Tuesday, December 30, 2008

call me bella, please.

The excuse for my excessive absence...


I shoved myself willingly onto the bandwagon and have yet to see any (decent) reason for regret. And by "decent," I mean anything other than the man's incessant remarks/outlandish accusations about the nature of my supposed, inexcusable neglect of his ability to lead a life absent of a wife that has an obsessed affection for a fictional vampire. I feel this sudden sense of urgency to encourage him to seek out support (possibly even refuge) from other afflicted husbands suffering from ECIC (Edward Cullen Inferiority Complex), because obviously I'm not the damaged individual in this scenario.

Sigh, Edward.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

this baby would one day save me...


"For God so loved the world that he gave
his one and only Son... " - John 3:16

I Celebrate the Day, Relient K.


And with this Christmas wish is missed
the point I could convey.
If only I could find the words to say to let You know
how much You've touched my life,
because here is where You're finding me,
in the exact same place as New Year's Eve.
And from a lack of my persistency,
we're less than half as close as I want to be.

And the first time that You opened Your eyes,
did you realize that You would be my Savior.
And the first breath that left Your lips,
did You know that it would change this world forever.

And so this Christmas I'll compare
the things I felt in prior years
to what this midnight made so clear
that You have come to meet me here.

To look back and think that
this baby would one day save me.
In the hope that what you did
that you were born so that I might live.
To look back and think that
this baby would one day save me.

And the first time that You opened Your eyes,
did you realize that You would be my Savior.
And the first breath that left Your lips,
did You know that it would change this world forever.

And I, I celebrate the day that You were born to die,
so I could one day pray for You to save my life.
Pray for You to save my life.
Pray for You to save my life.

Thursday, December 11, 2008

the bear's twenty-five.

The bear, the man, the husband stumbled over twenty-five's threshold today. In honor of his extremely uncanny ability to only get better with age, I fittingly caved to his greatest weaknesses: big cookies with a side of homemade love.

The basics.

The execution.

The goods.

The end product.

The aftermath.

The love.

"Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be."
Robert Browning


Happy Birthday, (baby) bear.

Monday, December 8, 2008

she's awake.

I finally decided to graciously cater to my extremely under-used creative gene yesterday afternoon after an (over) indulged outing with that lovely mother of mine to that esteemed art supply meca, Michael's. I've fought back the urge as of late to craft for mildly selfish reasons. Passing into a state of comatose after seven hours of incessant motion with nine, rambunctious four year old's is clearly a mandate. Clearly. I habitually succumb to activities that require an exceedingly low tolerance for conscious thought. Sleep meets said requirement. Stimulating the crafting gene does not.

But Sunday afternoon brought both clarity and, well, the highly coveted prospect of time, thus...

I've joyously resurrected a sleeping giant.


Pleasantly consumed by the scent of pine needles and Macaulay Culkin's pre-pubescent screams of triumphant domination over holiday theivery, I made these entirely prompted by that pulsating gene that perpetuates an urgency for all things artistic. And certifiably, I've awakened a deep-seeded need to cater to it. Because of it, comatose may have to take a backseat.

Monday, December 1, 2008

bye, bye monotony.

I'm taking a necessary mental-health day. Yes, intentionally prolonging this already blissful, five-day hiatus from the everyday monotony of 5:30 alarms, 7-3's consumed by 4-year old's with mouths like 20-somethings, afternoon black-outs (4-6 escapes me), debating dinner with the man, actually deciding on dinner with the man, finally eating dinner with the man, routinely watching our nightly line-up's, falling asleep on the couch, being jolted awake two hours later to force myself off the couch, and collapsing unconsciously onto an already unmade bed to then be greeted abruptly by another 5:30 alarm that seems three hours too soon. It's a beautiful monotony; it's my monotony, our monotony. But the occasional break, the occasional opportunity to entirely alter the order of my day, is something I would scream about if the other side of these walls didn't occupy entirely conscious-to-the-point-of-likely-irate-behavior-if-inconvenienced-by-a-deftly-shrill-series-of-good-intentioned-screams human beings. I would, but I'll refrain.

