Missing: Baby Jesus

So, I confess.  I lost Baby Jesus.  But it wasn’t my fault, exactly.

See, my daughter, Grace, (she’s four) has this obsession with babies.  She thinks that one day I’ll be a baby again and she’ll be the mom.  Meanwhile, she has a dizzying array of dollies.  This morning she tucked one into bed with me, instructing me to make sure the baby stayed under the covers.

Last Christmas, Grace kidnapped Baby Jesus from the stable, leaving a bereft Mary and a bewildered Joseph keeping vigil over no one.  The angel appeared not to notice and the shepherd just gazed skyward.  Baby Jesus wasn’t harmed, just relocated to Grace’s bedroom where she kept watch over Him.  I noted that Baby Jesus had been stolen from his earthly parents and intended to right that wrong just as soon as I finished the laundry and wrapped the gifts and ate all the Christmas cookies.  In other words, later.  Moving Baby Jesus to His rightful spot didn’t seem that important at the time.

Then, Christmas came and went.  It was time to put away Christmas decorations but Baby Jesus had disappeared.  I picked up the forlorn manger as I tidied up her room (how does it turn into such chaos?) but Baby Jesus was gone.  (The manger spent all year on my dresser as a reminder of my failure in Search and Rescue.)  I was so sure He’d appear, pop out to startle me just like the kids do when they play hide-and-seek.  I’d jump and say, “Oh, that’s where you are, Baby Jesus!  Good hiding space!”

I just knew He would show up again.  Perhaps He lingered under the television set or maybe He mingled with the random plastic people in the toy box.  Could He be in the sock drawer or stuck behind the dresser?  I don’t know because He never showed up.  Baby Jesus vaporized.  He was here just a minute ago (okay, a year ago) and now,  no Baby Jesus.

We can’t have Christmas without Baby Jesus.  He is the Reason (as they say) for the Season, after all.  He is the one we gather about, the centerpiece of the holy family, the heartbeat of the holiday.

And so, since I can’t find Baby Jesus–He must be in that mysterious space with the missing cell phone, that red GameBoy and jangling set of car-keys I lost on the Fourth of July–I am bidding on Baby Jesus on eBay.

Because Mary needs her baby and not just any baby will do.

Snow Day!

Snowgirl.jpgOne inch of snow means a Snow Day here.  A Snow Day means the children clamor to go outside, even though this is perfect weather for quietly reading all day.  A Snow Day means the children disappear outside for hours, playing in the (one inch) of snow.  A Snow Day means hot cocoa with marshmallows.

And lucky for me, this Snow Day means the boys end up at the neighbor’s house instead of here for the hot chocolate break and my Snow Girl and I spend the rest of the day indoors after briefly stomping around the front yard, tracking cat-prints and changing the one string of icicle lights that already stopped shining and realizing that it really is cold when your fingers grow numb from the quick light-changing.

A Snow Day in the Pacific Northwest means the roads turn to ice and people abandon their cars along the freeway and it takes six hours to get home from work.

Long live the occasional Snow Day!

Catching Up

We lost Baby Jesus.  More on that later.

Meanwhile, Friday, I left my house by 8 a.m. to shop.  Of course, arriving three hours post-store-opening meant some of the things I attempted to buy were sold out, but I am not insane like some people who get in line at 1 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day so they can spend all night in the cold and then shop at dawn.  No.  Not me.  I was snug in my bed at 5 a.m. when someone else was buying the Knights Lego set for $49.99 that I wanted.

I shopped for awhile, then took a break and saw “Stranger than Fiction,” which was an odd but enjoyable movie.  I haven’t seen any other Will Ferrell movies, so I have no way of measuring his latest performance against his prior performances, but I thought he was good in the movie.  

After the movie (and popcorn, yum), I shopped a little more before returning home at 4 p.m. (a full hour before my “curfew,” I’ll have you know).

Saturday while my daughter went to a birthday party and rest of my family went out to dinner, I insisted on staying home so I could put up the outdoor decorations.  An hour and a half later, I finished and began to frantically wrap gifts at the kitchen table.  I finished before my daughter returned home.  My mother watched and marvelled at my speed, but I told her that I work quickly, not neatly.  After all, the kids won’t examine the seams on the gifts before they tear off the paper.

