Hannah or Hagar or Hepziba-bah

B needs a new name.

Names beginning with the letters A, B, C, D, E, G, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, U, V, W, X, Y, and Z need not apply. Only candidates beginning with the letters F, H, I, or T will be considered.

Not only does B think this is a bit “limiting,” he also does not believe the new name is necessary. But, B is not our resident stocking maker, nor is he our resident stocking filler, so it is in his best interest to comply.

I’ve made … er … several … Christmas stockings this year. They aren’t even all pictured in the photo. (I had already shipped two off as gifts to my brother and sis-in-law.) Why so many? Well, although these stockings were not my first project, they WERE the first fabrics I ever purchased, and I had no idea how much to get. I could make twice this many stockings! I have TONS of leftovers, but, not to worry, I have plans—and the plans do not include making additional stockings.

In any case, I’m quite pleased with the stockings. And I’d like to toot my own horn by announcing that I made these without a pattern. Toot, toot, toot. For one, I didn’t find a pattern that looked like these (and these were the exact stockings I had envisioned in my visionary brain). And, for two, the pattern that I did buy, back when I thought I needed—or at the very least should use—a pattern, was completely incomprehensible. What’s a girl to do...

Well, the first two stockings were the brother and sis-in-law’s, E and T. Then I made the next six. Once I had these nearly ready, B and I picked ours and E’s from the lot and I began affixing the first letter of each of our names. L and E went on just fine. But B was a different story. I must have cut nearly ten Bs. And sewing the curves and making it perfect with the little holes that the letter B has was a nightmare.

And that’s how I decided, first, that none of our children would be given a name with an initial letter bearing a curve. This threw out ten letters. Then, I decided why not toss out all non-right-angles, leaving us six letters to choose from. But the letters L and E are already being used by L and E, which is a shame too, because we actually have names on our suprisingly short naming list that begin with L and E.

Now we are left with F, H, I, and T. Fine letters, if you ask me. I think this may actually help our naming endeavors. Limit the choices and the task becomes easier. B is concerned, however. I tell him there are lots of stellar F, H, I, and T names. He remains convinced that it’s not really that hard to cut and sew a letter B. Have at it, Honey.

Expect a new name announcement as soon as he is done trying. Until that time, his stocking (the one next to mine in the picture above) will remain unfinished. As soon as I know the new letter, I'll be able to sew it on and add the finishing gold bell trim to the top portion of the stocking. And there's only 363 more days till Christmas...

Christmas Eve Madness

[For those keeping score, E hasn't slept through the night since I made known abroad the story of our Christmas miracle. Back to wake-up calls not once, not twice, but thrice each night.]

It’s not as if I just moved to the US, but somehow I didn’t know that one should NEVER ever go out on Christmas Eve. I grew up in a tiny town that saw no real flux in activity no matter what the date or occasion. There’s one grocery store (which you would be wise to avoid shopping at; it’s worth your time and money to travel 30 miles to the town with multiple grocery stores), no clothing stores, no restaurants, CERTAINLY no theaters, etc.

However, even with this background, I still knew that out there in the more populated parts of the country, the day after Thanksgiving was a chaotic mess, best avoided by sleeping late, making waffles, and staying inside all day. I’ve never been tempted to brave the lines, crowds, and crazies. Once, just once, B and I did get up early on Black Friday and went to one store to purchase one item. In all honesty, I think it was more a matter of mixed curiosity and vindication. We found ourselves to be more observers on this occasion than actual participants. We waited in line outside the store for five minutes and then calmly walked in the store—as calmly as one can when risking life and limb the way one does in the madness that is Walmart’s Black Friday opening. I was happy to see that the event was everything I’ve always imagined. We bought our item and were back in bed a total of one hour after waking up for the endeavor—all this before the sun came up.

But why were people out en masse on Christmas Eve?

I, for one, went out because B was home for the day and willing to watch E while he napped and beyond. I thought that if people were fortunate enough to have the day off, they would spend it the way I used to spend vacation: relaxing or having fun (not shopping and running errands). For me now though, being offered a chance to run any errands I wished without baby seemed like a rare and pleasant opportunity. So, I planned to stop by the quilt shop to get some fabric for the new quilt I’m working on, get gas, maybe go to the grocery store. Who knows!?!