While decked in my finest seasonal attire, I've already managed to piece together a beautifully cohesive list of Christmas gifts for my pride and joy's which is celebratory in and of itself considering the colossally, ginormous task it morphed into last year. I've online-shopped; not just perused, but indeed purchased. It's beyond my considerably enlightened understanding (I jest) as to why I've waited until recently to take advantage of something so enticingly low-maintenance as online shopping. For the husband's sake (you'd think this phrase would be more telling considering it happens to slip off my fingers in practically every paragraph), I'm making a clear declaration that despite it's appeal, online shopping and I will have nothing more than a strictly platonic relationship. Strictly. I'm maintaining an honest policy here. Really.

But aside from the productivity, I've slept. I've lounged. I've ogled at sitcom reruns, infomercials, and television's finest buffet of morning talk shows. And I'm mere moments away from a robust lunch of grilled cheese, soup, and the remains of an Oreo ice cream cake from Coldstone. See? Spoiling myself at the expense of my thighs. The epitome of a day well spent.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

be thankful.


"And above all these put on love,
which binds everything together in perfect harmony.
And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts,
to which indeed you were called in one body.
And be thankful.
Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly,
teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom,
singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs,
with thankfulness in your hearts to God.
And whatever you do,
in word or deed,
do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus,
giving thanks to God the Father through him."

- Colossians 3:14-17, ESV

Macy's parade enthralled, pajama-clad, surrounded by the loveliest, and only mere hours away from overindulging in mass quantities of food that cause nothing less than an overwhelming sense of urgent assisted breathing by tactfully unbuttoning those too tight for any form of comfort britches. What's not to be thankful for? Honestly.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

consider it an investment.

Since I've seemingly acquired this habit of sharing the things this little heart desires most, it would certainly be in poor taste not to do so on my first day back after an entirely accidental week-long blogging hiatus. I've been waning my holiday decorating loins until (the day) after Thanksgiving, biding my time, forcing myself to enjoy for only mere days more those white pumpkins I so painstakingly exerted an unmentionable amount of time searching for. But aside from my refusal to cave in to all things snowflake'd and reindeer'd too soon, I still allow these eyes to wander. To wander to things such as this...

Credit, of which, can only be given to Pottery Barn...
and "her" alone. Yes, her.

I consider a tree skirt a pretty solid investment. Granted, it's not a year-round-use kind of purchase like the husband would prefer, especially if the price could potentially produce unnecessary nausea. But in this fictitious mind of mine, it has the qualities to be a lasting holiday necessity in this content, two-person family of ours. And when this two-person grows, I can see little feet standing next to it, straining on tip-toes to nestle ornaments into their snug homes. I'm bordering sentimental just envisioning the tradition it could hold. Bordering sentimental over a tree skirt.

Albeit, it's nothing short of rare for me to splurg on anything that bears the Pottery Barn name (typically, I rely on T.J. Maxx for all things knock-off), but I've exhausted all of my usual outlets to recreate this idealic vision rattling around in my head. Despite it's mind-numbing price tag, the man has relinquished all control and entrusted the decision into these capable hands. In the recognition of all my labored hours of searching, he's graciously acknowledged my attempts and warranted me my desire in return. However, it still bears repeating:

It's an investment.
It's an investment.
It's an investment.

An investment that classically masks the inevitable tree stand; the inevitably atrocious-looking tree stand.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

everyone, meet fate.

To Whom It May Concern
(namely, a fine man I like to call my husband)

I'm a firm believer in fate. Strictly, what's meant to be will be. Well, upon my daily (honestly, hourly) OCD-esque perusing of Pottery Barn online, of which I instinctively, for the sake of you (my robustly handsome husband) and that which we've nicknamed a "checking account," gravitate towards the what's-not-going-to-[literally]-cost-me-my-most-precious-extremities portion of the place I seek decorating solace, my eyes fell upon the epitome of what my design loins have been floundering to produce since our nest's very inception...

Be still my heart, folks.

How can a girl not consider this nothing short of pure, unadulterated fate?

Our beautifully crafted queen-sized, rod iron sleigh bed has been screaming profusely for a makeover. Not that I don't thoroughly adore its current dressings (compliments of the Nate Berkus), but these spoke to me. Seriously. I'm not ashamed to say I pressed my ear absurdly close to the computer screen to assure myself that I wasn't, by chance, hallucinating, but, in fact, heard with absolute clarity the faint whispering of my name. I considered the encounter pretty prophetic, honestly. Unquestionably, my heart jumped out of my chest. Laugh, please. Humility is a close friend.

Essentially, we were made for each other.

Sincerely,
Your lovely wife

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

she's a tease.