Sunday means church and this weekend was no exception.  Afterwards, I dragged out boxes of decorations and put up the indoor decorations, including our fake tree.  I never thought I’d be the kind of person who owned a fake Christmas tree, but I have to say that the cost-effectiveness and ease of a fake tree has polluted my former convictions about the necessity of a Real Tree.  We’ve used it for nine years now, so each year cost us about $10.  And I can put it up fast.  The kids put all the ornaments on it, so it’s all haphazard and uneven, but if you squint your eyes, it just looks twinkly and pretty.

I’ve spent the day doing laundry, explaining how to find the perimeter of various shapes to my 13-year old boys and answering email.  Now, already, it’s time to make dinner . . . the darkness outside makes the lights inside seem to glow more fiercely.  Soon, the shortest day of the year will arrive and then light will overcome darkness again, bit by bit, minute by minute.  Funny how you can move forward in time without feeling like you’re moving at all.

Predicting the Future

I’ll be cooking a complete Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow from the turkey right down to the pecan pie.  My husband will wander into the kitchen with words of cheer and then disappear to watch football again.  My daughter will come in every seven minutes and ask for snacks.  She’ll nibble one bite out of each offering, then discard it on a coffee table somewhere.  The boys will take reluctant turns on computer games and Nintendo and I will holler at them, “CLOSE THE DOOR!” because they will be loud.  One or all of them will offer to help me, but when I offer jobs, they will disappear again except for the one boy who loves green bean casserole who will take great pride in preparing it himself.  

My back will be sore by the time I’m done mashing potatoes and stirring gravy and opening cans of black olives.  My fingers will likely be burnt and possibly cut.  I will have pondered the upcoming work accompanying the next holiday and grown weary just considering it.

We will all sit around the table and then I’ll get up three or seven times to retrieve something I’ve forgotten or didn’t realize we’d need, like ketchup.  My daughter will eat two bites of turkey and thirteen black olives.  The boys will each eat more rolls than I can count.  Rain will fall.  Wind will blow.

And I will be so thankful for this family God gave me, for the reliability of them, for the uniqueness of each kid and for the calmness of the man I married. 

And then I will be thankful that it’s over.  And I will read the newspaper, including all the ads and consider the wisdom or folly of arising before dark to shop with hoards of other sleep-deprived shoppers.

But first, I’ll put the pecan pie and the crustless pumpkin pie away so I can sleep before the Great Day of Cooking begins.

Borat is Stupid.

I offer my opinion on a popular current movie. Spoilers may appear below.

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I am ashamed to admit that I fell for the hype. “Outrageously funny,” and all that. NOT. I actually saw “Borat” two weeks ago, the first week it opened, I think, and I thought it was not funny. I thought it was stupid. I thought all the people shrieking with laughter in the theater were stupid. (I thought they were almost as stupid as the people surrounding me in the theater when I saw “Fahrenheit 9/11.” You might be able to find that post if you try hard enough.)

Now, when I hear people mention how they laughed until they cried, how they laughed from beginning to end, I think they are stupid, too. In fact, I worry about the future of our country if so many of its citizens find this offensive compilation of stupidity funny. Seriously, what is wrong with people? I am surrounded by stupidity, it appears.

I am a judgmental elitist who cannot for the life of me understand how exposing people’s stupidity by acting stupid is funny. I have never found stupid people funny. This, perhaps, explains my lack of interest in getting drunk or hanging out with people who get drunk because I tend to find drunkeness stupid. I would never willingly impair myself so I might act as stupid as drunk people act.

I think it is stupid to excuse anti-Semitism by saying, “But he is Jewish!” That is just stupid. (And anti-Semitism? Stupid and incomprehensible to me.)

And I also think jokes about bodily excretions and bodily functions are stupid. I am not amused by naked wrestling, especially when it involves an obese hairy man. Not funny.

For what it’s worth, I think drunk fraternity boys are stupid, but so is tricking them to participate in a bogus “documentary.” And I think it’s outrageous to mock religious people as they participate in their traditions, no matter how wacky those traditions appear.

Save your money and don’t see this stupid, stupid movie. Do not believe anyone who says it is funny . . . because people who laughed all the way through this movie are stupid and unless you are stupid, too, you will regret “Borat.”

(And people who say, “You don’t understand this movie because you are not smart enough.” Oh, knock it off! That is stupid!)

