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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.