[Deep breath. Exhale.]

I want to peak over the Rialto...
gelato in hand, the man on my arm...
like this, again. And soon.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

the long-awaited.

White pumpkins.

Sigh.

Is there any need to explain?

Thursday, November 6, 2008

fill our hearts with Your compassion...


"It is not too far a cry,
too much to try,
to help the least of these.

Politics will not decide
if we should rise
and be Your hands and feet."

Hillsong United

I proudly admit that I cower in the face of heated debate. When it ignites, I wither unashamedly. Aside from the man and a certain select few, my political opinions are tucked deeply into crevices that only my Maker has claim to. I don't display them for notoriety. I don't display them for public ridicule. I don't display them for approval. I don't display them for reproach. My political opinions are a personal dialogue between myself and the God that fills these undeserving lungs with breath. He doesn't mock. He doesn't disregard my thoughts as inferior. He doesn't accuse. He listens intently to the internal conflict that plagues this very heart in the midst of political mayhem; innately human in it's very essence. He leads me. He guides me. He calms me. He just is.

So, seldom do I provide a political voice in a public forum, but the man's so graciously presented me with words that I couldn't selfishly keep to myself. Hear my heart:

"We live in a democracy, a representative form of government, where it's as much if not more our responsibility to love and take care of our neighbors than our politician's responsibility. Real and lasting change comes from knowing and loving the folks who live in the houses that sit next to ours rather than saving all of our longing and hope for the voting booth...

Even greater than our forefather's sacrifices are those of our heavenly Father, who also shed blood in order to stir in us an allegiance greater than that of nation. We have an ultimate allegiance to our King and the Kingdom he's building in and through us that trumps all others...

Our ultimate hope is not in politicians or powers or governments, but in a day coming when all things will be made right. And our ultimate concern isn't success but faithfulness."

Derek Webb.
Caedmon's Call. Founder of NoiseTrade.

Monday, November 3, 2008

short, but sweet.

Ask me my agenda. I'll give you my answer.

I think it's imperative

that you still "date" your man
post-ceremonious exchanging of vows...
and unceremoniously...
bath towels.

Short, but appropriately sweet.
All on the brink of an entirely spontaneous, loving request of that husband of mine to break from the monotony of our heavily ritualized Monday evenings (of dinners on the couch with Monday Night Football in toe) and enjoy a night "out." To Bianca's, no less. Which not only hosted a rather impressive proposal but a rousing celebratory shindig in the name of holy matrimony (in fewer, less descriptive words,
our rehearsal dinner).
What an exceptionally sentimental man I snagged! Exceptionally.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

the stand.

All I am is Yours...

The Stand, Hillsong United.


You stood before creation,
eternity within Your hand.
You spoke the earth into motion.
My soul now to stand.

You stood before my failure,
carried the cross for my shame.
My sin weighed upon Your shoulders.
My soul now to stand.

So what can I say.
What can I do.
But offer this heart, O God,
completely to You.

So I'll walk upon salvation,
Your spirit alive in me.
This life to declare Your promise.
My soul now to stand.

So what can I say.
What can I do.
But offer this heart, O God,
completely to You.

So I'll stand with arms high and heart abandoned,
in awe of the One who gave it all.
So I'll stand, my soul Lord to You surrendered.
All I am is Yours.

So I'll stand with arms high and heart abandoned,
in awe of the One who gave it all.
So I'll stand, my soul Lord to You surrendered.
All I am is Yours.

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

going retro.

Let me explain...

I don't need these. As the husband would state, I don't need the majority of what I manage to purchase in a month's time. However, I couldn't resist. Sensing that resounding theme of incapable resistance yet? In my typical shock-and-awe fashion (again, according to the man), I made an impulsive purchase that set me back $16... along with an entirely necessary splurge on two magnificently Euro-sized pillows for half the retro-ness of the aforementioned. It's a personal give and take: I give myself (inadequate) permission, and take what's enticingly unnecessary. I've mastered that technique, much to the husband's dismay. I have no excuse.

But can you blame my stumble? That blue had me at hello. Hook, line, and sinker. Despite whether I use them or not (which, unquestionably, I will... often), this lady would unashamedly lay them on her counter for appearance sake and appearance sake alone. I'm oddly vain when it comes to my kitchen utensils. Obvious?

OH, CUISINART!

Sigh.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

ode to a second love.