Untitled Due To Title Shortage

Who’d have guessed that this blog would be such a source of comfort and support to me?  Thank you for the gentle, kind comments on my last entry.  I’ll be working on coherent email responses sometime today.  Or tomorrow.

My brother-in-law came yesterday (with my sister, niece and nephew) to diagnose my computer problems.  He thought it sounded like a power supply issue, but when he arrived and took a look, he suspected the hard drive.  Then, he removed the hard drive and decided it might be the mother board.  So, he took the whole thing home with him so he could use his resources at home to diagnose it.

The dilemma is this:  do I spend $100 or more to repair an older computer that I only paid $300 or $400 in the first place?  Or do I put that money toward a new laptop (the desire of my heart because then I could be portable)?  I just don’t know.  Why do expensive things always happen to us around Christmas-time? 

(At least the shower still drains.  Five hundred dollars not spent in vain!)

The other morning, my daughter woke up and called downstairs, “IS IT CHRISTMAS TODAY?”  She is going to absolutely adore the holidays this year.  If it were up to me, I might let the holidays pass without so much as a glance, but I have kids.  I will make the magic happen!  That’s my job, to make memories–and not just the ones where I slam a door as an exclamation point to a hissy fit I might have over sticky things and dirty socks.  (Who me?) 

Oh!  Speaking of memories . . . unless I get a frozen turkey into the fridge to start thawing right now, we’ll have a memory of digging into an icy bird for Thanksgiving.

 

This is your life.

I’m having a hard time grabbing onto my life.  It circles the baggage carousel and I can spot it coming, but I can’t get a good grip and haul it off the circling stainless steel.  My fingertips brush against the handle, but it’s just too heavy and I can’t lift it before it slips past.

When I was young, I thought my life would take an entirely different direction.  As a young girl, I wanted to be a veterinarian.  I was inspired by James Herriot’s “All Creatures Great and Small” series of books.  My dad and stepmom thought a stint working at a goat farm would be further inspiration, but the proprietor of the farm dimmed my youthful passion.  She was a gray-haired hippie who thought nothing of leaving me in a pen of baby goats with a sharp implement and directions to trim their hooves.  She sheared the goats in her kitchen, wearing only her big white granny-underpants and a t-shirt.  Plus, I had to ride my twelve-speed bike through hilly undeveloped land to reach her farm.  The ride alone took over an hour, as I recall. 

My parents didn’t ever let me take the easy way.  I had to bum a ride when I worked as a hospital volunteer.  No one would pick me up or deliver me to this altruistic job.  When I wanted clothes, I had to buy them myself.  I remember riding my bicycle to school on a day when the roads were coated with ice.  (I fell.)  I grew up in the most isolated family you can imagine.  When we returned home from school to an empty house, my brother and sister and I retreated to our separate rooms for the rest of the afternoon.  It’s no wonder that I filled my spare time with volunteer jobs and activities. 

I was searching for someplace where I mattered.  I wanted to help and I wanted my presence to make a difference.

That’s why I decided I’d be a doctor.  I had the grades and the brain-power to accomplish that goal, but I lacked the familial support and the sensible direction from school officials.  No one advised me where I ought to attend college.  No one encouraged me to pursue any particular academic path.  My dad, at that point, was still trying to figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up.  I felt like I was very much on my own.  I’ve always felt that way.

I went to Bible college because I thought God would love me more if I gave up something.  So I gave up my dream of being a doctor and plunged into the isolated world of an Assemblies of God Christian college.  I found the classes to be full of subjectivity–I couldn’t earn perfect grades anymore because the linear style of academics had turned into a whirl of opening prayers and rambling lectures and material that didn’t seem to have a beginning or an end.  The longer I attended, the less I saw the world as it really was.  My view of the world blinked open only occasionally.  Mostly, it shrank to the size of our campus, where I was isolated without a car.  The longer I was there, the less I felt like I could ever leave.  I loved it.  I hated it.  I loved it more.

I trusted less in myself–I trusted in myself not at all, really–and more in the institution and the denomination and God as I understood Him to be. 

And so I graduated with a degree worth nothing and an engagement ring on my finger.

The only smart choice I’ve made was to marry my husband.  He’s a remarkable man, a fine companion for this journey on earth.  But still, my life doesn’t resemble anything I pictured.