I’ve never seen anything like it. The roads were absolutely jammed. I had to wait several cycles to get through intersections. The parking lots were packed. The lines were long and slow. You would think every store in town was having a going-out-of-business sale. I thought it was a fluke at the first stop. But long before I was done with my fourth and final stop I had asked myself, “What am I DOING here?” about a hundred times. I had a lot of time to answer this question, and I have decided that, in my own defense, I was clueless about Christmas Eve madness because I’m usually visiting somewhere when it happens. So, I’m not about to borrow a car and load up on groceries and quilting supplies to fill my suitcase with.

I am careful and proud to stay in on Black Friday. And I will be careful and proud to do so on Christmas Eves henceforth. We stayed in today too. An obvious decision.

B claims that Christmas Eve is crazy because people are not ready for Christmas. I have a hard time believing that THAT many people are THAT unprepared. Come on folks. Get it together—sooner. It’s so much nicer to just sit at home.

Christmas, with child

Good tidings of great joy! Christmas has come early for L. For behold, baby E slept through the night on Sunday.

L was sick with a cold and up half the night anyway, but she kept these things and pondered them in her heart.

And lo, baby E slept through the night again on Monday.

But L kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

And lo, baby E slept through the night a third time.

And so it was that L found herself numbered among the multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

You might well say one to another, Let us now go even unto CS, and see this thing which is come to pass.

And if you come with haste, between the hours of 8:30pm and 6:00am, you will find the babe lying ASLEEP in his crib.

Truly, this is a Christmas miracle.

Were you...

...watching Avatar last night at 12:01 am at the IMAX 3-D theater?

Didn't think so.

You should have been. (Unless, of course, you sleep at night.)

That's just what I heard anyway.

Cute I am [part 2]

The next day, Halloween, I wanted to go to my quilting store to get fabric for the binding of the quilt that I was working on. They were having a 15% off Halloween sale, BUT if you came in costume, they’d give you 20% off. Although I intended to dress up, things got crazy and we decided to simply slip E in his Yoda costume when we got there. We planned to claim that it was, in fact, Yoda who needed to get some things at the quilting store.

While B changed E into his costume, I headed in to look for a good fabric. Every now and then, I’d hear the chime on the door indicating that someone had just entered the store. After about 15 minutes, I heard E make is grand entrance. The commotion was unmistakably caused by E. The clucking of all the ladies in the quilting store was practically on the level of a “roar.” And it just would not stop. So eventually, I peeked around the rack. There were B and E surrounded by every other person in the store. I’m not kidding when I say that B looked like Rafiki from the Lion King, proudly presenting young Simba to the masses.

E charms wherever he goes. He seems to eat it up as much as the throngs. Even the blind man in front of us at the post office yesterday was in love with him. But E’s charming powers in a quilting store are on another level entirely. And E in a quilting store dressed like Yoda… We could have robbed the place.

In the end though, they robbed us—as usual. Even with Yoda’s 20% discount.

Cute I am [part 1]

How could I pass this up? No, this was not E’s “official Halloween costume” (meaning: the one he wore on Halloween). Luckily, we attended a party on October 30 with my workout girlfriends & families. Costumes were mandatory for all—which is the best kind of Halloween party. Unfortunately, our official costumes were not ready in time for that party—specifically E’s costume was not yet finished (sewing is freaking hard and I hadn’t allowed enough time), so thirty minutes before leaving for the event, we made an executive decision to switch into one of our old tried and true costumes and put E in the “extra” costume I happened to have for him.

Ok, truth be told, in my opinion, that last sentence should begin with “fortunately.” E is such a striking Yoda. I wanted to show him off so badly. Simultaneously, I was a bit … apprehensive about showing B off in his intended costume. So, really, being behind schedule with E’s official Halloween costume was no tragedy.

