Disappointment, Relief and Radon

Santa had a great idea this year. Seeing as we have a dirt-floored Michigan basement and two rowdy boys who will be cooped up all winter, Santa thought we ought to build a sand box in our basement. Then the boys could spend hours being boys without freezing their fingers off.

I made plans. I priced items at the hardware store. I braved being trampled by horses to haul several bags of sand into my basement. Christmas eve arrived, although Santa had planned to have the box all built on Christmas morning, time constraints and procrastination led to another fantastic idea--Santa would leave supplies and plans and the boys and I would spend Christmas building it!!! I went to the hardware store Christmas Eve morning, loaded up all the boards and supplies, went to grab the plastic sheeting for the bottom and . . . no small rolls of plastic sheeting. Only the enormous contractor-sized rolls remained. I flagged down an employee and asked him if there was more plastic, and/or if I should just use plywood on the bottom. He informed me that I should consider covering my entire basement in plastic because these scary Michigan basements are scary for more reasons than darkness and ghosts. Reasons like Radon.

Apparently Radon (a radioactive, carcinogenic vapor) is emitted naturally from the earth. This generally presents no problem as it is diluted in nature. Except when it pools in the enclosed space under a home. Particularly problematic when small children play in the dirt, releasing the vapors and dust and inhale the stuff.

So, Santa reshelved her boards, supplies and excitement. And instead, purchased a radon test kit. In spite of the disappointment, I was happy to have one less thing to worry about this Christmas. I'll let you know what we find out, and maybe we can talk to the Easter Bunny about building a box this spring.

An Apology

Dear Ms. Prank*,

I owe you an apology. Despite my annoyance with callers who call my home, having dialed the wrong number, and rather than asking "May I speak with so and so?", ask "Who's this?" To which I typically reply "Who's This?" I am now guilty of the same act.

I called you, intending to call my mother. What are the odds that your number differs from my mother's by a single digit and that your name likewise differs by a single letter? I apologize for my rudeness and for sounding like a complete idiot, and disturbing your evening.

I will do my best not to do so again. But no promises, as I truly am a complete idiot. And I am sometimes rude too.

Sincerely,
Jennifer**

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent
**Though not the stupid

(A Transcription of the actual phone call with probable subtext follows)

Ms. P: Hello? (Who is calling me the day after Christmas from this random area code?)

Me: (Thinking this really doesn't sound like my mother, but she does have a cold). Hello!

Ms. P: Hello? (Who in the heck is this?)

Me: (definitely not my mother) Is this the Crank* residence?

Ms. P: Yes, it is. (Probably a telemarketer--an annoying one at that.)

Me: Who is this? (In my defense, I started thinking perhaps this is one of my nephews visiting grandma)

Ms. P: Who is this? (Rude!)

Me: This is Jennifer--You said this is the Crank residence? (I am so confused right now)

Ms. P: Prank. (Idiot.)

Me: Crank? (What is going on?)

Ms. P: Prank! P-R-A-N-K. Prank! (What, are you deaf AND stupid?!)

Me: Oh, not Crank? Sorry. I must have dialed wrong.

Ms. P: That's okay. (dumb-a**!)

Me: Goodbye. (I am such a dumb-a**!)

Da-da Christmas To You

We had a fabulous Christmas with many highlights. They are too numerous to enumerate, so I'll share just one unforgettable moment. I was sitting around in my Fabulous Eskimo Gown and the phone rang. In a distant part of the house I heard Matt pick it up and put it on speaker, then I heard the dulcet tones of my friend Doris singing in her hoarse old-Jewish-lady dialect. The phone arrived at my ear in time for the closing refrains of "Merry Da-da, tooooooo yooooooooo".

I was so touched, I nearly became farklemt, especially when she wished me nakhes and complemented my pronunciation when I wished her a Happy Hanukkah. Then, one of the Mormon Missionaries who were sharing Christmas with us, asked "Is she from Brooklyn" and we had to explain that Doris is actually a 36 year old male actor/cellist from Manhattan (whom I ADORE) and then we had to play for them my birthday message (I like to share this at dinner parties especially, so if you have not heard Doris sing, invite me to dinner, I'll play my messages).

