Atomictumor

To the telemarketer who called on Christmas Eve, I’m sorry I was grumpy and rude. (I don’t expect you to ever read this, but let’s play along, right?)

I wasn’t really expecting you to call today, then something you said caught me up short. I asked you why you were calling me on Christmas Eve and you said you were only doing your job.

I hope you have a merry Christmas. May God bless you. Go have yourself a beer.

While I was spreading peanut butter on one slice of bread and jelly on another for the kids lunches this morning, I kept thinking about several articles I’d read.

There’s an interview with John D. Crossan where he talks about the first Christmas.

Our conversation ranged from virgin births and Roman censuses to how you became a god in the ancient world, and why it was a bad idea to mess with shepherds.

After seeing all the plastic nativities, who’d guess that the Christmas story was all about revolution.

The nativity story is far richer and more challenging than familiar sentimentalized versions allow. Not simply tidings of comfort and joy, the gospel stories of Jesus’ birth are also edgy visions of another way of life, confronting the status quo and demanding personal and political transformation.

There’s this article about a black guy who got bullied, shoved, cussed and generally terrified by some racist ford pickup truck driving assholes earlier in the week. He was walking home when this happened.

Then there was this article that the Oak Ridger ran about the parents of Ashley Paine. The Paines are saying the city hasn’t done near enough to make Oak Ridge streets safe. Ashley Paine was run over by a school bus earlier this fall.

Mom called yesterday and told me that my sister’s best friend from school died earlier in the week. She was at work when she collapsed. An ambulance rushed her to a hospital where the doctors couldn’t keep her heart beating. It just stopped working and that was the end.

And so it goes.

What does all this have to do with Christmas?

I don’t have a clue.

A little while back I wrote about Grandma Waffle coming to live with us. Initially, the idea was for her to make a couple of trips from Florida, bring up all her belongings, and officially move in with us. Seems pretty straightforward, right?

It makes me think of the parts in Meet the Robinsons where various characters say “I’m just not sure how well this plan was thought through.”

Nothing dramatic, just the simple fact that our house isn’t big enough for 7 people. Waffle, who is used to living quietly by herself, was suddenly thrust into the chaotic goings-on of our 4-kid household. Quiet doesn’t exist here. Neither does privacy. So when Waffle came into enough money to keep her utilities on at her apartment in Florida, she went back. Her lease is up at the end of February…maybe she’ll come back, maybe not. I’ve learned with my mom to expect the unexpected. She craves change, doesn’t mind taking risks, and can’t stay in any one place for very long.

I tend to be much more cautious. I look for the expected, the definite, the factual. I like stability. I don’t mind staying in one place, if that place feels safe to me. Perhaps these are some of the reasons why I am struggling with buying a new house.

Bos and I started looking at houses shortly after we invited Waffle to come live with us. Right off the bat, we found one that we really liked, affectionately called the White House. It’s big enough for all 7 of us, has been recently updated, and is in our price range. It’s not perfect, of course. I’m not wild about the neighborhood, and there are some big unknowns about utility costs. We haven’t really look at any other houses (because there aren’t many decent 4+ bedroom homes that we can afford).

We hemmed and hawed and talked to our agent, friends and family and eventually decided that the time was right to put an offer on the house. So we did. And when the counter offer came back, it wasn’t what I expected. The thing is, the counter offer was reasonable, or at the least could have been made reasonable with a little more negotiating. But I got spooked. I got overwhelmed. I started thinking of all the things that would have to fall into place, and all of the risks we would have to take. Trying to sell Cemestos Gardens over the holidays. Ack. And so I retreated, and we didn’t accept the counter offer.

Which leads us to now. Waffle is gone. Don’t know if she’ll be back. White House is still on the market. We still like it. My head is still spinning from all the changes I was anticipating that didn’t happen. I’m grumpy and not feeling the Christmas cheer. Which makes me even more grumpy, because damn it, I love me some Christmas cheer.

Grumble.

Feel like I ought to reintroduce myself here, since it’s been so long since I’ve posted something. So, Hi. I’m Bos. I fuss at kids.

We went to the Oak Ridge Christmas parade this morning. These two kids came along about half way through the long, long parade and planted themselves right in front of us. I don’t know what beauty queen, tractor or politician was waving by but I got tired of them snarking up all the good candy and leaving the old busted up mints and sweet tart chalk pills for my two. It just wasn’t right. There was plenty of road for all of us since the horses hadn’t come along yet and pooped all over the road. It was fun driving along after the parade and hitting as many of the olive green piles as we could.

So I told the two grabbers to move on. They just looked at me and I told them again to get out of my kids way. They moved. Later I got the feeling that the folks fussing across the street were directing their angry mind powers at me. So I stared back at them. Merry Christmas I said to the folks throwing candy at us (some of them have good aim…)

I could have handled that better.