Communikateingshun

Of course that last post was practically a Christmas letter (and you were wondering why I haven’t been writing.  Ha!  These words here on this screen?  This is the answer), and so now I am just out of things to tell you in little surmisable lumps.  Surmisable may not be a word.  It keeps getting underlined in red.  Surmisable. Surmisable. Surmisable.  Yeah.  All red.  Now here we all are and I’m going to tell you a little thing about phone etiquette.  Well, at least my phone etiquette.  Here’s my rules:

1. You can’t under any circumstances call anyone after 10 pm.  Ever.  Unless that person is Ronke, in which case she is probably up.  Go ahead and call  (I love this about her.  I could pick up the phone right now and even if she’d been asleep we could easily chat for like two hours about things that she’d heard or seen or read during the day.  Things that will all be news to me because I am living under the rock of mothering a baby who is semi-attached to my physical being thus insuring I have very very little time to check out the news [cough, cough, read celebrity gossip, cough, cough] or in general know what day of the week it may be).

2. If you’re calling me and want to actually speak to a human, you may be horribly disappointed.  It’s not because I don’t like you. I don’t even have caller id.  I can’t screen you if I wanted to (and maybe I do).  It’s just that making it to the telephone before you hang up is so very unlikely.  Whenever you decide to call me, I will be doing one of a few things.

A. Changing a diaper.  It’s probably one of those blowout kinds requiring a third hand and possibly the bathtub. If I could magically manage to pick up the phone during all of it, I would have had to leave the poo unattended and the child too and my goodness that is not a good combination.

B. Convincing a two year old that playing inside would be nice for a change.  Not as nice as when all of this sticky humid humidity with the moisture in the air and the heat with the heat goes away, but still nice.  He can’t get enough of that dirt under the nice new deck and leaving him alone guarantees he’ll be throwing it into the air or sampling it like we’re at Sam’s club on a Saturday.

C. I’m searching for the phone. If only I could remember where my cell phone is or the house phone (and yes, we do now have three and not the one that had no ability to recharge the battery that died all the time and all it really did was beep) it would make life just that much easier.  So much easier.  I should invent a thing where you put the phone every time it’s not in use and then everyone would always know where it is. I could be so stinking rich.  What?  What’s that?  Crud.

D.  There is no D.  But if there were it would involve something of personal care – things done in a bathroom that proper ladies don’t speak of in public or on the interwebs.  Showers and toilets and nail trimmings and such.

Now you finally know why I didn’t pick up.  But why haven’t I returned your call?  That is a mystery for the ages.  Or Sprint.  Why won’t you give me my messages, Sprint?  Are you hoarding them like those crazy people hoard newspaper and tin foil?  Are you keeping them for winter when I’ll need some summery cheer?  Are you mean?  Are you saving them to be weeded through by the government because of all the crazy talk I do on there?  All are likely, but my goodness! I would like it if you would simply deliver the messages directly.  As for the house line, I’m not sure why the upstairs phone base is now handling the messages instead of the downstairs one.  I’m pretty sure it has something to do with Gideon’s fancy button pushing yesterday and I’m also pretty sure I nearly missed a message from a sweet lady from church who wants me to call her back tomorrow.  Close one.

So, yeah.  Good luck with all that.

Also, can someone please tell me why I am awake and unable to shut down for sleep at 12:34 am?  I’m going to be a complete zombie tomorrow. Yeah zombies!  I wonder what Ronke is doing….