When I hear the phrase "hopelessly addicted," my mind unquestionably wanders to those notions of want when I undoubtedly find myself lost amidst the lilies, tulips, hydrangeas, and gerbera daisies en route to the deli meats at the Harris Teeter. I acquired, like most women, this astounding desire to not only flood my home with the sweet, enticing smell of fresh flowers but to bring something aesthetically simple yet entirely room-altering to this nest of ours. It's nearly impossible for me to refuse them. Nearly. I try for the sake of the husband. I do. But I'm fairly weak when it comes to resistance. My body seemingly has this innate ability to repel it. As much as this repellent nature may aggravate the man, he's learning to cope... by mode of ignoring the reality of my hopeless addiction. But he aides more than he'd like to admit...

A simplistic just because...

Or an affectionate (and intentional) stray away from the generic on Valentine's Day; his personal favorite.

He caters to my every whim and fancy, that man. And typically, in every circumstance, it's entirely undeserved. Entirely.

But if there were any scenario in which heart palpitations were to inevitably ensue, it's the rare pleasure of coming across what my heart becomes most hopeless for: hydrangeas. If the likelihood ever arose that I happened to only have enough to purchase milk, eggs, and bread in the same instance that I found myself face-to-face with these massive, bulbed beauties, you can say goodbye to any ounce of internal conflict in this ladies' body. Hydrangeas over survival. No debate necessary.

Of my grandmother's making, freshly clipped from her garden.

I melted mid-aisle over these. I wish I were kidding.

I'm hopelessly addicted, but all the better for it. All the better...

Friday, October 24, 2008

meet my new friend, writer's block.

I've plateaued. I'm only thirteen posts deep, and I can't manage to piece together anything even remotely worthy of reading at this point. Not that my life doesn't exude it's fair share of wildly entertaining tales, but this week, these storytelling capabilities I assumed I possessed have vacated the premises. I hesitate to say permanently, though. I had made the assumption far too soon that my life would easily fill these pages with humor, angst, blissdom, and a fine blend of insanity and grace daily, but I've met writer's block, and we've officially made the best of friends. Albeit, when the fog clears, I plan entirely on making a swift, clean break from said new friendship, but by the looks of things, it seems we'll be paling around in wordless misery for some time to come. Sadly, I've been undeservedly greeted by the bane of my blogging existence, and I am no fan. Here's to a resounding, "Woe is me!"

Monday, October 20, 2008

husband & wife.


"Let the wife make her husband glad to come home,
and let him make her sorry to see him leave."
- Martin Luther

Honor.

Cherish.

Keep.

This man enhances every ounce of this ladies' simple life.
Utterly. Genuinely. Completely.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

cover your ears.

Last Sunday was especially monumental for me. In a relatively simple way, too. Now, I'm fairly well aware that I'm moments away from gravely disappointing a few folks, because the term "monumental" bears quite an astounding reputation, but my monumental is not easily paralleled. My monumental is consumed by the basic that presents itself as extraordinary. When the husband finally deems the triumphant return of my hibernating Christmas with the Rat Pack cd as acceptable no sooner than the day following Thanksgiving. That's monumental. When I come across a Law and Order: Criminal Intent mini-marathon on TNT in the absense of the man. That's monumental. Even more simply, when I get a moment of quiet, a moment to be still. That's monumental. By definition, that's the reputation that precedes my unparalleled monumental.

Well, Sunday created a whole new scenario for my exuberant outcry to what's basic. To paint an appropriate picture, I'm accompanied by three gentlemen en route to Hable's Hearth for lunch. As usual, most resturants on Sunday afternoon typically take us past the illustrious addition to the already fantastic Friendly Shopping Center, The New Shops at Friendly. This trip, no different than others, caused an entirely unprompted scream of pure euphoria.

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH! THEY'RE PUTTING A WILLIAMS-SONOMA AT THE NEW SHOPS AT FRIENDLY!"

Now, the "shut your mouth" bit wasn't really directed at any particular individual, but unquestionably, I certainly stunned my companions into silence. Which then, of course, erupted into hysterical fits of uncontrollable laughter. What person in any state of mind screams over Williams-Sonoma? If you never thought you'd meet her, let me introduce myself. I'm Nikki Lillard. Wife to David Lillard. Daughter to Chris and Vickie Brown. Three immensely gracious individuals that hopefully will remain claiming me post- (well) this post.