I was so touched you see, Doris is faithful. She calls me every year on my birthday regardless if I've spoken with her in years and I save her message as long as legally allowed. She has startled my husband and confused my babysitters. Yet, I don't believe she has ever called me on Christmas, and what with her being Jewish, I was just so touched.

I've said it before and I'll say it again--there are thoughtful, caring people in this world, and then there are the rest of us. God bless us every one.

Merry Christmas and Nakhes to you . . .

Hypocrisy Pie

Lest anyone get the idea that I am admirable (you see, it's my blog, so it's easy to just write about things that present me in a good light), let me present a wart (I'll limit it to one big fault for this post--but fear not, I have many many more where that comes from).

I am prideful (and self-absorbed, self-righteous, lacking in empathy and tact, and so many other wonderful qualities that come along with pride). We're working on it, slowly but surely. I say we, because there seems to be a higher power out there that every time I start thinking I'm better than someone else, slaps me in the face with my own hypocrisy. Case in point.

Thanks to a decade in Western Washington, I am a recycler. I will not argue the futility of recycling here, suffice it to say that no, I'm not fully convinced recycling is worth my efforts (see remainder of post for evidence), nonetheless I've developed a compulsion to at least decrease the amount of trash I produce and assuage my conscience by trekking to the recycling center whenever I can no longer walk through my back door without tripping over recyclables. Whatever the end result of my attempts are beyond my control.

Nevertheless, every time I go to the Recycling Center, I get a little steamed up. I start huffing and thinking about putting up little signs that say things like "Hey Stupid! CAN'T READ? Only plastics marked 1 & 2 are accepted here--that means don't come dump your kids broken toys, or throw whole plastic bags full of recyclables in here--do you see a number 1 or 2 on your plastic grocery bag? Take those back to the grocery store!" I mean really, who died and made me the recycling police anyway. And honestly, I don't know enough about the process to know whether adding those items makes the whole load non-viable. I just have a fear that it does and hence all my efforts at recycling become futile because somebody tossed in something to destroy the whole load. When in reality, they probably go through and sort it all out, otherwise wouldn't they put out their own version of the "hey stupid" sign? Maybe, maybe not.

So, the other day as I was hauling my recycling in 20 degree weather, I tromped up the platform that accesses both plastics and papers. A woman had just arrived and was unloading little plastic bags of plastics from her car. As I was contemplating whether I, recycling queen, would condescend to say something to her about not putting in those bags, I totally forgot what I was doing and tossed an entire paper bag of paper waste into the PLASTICs bin!! And I'd chucked it so far in that save climbing the rail and getting literally into the dumpster, there was no going back.

Forgive me, I have committed a recycling sin.

So much for my self-righteousness. I slinked down the platform and didn't say a word as she chucked in the full bags. I just hope she was not as self-righteous as I and was not noticing my bag of paper sitting on top. I was also hoping that they really do sort the stuff out, or that the paper would just burn up in the processing and not contaminate the load.

I think I need to start paying someone to pick up my recyclables. The stress is killing me.

Happy Stuffmas Revisited

You may remember my post from a couple of years ago about the phenomenon of seasonal materialism. Well, in the spirit of "he's my kid, so I get to brainwash him how I see fit" I am happy to report that we must be doing something right (or he knows how to play our game very well).

Last week Ethan came home with a story he wrote in school. (Did I mention that my child is a budding writer? He is. He won the "Awesome Author" award a couple of months ago . . . I'm so proud . . . sniff). He's still working on his spelling, so let me share, then translate for you:

Ckrims

by Ethan

ckims is a tin that you selbrate jesise prthday. Omost evrtheg has a sibol to hao they look. Ckrims is a spesoltin. We seuprat jeisise prthday. Tas wiy we seubrat crims.

Translation (I read first-grader quite fluently):

Christmas

by Ethan

Christmas is a time that you celebrate Jesus's birthday. Almost everything has a symbol to how they look. Christmas is a special time. We celebrate Jesus's birthday. That's why we celebrate Christmas.

I am so proud. Not one mention of toys or Santa Claus (maybe it helps that my kids get almost squat for Christmas--I mean really, how many toys does one kid need anyway, and all at the same time?) Nor do they watch commercials (hooray! or I'm told they would be begging for some hamster thing this year).