At the party there was a costume contest—one for adults and one for children. I was holding Yoda when the ballots were distributed so B was our scribe. I leaned over to tell him my choice for the children: two girls dressed in pink and green; I’m not sure what they were exactly, but they sure looked cute. However, B had already written “Yoda” on both ballots. Doesn’t he know the “don’t vote for yourself [or your kid]” rule? So, E got two votes from his parents. Perhaps that would have been enough to win. But, to be sure, B carried him throughout the rooms of the house as people filled in their ballots.

When the results were tallied, our suspicions that E is in fact the cutest kid were confirmed. His first opportunity to prove to all that he’s the best and he nailed it! Not that we needed this validation…

A Raisin in the Sun

Yes, my dream of becoming a seamstress is a dream deferred.

It only took five weeks, probably seven actual sit-down encounters, and one actual “project” [the quilt] for me to completely break the machine. Apparently twelve layers of flannel is too much. T was incredulous when I told her what I had been doing: “Twelve layers!?!?! Why on earth were you doing that? Of course you broke the machine.”

The sad thing was that the blanket was ALMOST finished. I literally had only two seams left—I needed to simply attach the top and bottom border pieces. This is a flannel blanket that continually adds more layers of flannel to its seams… Two pieces of flannel to sew together? No problem. Then, four, …then many more. Finally, twelve.

Now, I didn’t buy a piece of trash machine to begin with. It’s a Bernina. That’s supposed to mean something. I was very happy to buy a Bernina. I like the white machines/cases with red writing—like an inverted Swiss flag. I like thinking about all the metal pieces inside, arranged by Swiss minds, which we know work like clocks. I like that the company is still family owned back in Switzerland. I like the people who use Bernina’s and the things they make. But most of all, I wanted to be able to know where to go if there was a problem. I wanted to be able to get help from an authorized Bernina fix-it guy named “Kurt” when the machine was on the fritz.

The ladies at the shop were so apologetic. I can have all my money back, Kurt will fix it for free, or I can “upgrade” to a better exponentially more expensive machine.

Hmmm….I need time to think about this. Considering that the first machine so quickly threw in the towel, "upgrading" seems a bit of a turn off. I plan to sew the final two seams of my project at the store on an "upgrade" machine. If it can handle it, maybe I'll take it. One thing I know: I could break a machine every month and head in there only to hear that there is a better machine twice as expensive as the one I have that I should upgrade to.

10 Things We Learned on Halloween 2009

1. Good Halloween costumes take a year to put together—not a month. (I blame the short notice on B. Although I suggested our costumes over a year ago, I had decided that it would be much easier to wear a previous year’s costumes—after all, we’re in a new place. This is how E came to have a Yoda costume. Just three weeks before Halloween, B is shocked to learn that we will not be sporting a three-man theme… He wants Labyrinth like we talked about last year… sure… no problem)

2. Despite your best efforts to match David Bowie’s “Dance Magic” scene costume from Labyrinth, 98% of people will think you are Rod Stewart.

3. Even as a trio, I am not aware of anyone who recognized who we were pretending to be. When we told the people sitting next to us who we were they replied, “Oh yeah. We watched that movie last night.” Last night???? We obviously failed…

4. B needed gray stretch pants for his costume. We now know that if B ever needs stretch pants again, Gap Body XS women’s knit pajama pants become stretch pants in “his size.” (I hope they still fit me after he’s worn them…)

5. Fabric stores don’t sell red/white striped knit fabric—but Goodwill does. However, it comes already sewn as a woman’s shirt, which, when harvested, will not yield enough fabric for the entire infant pajama—specifically, you will be one sleeve short. So you will have to go back to Goodwill, to find a plain red knit men’s shirt that is the matching color of red, rip off the finished sleeve, and add the red. As long as you insert a cute baby, this will likely still be the best costume of the trio.

6. There are lots of Tina Turner wigs being manufactured. What I’d like to know is who is dressing up as Tina Turner? Although “Tina Turner” wigs are being produced en masse, the people who sell them on ebay call them “Tina Turner/David Bowie Labyrinth” wigs. They know who’s buying and why. Note to wig makers: there’s a [relatively] huge market out there for authentic “David Bowie Labyrinth” wigs. And, by the way, Tina Turner does NOT have the same hairdo as David Bowie. Give the people what they want!