Ever since the inception of The New Shops at Friendly, I've found it exceedingly easier to avoid making the trek to the mall. I typically voyaged once every few months only for the sale selections at J.Crew or to fulfill this unnecessary urge to purchase even more dishcloths than any one person should at Williams-Sonoma, but for obvious reasons, I've willingly aborted the horrendous missions altogether. Albeit it has its redeeming qualities, the mall's just not my place of choice. So, you can imagine my enthusiasm upon the recognition of those brilliant gold letters in a more familiar, convenient environment.

Yes, I screamed. And, proudly, I claim the noise. So, excitedly, I anticipate Williams-Sonoma's grand admittance to the Friendly lifestyle. It's bliss, people. Yes, bliss.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

gourds galore.

I spent the better part of thirty minutes this afternoon perusing the 2/$1.00 bargain bin of Harris Teeter's finest ornamental pumpkins and gourds. Yes, seriously. You jest, but it brought a pretty permanent smile to this face that, mind you, I've clearly still managed to keep for an impressive five hours. As if the 2/$1.00 deal wasn't rewarding enough, these (12) lovely replicas of everything I adamantly adore about fall rung up at a mere and beautifully low 19 cents. Yes, 19 cents. And yes, 12. Overindulging on the inexpensive is a forte of mine. Suppression of said overindulgence just wasn't an option.

I'd be an impressive liar if I told you...
I didn't have a thing for glass jars, either.

I'd also be an impressive liar if I told you...
I wasn't already planning a second trip in the back of my mind.

One for the flowers...

Another for the gourds.

Sigh. The completion of a gourd-eous afternoon's work.
(Yes, I anticipated the pun. No, I didn't expect it to inflict ab-numbing giggle fits.)

Monday, October 13, 2008

solution.

Really, what consumes this heart...

Solution, Hillsong United.

It is not a human right to stare, not fight,
while broken nations dream.
Open up our eyes, so blind, that we might find
the mercy for the need.

Singing, hey now, fill our hearts with Your compassion.
Hey now, as we hold to our confession.

It is not too far a cry, too much to try,
to help the least of these.
Politics will not decide if we should rise
and be Your hands and feet.

Singing, hey now, fill our hearts with Your compassion.
Hey now, as we hold to our confession.

Woah-oh-oh.
God be the solution.
Woah-oh-oh.
We will be Your hands
and be Your feet.


Higher than a circumstance, Your promise stands;
Your love for all to see.
Higher than a protest line and dollar signs,
Your love is all we need.

Singing, hey now, fill our hearts with Your compassion.
Hey now, as we hold to our confession.

Woah-oh-oh.
God be the solution.
Woah-oh-oh.
We will be Your hands
and be Your feet.


Only You can mend the broken heart
and cause the blind to see.
Erase complete the sinner's past
and set the captives free.
Only You can take the widow's cry
and cause her heart to sing.
Be a Father to the fatherless,
our Savior and our King.

We will be Your hands.
We will be Your feet.
We will run this race for the least of these.
In the darkest place, we will be Your light.
We will be Your light.

We will be Your hands.
We will be Your feet.
We will run this race for the least of these.
In the darkest place, we will be Your light.
We will be Your light.
We'll sing.

Woah-oh-oh.
God be the solution.
Woah-oh-oh.
We will be Your hands
and be Your feet.


We will run.
We will run.
We will run with the solution.

We will be Your hands.
We will be Your feet.
We will run this race for the least of these.
In the darkest place, we will be Your light.
We will be Your light.
We'll sing.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

seared scallops with roasted corn and herbs.

I eat scallops like candy. Addictive? I'd be quite the liar if I didn't enthusiastically scream, "yes." So, imagine my elation when these eyes landed on this recipe. Shamefully, even in my two month, workforce hiatus, I've never actually attempted the culinary beauty. However, its simplicity and my inherent inability to turn a blind eye to temptations of the mouth have me eager... and drooling. Thus, I'll restrain you no longer...