For one thing, I never imagined a world in which my father did not exist.  Yet, he died when I was 24.  I never considered that planning my family would be a challenge.  And yet, motherhood didn’t unfold as I expected.  Infertility, adoption of twins, two unexpected pregnancies . . . nothing as I planned. 

I’m not the mother I expected to be.  That mother was perky and cute and patient under all circumstances.  That mother had children who listened quietly and obeyed promptly.  That mother taught her children to play the piano and read long stories before bed to children who smelled of Ivory soap and homemade sugar cookies.  That mother had a circle of friends who stopped by with fragrant pumpkin bread and telephoned for no reason at all and got together to make crafts and drink coffee.  That mother drank coffee.

I don’t even drink coffee.  I’m nothing that I thought I would be.

Which is disappointing in so many ways.  I thought my life would be like a poem, words sewed together with precision and care.  Instead, it’s like a Scrabble board, words awkwardly shoved together just because I found a “U” to go with the “Q.”  And I have too many vowels and no “R” and my next move depends on the other player. 

So, my life circles around, a haphazard jumble of letters, two metaphors mixed up in an airport full of Scrabble players, I guess.  I’m not what I thought I would be and I’m not yet sure I’ll be what I think.  I’m poised at the starting line at that hopeful place before beginning when failure is not yet possible.  (You can’t fail if you don’t start.)

That’s the view from the kitchen table on a Friday night as I watch my life circle back around, just waiting for me to grab it this time around.   

The Bad Day

A day in which you must call a plumber is a bad day indeed.  And yesterday was that bad day for us. 

The shower in our master bedroom has been problematic for years.  I suspect that our son shoved a Duplo block down the drainpipe during a shower when he was about three or four years old, but I have no proof.  But soon after he played with blocks in the shower (what?  your kids don’t play with blocks in the shower?) the water began to linger instead of draining promptly.  We called a handyman friend (who charged us a dollar a minute) and he used his fancy drain-unclogging tool thing-a-majig and pulled up a clump of hair and said maybe that would do the trick.

And it sort of did for awhile.  But for the past four or five years, the shower’s been persnickety and uncooperative.  We’d purchase gallons of hair-clog remover and treat the drain repeatedly and usually it would work.  But not for long.  We lived with it, though, like you live with a neighbor who never mows his lawn.  What can you do, really? 

Last week, though, the water stopped draining.  It turned into a fetid puddle with floating hair.  And I poured two gallon-sized jugs of hair-clog remover down the drain.  The chemical-filled water just pooled there, belligerent, daring me to do something.  Stupid water.  Stupid drain.  Stupid pipes.  Do they not know how irritable I am? 

So, after a week of standing water in the drain, my husband called a plumber who seemed like a perfectly reasonable, nice man (with an accent that made me think, Moldova?).  He wrote down the estimated price to repair our impassable drain as if saying the number aloud would be blasphemous.  ($384, before tax and the $50 service charge!)  My husband said, “This is guaranteed, right?  Ha!  Ha!” and a dark cloud passed over the face of the plumber and he shook his head and said, “Not really.” 

Then, he went upstairs where I heard metal digging in the drains.  I heard the loud scritch, scritch, scratch inside the pipes.  I heard scary thumps inside the walls. 

When it was all said and done, he said that the sink was full of hair (duh, I’ve never poured those hair-dissolving chemicals into the sink because while it drained slowly, it still drained and it never felt important to me, but now, I just paid that guy $126 to pull hair out of it, alas).  Then he said that he definitely felt something in the shower drain, but couldn’t pull it up, so he pushed it–he thinks–through the pipe.  The water immediately drained, so he was cautiously optimistic of success.  However, he said he had no way of being certain and that if it happens again, they’ll have to cut holes in the walls and replace the pipes.

Over my dead body.

So, I wrote a check for $484 and all I have to show for it is a shower that drains. 

Last night, just as I was serving dinner, the power snapped off.  I ran to the computers and unplugged everything.  Then I fumbled for candles while pointlessly flipping light switches as I walked from room to room.  The children seemed so much louder in the utter stillness of black silence.  “Shhhh!” I kept begging.  “Shhhhh!”  No need to shout when my head is in danger of blowing a fuse!