7. It’s time for L’s wardrobe to be updated. L’s “80s” Jennifer-Connelly-Labyrinth-matching outfit consisted of a vest purchased at Goodwill and…clothes she already owned. Sad, really.

8. Monkey bread is a vice. Not only did we consume more of it at party #1 than anyone else there, we continued to eat it the next day, and the next…all before bringing it in from the car…

9. When you have forty varieties of chili to choose from, some people will still only eat the same chili they’ve been eating for twenty years. Wish I had tried it.

10. We’re glad we chose the costumes we did. Not everyone gets the chance to be a trio that consists of a baby boy who loves being thrown in the air and a skinny guy who is willing [read: wanting] to wear stretch pants and a wig [no make-up]. We’d have regretted not taking advantage of such a perfect once in a lifetime opportunity.

Remedial Driver's Ed

Everyone should be so lucky.

If you want to know how B came to be relieved of his driver’s license, there is a timeline of events as an explanation provided in the previous post. After a two-and-a-half hour stint at the DMV (how on earth did there happen to be nearly 70 people in front of him in line in the middle of a weekday afternoon), B, having passed the written test, emerged with a brand new learner’s permit and an appointment for his driving test in a week and a half’s time.

Between now and the driving test, B may legally drive only with a licensed 21-year-old driver next to him. Additionally, he must clock at least 6 hours of driving in this manner before driving test time. I will provide him with a letter, signature, and record of his driving sessions.

Additionally, I’m providing him with some free driving instruction, although he is proving to be a most unwilling and unruly pupil. Perhaps it’s not the age of teenagers that make them difficult to deal with at times. Maybe it’s the learner’s permit. Look what it’s done to my sweetheart. Suddenly so stubborn and brooding in the car. Oh well, I’m sure it’s just a phase.

(And yes, he’s driving illegally right now. I’m not taking him to work each day. Sheesh!)

A Call for Class Action

B was in DC last week for work stuff. Because his work ended there on Thursday, he decided to book a nighttime flight home, so that he could have a sweet three-day weekend, rather than spend Friday traveling. So, the intended itinerary consisted of a flight from DC to St. Paul, and then from St. Paul to CS, arriving home around 1AM. Here’s how things actually occurred:

1. Delay in DC for two-and-a-half hours.
2. In DC the airline promises to pay for a hotel in St. Paul if he misses his flight.
3. In St. Paul, flight missed, airline refuses to pay for hotel (the last 30 minutes of the delay were due to “weather” which isn’t their fault…)
4. Airline gives him a “discount” at the Holiday Inn Express.
5. Call HIE, shuttle is at the airport, will wait the two minutes it takes B to get to the pick up place.
6. Has already left.
7. B’s cell phone is dead. Charger in checked bag—anyone’s guess where.
8. Uses 50 cents to call hotel. Told shuttle will return in 25 minutes.
9. An hour later, calls hotel again. Apparently shuttle stopped running at midnight (when B called last).
10. Takes a taxi to hotel.
11. Hotel clerk assures B that the shuttle WAS at the airport when B was supposed to catch it…
12. Non smoking room is clearly a smoking room.
13. Complains and is told it is simply a smoky hallway.
14. Checks again—it’s definitely the room.
15. Asks for another and gets the room under the boiler.
16. Goes to sleep at 3:30AM.
17. Wake up call at 4:30AM.
18. Shuttle scheduled for 5 AM departure left ten minutes early.
19. Hotel kindly provides a taxi.
20. Waits in Delta line. Told to go to AA.
21. Waits in AA “blob”. Told to go to Delta.
22. Waits at Delta. Sent back to AA.
23. Waits in AA blob. Finally ready for security.
24. In security line, realizes he suddenly has no license.
25. Back to AA. Back to Delta. Back to AA. Back to Delta.
26. No one has it.
27. Tears stuff apart looking for it. Thank goodness he has a military base id for work.
28. Only makes his flight because it is delayed over an hour. Told he will miss his connection in Dallas.
29. Races through the airport in Dallas. Makes flight.
30. Arrives in CS at noon.
31. No bags (hasn’t seen those since yesterday).
32. Spends the first day of his hoped three-day weekend traveling and waiting at the DMV—all on one hour of sleep.

