BRRRRRR

It is cold here.

So cold that your skin starts burning from the cold after a minute or two of being outside (I think the medical term for this is frostbite).

So cold that you have to call your mother-in-law and her husband to come over and jump start your car in the middle of the day because it won't start.

So cold that the salt they use to melt the snow can't work...resulting in an unfortunate supply of black ice. Everywhere.

So cold that it is actually too cold to snow.

So cold that you have to use your break time at work to let your car run for a few minutes to help minimize the chances that it won't start again when you go to leave at night.

So cold that half the schools in the state are either delayed or closed completely.

So cold that if you don't let your car run for at least 10 minutes before trying to drive it, you will spend your morning commute either sitting in a stalled car or trying to keep from getting frostbite in your car, because the heat will not kick in for at least 15 minutes and even though it's at least 20 degrees warmer in your car than it is outside, when it's -20 degrees outside it's sort of a moot point.

So cold that it's -20 degrees outside.

So cold that as I type this, it is -8 degrees here... and 24 degrees in Antarctica. Antarctica people.

So cold that when you get to your office all excited to be someplace warm after the trek through the frigid parking lot, you find that there is no heat because the outside heating unit that controls the temperature in your office space has frozen over.

So cold that your nose hairs freeze upon immediate contact with the air.

So cold that if you leave the house with your hair wet, that freezes too (you'd think I'd learn after years of living here, but alas...).

So cold that your husband, the stalwart Minnesotan, says it feels cold in the house and allows the heat to stay at 65 degrees instead of the normal 59. And then still thinks it's cold.

And it's only January...

In The 'Hood

You know you live in the Ghetto when:

1. People in the low-income housing directly abutting your backyard use said backyard as their personal land fill.

2. Items thrown over your backyard fence include not only other people's trash and toys, but on occasion an old Dr. Pepper bottle filled with a substance that looks suspiciously like human pee.

3. Your neighbors think it's okay to throw their trash over your fence.

4. Low-income housing directly abuts your backyard.

5. The neighborhood kids routinely hop the fence into your yard despite repeated requests for them not to do so because they think that just because you have a swing set in your backyard that your backyard is a public park and not private property.

6. When you threaten to talk to their parents after having to chase them out of your yard too many times, they look at you with surprise and say "But my parents said it was okay."

7. Some of the neighbors bring in their trash cans 6 days after trash pickup...if you're lucky.

8. Your backyard fence has been knocked down on more than one occasion by a person who learned to drive in a country other than the U.S. and who can't seem to figure out that you don't have to wait until you hit things to figure out that you've gone too far, you can use those mirrors they put in the cars for you to judge how close you are to something.

9. Visitors to your low-income neighbors arrive in RV's which they park in front of your house and then proceed to set up camp on your curb for the duration of their visit. Calls to the police only result in them backing up their trailer 30 feet or so.

10. And finally, you have to pause the movie you're watching on a Friday night with your husband because you have just noticed that the SWAT team is running through your yard with their rifles drawn looking for God knows who and you need to stay away from the windows to avoid any stray bullets.

I. Can't. Wait. To. Move.

Merry Christmas!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

How Did You Spend Your Thanksgiving Holiday?

It finally happened.

I still can't quite believe it.

I tried to avoid it.

I came up with every stall tactic I could think of:

"You already bought an old one that you are supposed to be fixing up and it's been sitting on our driveway for three years."

"But I want to go back to grad school, and higher education trumps horsepower."

"Let's go to Europe this year and we can revisit this topic next year, okay?"

When those ran out, I started with the excuses:

"We don't need it."

"We can't afford it."

"You will kill yourself."

The stall tactics and excuses lasted for five years. And then Friday, something happened.

I ran out. Completely drew a blank. Had nothing else left to say.

And that is how this happened:

Yes, my friends, that is now sitting in our garage. It is Hubby's Christmas gift. For the next 50 years. And that is how we spent the day after Thanksgiving. Economy, you are welcome.

Happy Belated Thanksgiving to everyone.

A New Chapter

So...as most of you know, I have a new job. For those of you who didn't know, I have a new job. About two months ago I started work as a high school youth minister at a church here in the Twin Cities. My apologies to those who enjoyed the stories about my previous place of employment--I will not be able to blog as freely about the new place, so you'll have to wait until we see each other in person or have a chance to talk privately to hear the good stuff.

The journey here was kind of surreal. There were three interviews in the hiring process--the first with the woman who is now my boss, the second with a search committee, and the third with the pastor of the church. My grandfather died two days before the second interview, so I showed up to the search committee interview in a daze. I don't remember really what was said, just that my one goal during the whole thing was not to cry. The third interview was the day after we got back from the burial. So what was already a fairly intense interview process became...even more complicated. God was definitely guiding the whole process. There's a little more to the story than that, but again...not ready to make that public.

The past two months have been a whirlwind of new faces, procedures, events--everything that comes with a new job. Hubby has been really supportive. Sometimes I just come home after being a crazy person all day and he's either got dinner waiting or gives me a back rub or something. I am grateful for the ministry and will try to do a better job of keeping you all updated!

A New Look

Okay, so I saw Laura's new blog and had to get one too. Plus, a gray line appeared in the middle of the posts in the old layout and I couldn't figure out how to get rid of it so this was the next best thing.

Work has been hectic and will continue to be so for about the next week. I'll post more later...

Why My Next House Won't Have A Basement

Growing up in LA, I had never seen a house with a basement until I moved to Minnesota. I was immediately intrigued with our basement. After all, it had so many different uses that heretofore had been unbeknownst to me. For example, what does one do with the wedding gift whose purpose or function one can't ever quite figure out, but one also doesn't want to return said gift because that would produce one very upset aunt? Why, one puts it (out of sight) in the basement! Are you having company but are short on time to clean the house? Throw everything in the basement and shut the door! Did a relative unexpectedly stop by in the morning and you don't want to answer the door in your jammies? Basement! ("Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't hear the doorbell ring, I was downstairs in the basement.") Husband's Lego collection? Definitely basement.

You know what else goes in the basement? The main drain, or the place where all the other drains in the house lead to.

You know what happens when that drain backs up?

Water. Everywhere. Suspicious debris. Everywhere. In the shower downstairs. In the sink downstairs. In the toilet downstairs. And. All. Over. The. Basement. Floor.

This has been happening about once a year since we moved here. There used to be a tree in our front yard that has since been removed, but apparently the roots that are left behind are quite resilient, and they can KEEP GROWING even after the tree is long gone.

And boy, have they ever. They keep growing right into the pipe of our main drain and clogging it.

So about once a year the nice people at Mr. Rooter have to come out and snake out the roots that have grown into our main drain. Of course, we don't know ahead of time when this will be. I usually find out when I go downstairs to throw in another load of laundry and find two inches of water all over the floor from the last load, like I did this morning.

So now we sit and wait for the plumber to arrive. Meanwhile, we can't use any water in the house unless we want to add to the mess downstairs. (And honey, I don't care how bad it gets, NO, I am not going across the street to Target everytime I have to pee. You can't make me. I refuse. I would rather go to Target once and buy a package of Depends.) And yes, my husband did seriously suggest that we adopt this plan of action until the plumber arrives.

Anyway, this is why our next house will not have a basement.

So how is everyone else's Saturday morning going?