I'm trying my best to enjoy this season--and considering I could count on one half of one hand how many times I've been into a non-grocery store in the past couple of weeks (thanks to Amazon and Ebay of course--I'm not a total Scrooge, I do buy them a couple of things), I'm succeeding in enjoying the spirit of the season.

Just a moment while I dismount my high-horse . . .

I'm enjoying my children's enthusiasm for giving. We've completed our december ritual of going through the toys and making a pile of those to give away. I'm enjoying my children's enthusiasm at decorating the tree (my FAVORITE part of tree decoration--the very strange tradition that it is--is that all the ornaments are clustered around the bottom four feet of tree. I'll be so sad when they can reach the top). I'm enjoying their excitement about snow. I'm enjoying friends and songs of the Savior. I'm excited to visit family for New Years.

So, once again I wish us all a life less cluttered with stuff, and a holiday season where we only give gifts out of love, not guilt, and a new year where we remember Christ every day of every month.

Merry Chistmas

Long Johns

Forget being concerned about what I'm wearing when I walk my child to the end of the driveway. Let's begin to concern ourselves with HOW MUCH I'm wearing. It is FRIGGIN' COLD!!! When we moved here everyone told me how cold the winters were going to be. Well, we lived in Colorado, we would counter. Lemme tell you Colorado ain't got nuthin' on this place. How much difference can a little humidity make to your icy winter you ask? Enough.

This morning I walked him out wearing my husband's boots, my new pajamas (not the heart ones with holes worn in them any longer), my new full-length hoodie robe (my husband calls it my snuggie, or my winter mumu--I like to think of it as a warm hug, or the northern version of the Fabulous Gown), my coat, my scarf, my hat, my hood . . . oh, and I didn't wear gloves thinking My pockets will suffice, how long really is the driveway? Long enough.

It's days like this I'm grateful for food storage and the ability to work from home. I think I'm going to need some long johns.

PS. The biggest plus to the snowy season: shoe tying. I know, who'dathunkit? Ethan, wanting to wear his new snow boots to school, finally allowed me to teach him to tie his shoes. That way, he can change from his boots to his shoes without the teacher's help like the other kids do. The whole teaching process took about 60 seconds. We'd tried to no avail several times in the past. Did I mention that Ethan does things only when he is good and ready--and then he does them very well. Well, he does. I don't know where he gets that stubborn streak.

Pajama Time

I sometimes feel a bit sheepish about the fact that I walk Ethan out to catch the bus at the end of our driveway in my pajamas (lately I've mostly just felt COLD). Sometimes I feel like holding a sign up to explain to all the cars passing me by on their way to work that says "Hey!! I've been up working since 6 am--this is my uniform! Don't judge me!" But then I don't feel so bad when, on the occasion I pick him up from school in the afternoon, I'm waiting outside the school with moms in their PJs at 3:30 pm. Perhaps they consider their own "Don't judge me" signs for my benefit. Perhaps they don't care.

Then today, it happened. Ethan missed the bus. Mostly my fault. So we jumped in the freezing car and headed to school.

Can I just drop you here?

Will you just walk me across the bus lane so I'm sure to be safe mom?

Can you argue with that?

So, I got out of my minivan with my bed-head tucked under my hoodie, dressed to the nines in my pj bottoms covered in pink hearts. Apparently I'm no longer the carefree college co-ed who once for fun went grocery shopping with my roommates with our wet hair wrapped up in towel-turbans. No, I have to admit I did feel a bit embarrassed as I walked with all these well dressed parents dropping their kids off before heading to work. Where did I put my sign?

Maybe on this sign I'd write something like "Hey, it doesn't matter what I wear to work! I had a conference call yesterday in just my bra!" Then again, perhaps they'd get the wrong impression about my job. (My shirt was just in the dryer--it's not like it was a video conference anyway!--I hope my boss doesn't read this). Maybe I've become too nonchalant with the whole working from home thing. Maybe I'll start getting up at five, so I can be showered and dressed up by 6 to start work . . . on second thought, I'll stick to stumbling from my bed the whole five feet to my office door, rubbing sleep from my eyes as my computer boots up, working for a couple of hours, doing the whole mom thing for a few more hours, and getting showered by noon (most days). Just don't come knocking on my door in the morning. Unless you're coming to see my new pjs.