Have a worse travel story? I’m hoping we don’t have one in our near future… I spent 2 hours on the phone the day B was trying to get home from DC trying to get our Thanksgiving tickets fixed. Tickets we bought in July. Why do airlines get to sell you a certain flight time and then change it any way they like? I purchased a late afternoon non-stop flight. Then they email me that it has been changed to early morning with a layover in Philadelphia! I can’t catch an early morning flight in Denver (which is why I booked the time I booked!) and I’m not willing to change planes, which is why I paid for a non-stop. I think they should have to provide the flights they sell tickets for, even if they must take a loss. They should have to consider that in their schedule planning, instead of writing schedules that they have no intention of flying. Or, if they must make a change, it must be reasonable in timing (not 11 hours different) and like in kind (non-stop for non-stop), or they should compensate you. Not with the price of the ticket you paid for, since that money will no longer buy you a like ticket. Enough to purchase a comparable ticket NOW. Aren’t these reservations like contracts? It’s not like I can just not pay them. Why do they get to get away with this? How is one supposed to plan travel?

Anyway, after an hour I convinced them to give me a ticket at an appropriate time. However I must change planes. But I refused to take any of the itineraries with changes in DC, Philadelphia, Charlotte, etc. I wanted something on the way with a short layover. Nothing in my “class”? Give me a supervisor. And another. You WILL give me this ticket. And they did. But my updated itinerary had my return flight completely wrong! Suddenly I was returning the same day I arrived, and from the wrong place. Another hour. Another supervisor.

There were even more problems that came up, but I’m tired of talking about it. And the more I think about it, the more sure I am that we will not make it to our Thanksgiving destination without more serious headaches.

The Tailor, Motl Kanzoil

Sewing is crazy hard. First, it takes forever to get ready to sew. Then, it doesn’t even look good for all that time and attention you put into it. Here are some of my recent forays:

Project 1: Altered pajama pants.
I have a pair of pink scrubs. I rarely wear them because they are too big. So, my first project was to hem them. However, once pinned, I realized that they are too big everywhere and that if I hemmed them, the crotch would seem ridiculously low. What to do? Well, I decided that before I hemmed them, I should get rid of some extra fabric up top. So, in a horizontal manner, I cut off the drawstring part. Next, I cut out a couple inches of fabric (also in a horizontal manner). Then I reattached the drawstring “circle” that I cut off to begin with, using very visible exterior stitching twice around, and TA DA! If this sounds like it was a bad idea, please picture the pink pants sewn with bright yellow and green thread (bobbin and spool, respectively). They look like Frankenstein’s pajama pants, but along with the subsequent hemming, the pants are finally fitting as I always dreamed! Success! (As a side note, there’s a whole lot more alterations yet to come. B and I have picked up the pieces for our Halloween costumes at Goodwill and most need some sort of “tailoring.” Now that I have a sewing machine, this sort of thing should be no problem…)
Lesson 1: Use matching thread.

Project 2: Taggies blanket.
This project was saved by a consultation with our resident grand master tailor, B. I explained what it was and how I thought best to proceed. (Pin these here and this like this, etc.) B said my method was all wrong and introduced me to sewing right sides together, leaving a hole, and turning it inside out. Genius. This was a little difficult since the tags of the taggies blanket are then on the inside of this fabric pita and I can’t see how long they are or whether they are straight. But, it turned out perfect (although B says not to make one as a gift for the baby shower I’m attending next weekend…humph....)
Lesson 2: Sewing is counterintuitive.

Project 3: Panel curtains.
There’s a long, narrow window in our entry way that has needed a covering since we got here. It’s very long and I can’t find regular curtains or blinds to cover it. Not to mention that I have hated buying curtains and curtain rods for all the windows in our house. We aren’t even staying here, so it seems like such a waste of money. But the windows must be covered. So, I bought some clearance fabric. With it I made a single long panel. I sewed (hemmed?) each side—so far, ok. Then I sewed the top with an opening for the rod to slip through. Only, the opening was too small. Since I have no seam ripper, I simply made the bottom the top, leaving ample room for the rod. Now my curtain is about an inch too short. But worse is the way it leans to one side. I had the right size to begin with, but I pin and sew “by eye”, so either the top or bottom did not end up using the same amount of fabric when I folded it over from right to left.
Lesson 3: Measure 462 times, sew once.