Seared Scallops with Roasted Corn and Herbs

Ingredients:
  • 5 tablespoons EVOO- Extra Virgin Olive Oil, divided
  • 4-5 ears (2 cups) fresh corn, cut off the cob
  • salt and freshly ground black pepper
  • 8 large, dry-packed sea scallops
  • 3 shallots, minced
  • 1 clove of garlic, minced
  • 6 tablespoons fresh parsley, finely chopped, divided
  • 1 tablespoon fresh thyme, chopped
  • 1 tablespoon fresh chives, chopped
  • 1/2 cup dry white wine (preferably Sauvignon Blanc)
  • 2 tablespoons butter
Preparation:
  1. Heat 1 tablespoon of EVOO in a large skillet over high heat. Add corn, a good pinch of salt, and 2-3 turns of freshly ground pepper. Toss corn to coat lightly with EVOO and cook until slightly browned and caramelized, approximately 2-3 minutes.
  2. While the corn is caramelizing, pat scallops with a paper towel. Score them on one side with a sharp knife and season with salt and pepper.
  3. In a large skillet over medium-high heat, add 2 tablespoons of EVOO. Sear scallops, scored side down, until browned and caramelized, about 2 1/2 minutes. Flip scallops, cook 1 minute more, then remove from heat. Scallops will be nearly done and will finish cooking in the corn.
  4. Lower heart under corn to medium-high. Add remaining 2 tablespoons of EVOO to the pan along with the shallots, garlic, 5 tablespoons of parsley, thyme, and chives. Re-season with salt and pepper, give everything a toss, and cook until the shallots are translucent. Deglaze the pan with the white wine, scraping the bottom of the pan to pull up any brown bits. Cook for 1 minute.
  5. Cut butter into small chunks and scatter over corn. Place scallops in corn mixture (with the darker brown side up). Add pan drippings and any brown bits from scallop pan to the corn and stir lightly to combine. Cook till the wine is reduced by half.
  6. Plate the corn on a platter and top with scallops, darker brown side up. Sprinkle with remaining parsley and serve.
Compliments of Pete Bakel, the esteemed "Sweet Pete" of Rachael Ray's Hey, Can You Cook?! competition.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

scrubber extraordinaire.

My husband cleaned the shower this morning.

I repeat, my husband cleaned the shower this morning.

People, I ecstatically declare that I am indeed the wife of the most considerate man in existence. I hate cleaning the shower. With a deeply rooted passion, hate it. If it requires excessive, literal full-body scrubbing, you can count me out. Had we not had a greater need for our current shower caddy, I would've invested in Scrubbing Bubbles' Automatic Shower Cleaner ages ago. It goes without his saying, though, that he loathes the rigorous task to a greater extreme. Really. But without my urging or even a mere suggestion, he tackled it regardless. That man. Lord. He has this astounding ability to recapture the heart of this lady in the most basic ways. Consistently. Repeatedly. Always.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

eyeing relief.

I have this thing for vacations. Getaways. Time spent away from routine; monotony, even. I typically, by mid-October, feel some sense of entitlement to a well-deserved and hard-fought for few days away.

Hard-fought for, you say?


In so few words, I'd quite revel in the privilege of spelling it out in the clearest, most obvious form of English that I can: I specialize in "crowd control." Plainly, I teach kids.

I'm a glorified babysitter. An architect of character. An attitude connoisseur. A retriever. A potty trainer. A maid. An interpreter of all things gibberish, outlandish, and Aramaic. A well-oiled thank you card machine. A bodyguard. A punching bag. A fixer of the broken. An excavator of lost socks, dropped plastic spoons, and misplaced glue sticks. I console. I break up bickerers. I wipe tears and runny noses. I endure more knock-knock jokes in a day than you can fathom. I chase bugs of the invisible variety. Amphibians, too. I apprehensively chase bugs of the not-so-invisible variety. I discipline. I perform etiquette miracles. I parent. I parent. I parent.

But, in even fewer words, I adore my job with a consumable passion. Albeit, it drives me to this innate notion of deserved time-off, it's ideal. Simply, ideal. However, strategically, the month of November certainly tends to these vacation woes of mine. Genuinely, this lady will ever-so fondly greet Election Day, Veteran's Day, and gratefully, Thanksgiving with warmly open arms.

Sunday, October 5, 2008

conquered.

I don't typically dread Sunday evenings. Largely due in part by the fact that embracing Monday mornings has become more a pleasure, actually, than a chore. Gasp if you will, but surprisingly I've started to enhance my weeks recently with things I can't seem to get enough of- all of which really mirrors the consistency of my weekends, just in extended form.