The power stayed off for three hours.  During that time, I read a “Good Housekeeping” magazine by candlelight.  The children watched a Netflix DVD on a portable DVD player.  Grace watched a Dora DVD on her dad’s laptop computer until it ran out of juice.  Then she and my husband fell asleep though it was only 7:30 p.m.  I played a game of “Blokus” with my boys, which ended up being fun.  I bought the game for Christmas last year, but we’ve never played it because the second my daughter saw it, she claimed it and interferred with anyone who dared play without her.  (Also, I hate playing board games.)  

Then, glory be!  The power returned.  I plugged in the computers and accessories and everything worked, except my computer which appears to be dead.  Or at least, mortally wounded.  Or in a coma.  The fans hum and a lone yellow light shines on the front, but it does not boot.  I am lost.

So, I am working on my husband’s laptop, which causes me to make typos every other line because I am not used to the letters being all squished together like this.  But I am thankful for it and for the sunshine and blue skies which seem like an apology for the high winds and rain of yesterday.  So, I forgive the weather for killing my computer and the unknown foreign object in my drain which cost me $500. 

The universe owes me some compensation.  

Grocery Shopping Adventures

I’ve decided Tuesdays will be my new movie nights, primarily because there is nothing on television that I care to watch, but also because on Tuesday nights, Regal Cinemas give a free small popcorn to their Regal Crown Club Members.  I’m all for a bargain.

But tonight, I didn’t get to see a movie because my husband had a late meeting.  Instead, at 8:30 p.m., I went to the local Albertson’s where I spent over an hour picking out groceries.  A while ago, I signed up for a trial of The Grocery Game for one dollar, which I then completely forgot to cancel before it charged me $10 for a regular membership.  Actually, it cost me $20 for the regular membership because I had three grocery stores included in my membership ($10 for the first store, $5 for each additional). 

Anyway, I was so annoyed with myself for forgetting to cancel it that I had no choice but to use the site for all it’s worth.  Sunday afternoon I cut out coupons and organized them according to category.  I printed out the items on sale at Albertsons and matched them with the appropriate coupons. 

And tonight, I spent $101.57 at the store . . . and “Today’s Total Savings” were $101.18.  (The original total before coupons and sale prices would have been $202.75.)

That thrilled me.  (I think the clerk at the store was less than thrilled with my pile of coupons, especially the ones from other stores which required her to manually change the prices.)  

All the same, next week, I sure hope I end up at the movie theater eating free popcorn instead of at the grocery store on Tuesday night.  Better yet, maybe I can go to a movie first, eat free popcorn and then grocery shop.  I do live on the edge, don’t I?

*  *  *

If you decide to join The Grocery Game, tell them I referred you [Melodee (at) gmail (dot) com.]  I didn’t post this to get free weeks, but it now occurs to me that I might if any of you join. 

Wherein I repeat myself. Listen to me!

Seriously.  Whoever started the stupid trend of equating colors (red and blue) with political parties (Democrat and Republican) ought to be slapped silly.  Everyone who follows this lazy style of describing people, STOP IT!  I asked once nicely. 

So knock it off!  Use a little effort and if you must label me, use a term that makes sense, not a nonsensical color.  Please, I suggest this term:  Irritable Queen of Common Sense and Sock-Folding.

I still don’t remember if my pointless vote for the Republican candidates makes me red or blue . . . (don’t say it) . . . or (I mean it, don’t say it) . . . just (stop thinking that!) (do not fill in this blank ________.)

Frankly, I an a cynic about organized government.  Clearly, it’s not working.  I say ban organized government altogether, because anyone with eyes can see that it does more harm than good.  Don’t you think?  Let’s just go for complete anarchy and chaos because that makes so much more sense than being organized.  Organization = bad.

On a related note, I just want to ask Elton John if he thinks unorganized religion makes more sense.  See, he said this:

“From my point of view, I would ban religion completely. Organized religion doesn’t seem to work. It turns people into really hateful lemmings and it’s not really compassionate.”

From my point of view, I would ban government completely.  Organized government doesn’t seem to work.  It turns people into really hateful lemmings and it’s not really compassionate.

Ha.  Elton John should just shut up and sing.  What does he know about organized religion anyway?  He makes as much sense talking about organized religion as I make talking about organized government.  (As if there is such a thing.)

Now, stop with the red states and blue states already.  Learn some appropriate adjectives and descriptors.  I mean it.