horrible living conditions, I was about his age, and I’ll never forget it. It changed my perspective on a lot. So I want him to come for that reason too. It would be really good for him and in the end, I think he would be glad he went. But I also don’t want to be all “SO BURKE, ARE YOU AMAZED YET? HAS YOUR PERSPECTIVE CHANGED YET? HOW ARE YOU FEELING BURKE, NOW? DO YOU APPRECIATE YOUR LIFE NOW? LOOK BURKE, LEARN A LESSON RIGHT NOW.” That’s annoying.

So, there’s my deal in a nutshell. I want family and friends there, but I’m concerned about my punk brother coming. And I know it’s unrealistic to expect people to come, but I at least want them to know their invited.

And I also know that there will be quiet times when just Mike and I want to be alone with the kids. I’m not concerned about this. Mainly because I’ll be all “Hey family and friends, we would like some alone time with our kids” and we have the type of family and friends that would be great with that.

Aaaaahhhhhh, it’s good to be back. I missed you guys.

Love,

Jamie

July 18, 2007

First off, you guys totally pulled through for me on the name crisis. AWESOME suggestions and it’s always fun to hear what some find repulsive and what others find beautiful. Several of you reminded me that we need to chill out and wait to see what these kids are already named. And they’re right. We had planned to keep their names as middle names but we’re going to stay open minded about keeping their first names as first names.

Maybe we can give them new middle names and call them by their middle names?….. My kid brother does that. His name is Michael Burke and he has always gone by Burke (He’s named after Dr. Burke on Grey’s Anatomy) (No he’s not) (But seriously, now, everyone thinks of Dr. Burke when Burke says his name is Burke) (Well, everyone that is TV-Obsessed, Celebrity stalkerish like myself) (I love you Brangelina!) (Speaking of Celebrities, the TV show Extreme Makeover Home Edition is in Boise right now building a house for a family that, I’m thinking, must be characters out of “A Series of Unfortunate Events” because it’s just UNREAL how tragic their situation is, or was, or is still but not as bad now).

Well in the mean time we have come up with some additional back up names that we can actually both agree on. They are:

Chaz
Sonny
Cohen for Boys

Sarai for a girl, in addition to Yenna and Biset

I realize that you have to be a certain kind of someone to like these names. For example, you probably have to love 70’s sitcoms to really appreciate Chaz and Sonny since they both kind of remind me of tight pants and Afros and a little bit of Mork and Mindy.

So there’s that.

Next up, here is a picture of my sister, myself and my Dad:

My sister invited us to a party thrown at the house of her Employer. It was not a typical party. But, then again, her Boss is not a typical Boss. He promotes a rather unconventional office environment. Picture working at Google’s Headquarters but also throw in a couple mechanical bulls and shots of tequila. But whatever he does to promote such an er, invigorating office environment CLEARLY MUST WORK because this house was the NICEST house I have ever been in in my life. There were statues of Zeus and a marble bar in the FOYER. Need I say more? So anyway, here we are at Boise’s version of “Lifetimes of the Rich and Famous” and in walks my Dad …….. with a STOGIE in his mouth. That’s right, a Cuban cigar. An illegal Cuban cigar, mind you.

Audrey’s Boss gives him a big bear hug (they know each other) and so begins my Dad’s evening of hobnobbing it up with the “in” crowd. He does this. He does these things, chats it up with strangers while smoking a cigar in the nicest house I have ever been in in my life. And somehow, it works and they love him.

My husband was tripping out. He was mind-blown by it all. By the vast array of walks of life in the place and the unexpected personalities that accompanied them. And then, like out of a sheer Mike fantasy, in walks the BAND. The Reggae band and they were as OPP-O-SITE as could be. They were Hippies of the truest kind. The skirts, the jewelry, the dreads, the drums, the incense, it all poured in as they paraded through this million dollar home to set up their equipment on the balcony of the Foyer. And Mike was entranced. He was gone, he was now a National Geographic Journalist who had been accepted into the inner confines of this secret reclusive world. A world where Hippies and Suits shared a laugh and danced to Reggae music together. It was like a vision of what the world COULD be.

I dragged Mike out of the party as we were leaving, after he carried a couple speakers for the Hippies and then shook hands with the Employer, and it was NON STOP talking for the entire 30 minute drive back to our side of town. NON STOP.

“Did you hear that girl say that she got her dress in PARIS!” and “Did you see that the caterers were carrying around trays of COORS LIGHT! I didn’t expect Coors Light, did you?” and “Did you see the calves on the Employers WIFE! She could kick my a**!” and “Can you even believe that POOL!”

And although Mike felt somewhat uncomfortable in surroundings so nice, he came away with an epiphany.

“You really have to go for it, don’t you? To make that kind of money, you have to risk it all like the Employer did. You don’t make THAT kind of money by swiping your time card. You have to risk it and throw your money down on something you believe in.”

And although Mike doesn’t have any source of affinity for risking his money to make the kind of money that the Employer makes, he came away with an appreciation for people LIKE the Employer. People like me, his wife who drives him crazy with big dreams and big projects. His wife that gave him ulcers when she announced they would be buying investment homes and his wife that gave him Irritable Bowel Syndrome when she announced she would be switching careers. His wife that is currently, as we speak, trying to convince him to build a Hotel/Nightclub/Spa.

And this is a VERY hard concept for my cute husband of mine because the cute husband of mine would rather put his money in a shoebox and drive his 1980 Ford Grenada without a heater forever.

But he’s married to me. And I know where he keeps the shoebox. And yet, we find a happy medium.