I fill my days with vivacious (immensely humorous, even) kids, my afternoons with 2-hour marathons of my husband's least favorite show (Law & Order, of any variety) without remorse, and my evenings with family dinners, incessant face time with people I can't live without, or in the presence of the man, whether it be on the couch engrossed in whatever's plastered on our beautifully high-definitioned plasma or on opposite ends of our nest with his nightly Halo battle cries lulling these eyes to sleep. I read. I relax. I clean. I nest. I entertain the thought of finally scrapbooking our wedding proofs. I like my weeks. I've learned it makes Sunday evenings not so unbearable.

This Sunday evening, however, I'm not as enthused to be greeted by tomorrow morning. My weekends, of which I adamantly adore, are still typically predictable. I like spice. New things. Altogether, out of the ordinary. The stuff spectacular weekends are made of. Genuinely, my weekend screamed spectacular. My mother finds it laughable, but camping was ideal. Truly. This season grows on me the older I get, so spending the better part of my weekend in the open air made my heart grow even fonder. The weather was perfect. Conversation, perfect. Surroundings, perfect. People, perfect. Hanging Rock, despite it's perilous terrain, was worth the heavy panting, exhaustion, and intensely sore thighs. You can't pay for views like these.


In the aftermath of this weekend, it goes without saying that aiming high for the week to come would be nothing short of entirely advisable. And precisely what this lady intends to do.

Friday, October 3, 2008

the elements...

12 twenty-somethings.
3 tents.
12 sleeping bags, pillows, and pairs of thick socks.
An abundance of matches.
An equal abundance of firewood.
A ridiculous quantity of quilted goodness.
12 collapse-able chairs.
2 bags o' marshmallows.
A box or two of Hershey's bars.
1-2 boxes (factoring in a fair amount of greed) of graham crackers.
Truckloads of sweatshirts, fleeces, and beloved North Face's.
At least 6 decks of cards.
A handful of flashlights.
1 family-sized Black & Decker griddle.
1 converter box.
2 spatulas.
A couple dozen eggs.
Sausage. Bacon. Bagels.
Hiking apparel and tennis shoes for 12.
Cameras to capture the true inevitable beauty of it all.
(i.e., embracing fall... camping with the finest.)

Thursday, October 2, 2008

an affectionate thank you.

I am a self-professed Pottery Barn addict. But more of the visual persuasion. Meaning, I look (obsessively) but manage never to touch (unless 75% markdowns are in the equation). I revel the day when all four catalogs (yes, four- believe me, if there's a Pottery Barn catalog to be perused, I don't discriminate; however, investing in PB Kids and Teens has left me in dire longing for an adolescent bedroom re-do), crammed to the brim, are removed ever-so gently from their brief, compact home. Sometimes I scream. Mostly, I internalize my overwhelming joy for the pages upon pages of beautifully crafted perfection, in centerpiece and bedding form.

It's strictly a love/love relationship. I affectionately display her pages on practically every available surface space while she gingerly presents aesthetically stimulating design masterpieces that make me drool. Literally, I'm indebted to her.

She inspires me.
Motivates me.
Encourages me.

I'd be in a pit of eternal design despair without her. So, a genuine thank you to you, Pottery Barn, for allowing me the privilege to retain your utter creative genius. Truly, I'm most appreciative. The husband would highly beg to differ, but I contend it's a deeply rooted issue of jealousy that stems from his inability to grasp your finer qualities. Surely, he'll thank you in his own time.

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

a simple introduction.

So, ever since the conception of this blog- which was, in fact, yesterday, so not the most valid of statements- rather the conception of the thought of this blog, I've been eager to lavish it lovingly with photos. Photos of the husband... of our nest. Photos of my ever-so valiant attempts at creativity. Photos of places... of moments. Ones that define me in a most genuine way. Ones that fit. So, with every ounce of mustered enthusiasm- which, mind you, is immense- here, the graceful imperfections of this ladies' life.

Meet David.

Simply, this man...
is my sweetest asset.

Solace-sought retirement in Jamaica? Yes, please.

My heart swells with this one.

Crowd control...
glorified babysitting...
crafting thank you notes.
i.e., Teacher's Assistant.

To avoid over-indulging, I'll save the rest for future lavishing...

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

stories in these fingers...

I've been told I have a way with words.

Of the written variety, mostly. There's a fluidity within these fingers. A natural one. However, that same ebb and flow doesn't exist as nicely from my lips. So, here I am, toying with the thought of putting my thoughts on a virtual parade. Yes, parade. So, scoot up a chair. Let's see where it leads.