Project 4: Baby pajamas.
After the projects mentioned above, I feel it is time to take on a patterned project now—a project with more than two pieces of fabric and with its own set of directions. So, I have purchased a pattern to make some baby pjs. This sounds like an easy project (and a necessary one since E needs a certain pair of pjs for his Halloween costume), but unfortunately I can’t understand one word or illustration in the entire thing.
Lesson 4: You are out way of your league. Contact a lady at church and ask her to teach you how to sew this pattern. (Said lady does not yet know [and will probably not like the fact] that you are using/harvesting the fabric from a shirt you bought at Goodwill to make the pjs [it was the PERFECT material—seriously, I checked fabric stores with no luck] or the fact that you have a freakishly long baby who will need the pattern to be altered by a couple inches.)


Next up are the myriad of alterations for our Halloween costumes, which will occupy my time over the next two weeks, IN ADDITION TO the fabulous quilting class I’m taking in a week and a half!!!!!!! I almost can’t sleep I’m so excited! Then it’s time for Christmas stockings, although I am still contemplating the wisdom of postponing the creation of heirloom stockings until I have a bit more experience behind me.

It is freaking cold here. Snow and ice storms for the last week. It looks like a different planet. Plants covered in ice crystals look quite alien.

The caldera is active. While all the roads are icy, half of the street area right in front of our house is a thick slab of ice under which we can see moving water, the other half has no ice and steams constantly.

But this week there has been some city activity in front of our house and I got word today that tomorrow they will fix the “underground leak”. This means there will be no water from 7AM till 4:30PM. Plus, I will not have access to my garage. I’m just amazed that they claim it will only take one day.

Brave Little Tailor

The decision to buy a sewing machine was not hard. Deciding which sewing machine to buy was a bit harder. But before I even started sewing, I began to have second thoughts.

I am taking a class on how to use my machine—to sew, as it were. I won’t make anything; I’ll just get to practice running the machine and trying all the features. So, I have also signed up for a class to MAKE something. This will give me the opportunity to actually have practical sewing experience with guidance/help. I looked at the classes offered at three stores and picked the project that most interested me (while still being “beginner” level). I’m not into sewing holiday coasters or tissue box covers. I will be making a small quilt. Do we need another blanket? No. Seriously. We either need to move to Alaska, have 30 children, or begin our own not-for-profit charity outfit supplying blankets to the cold of this world.

But, like I said, I didn’t want any of the other projects. This blanket will be oh so cute. Originally I thought of making it (for the experience/instruction) and then giving it to my sister, since I like her best and I can’t see myself being able to part with something I worked so hard on to anyone I like less. But, as I pawed through the assembled fabric bundles I noticed that they cost more than I have ever paid for already-sewn-bedding. I don’t even need this quilt or want it—except when compared to the other class offerings. This isn’t even a big quilt. Just a throw. I was quite shocked and distraught at the price. Now I won’t be giving this blanket to anyone. Is this what it costs to sew? I hoped to find a hobby I loved in sewing, but after seeing the costs, it appeared as though I wouldn’t be able to afford this hobby.

When I told B the cost of the fabric, he was surprised, but instead of sharing my concern (that it is WAY too expensive) his concern was that we perhaps had not paid ENOUGH for the machine, since it appears that the machine will be a small percent of my projects over the years.

While complaining to an acquaintance about the cost of fabric, she offered the suggestion to buy at Walmart. But I won’t hear of it. I come from a family of quilters. And although I don’t even know how to sew yet, I do know that I must not buy fabric from Walmart or Joann’s. Looks like I know what to ask for each birthday and Christmas.

Happiness is...

The pictures are inconclusive.

Is happiness having this aunt? Or is it having this nephew?

While T visited over Labor Day, we inadvertently found a location for her dream of a bakery. Even in my most reality-suspended dreams, I’ve never been able to see T’s bakery as a plausible endeavor. I’ve said time and time again, “T, you don’t bake.” And the items would need to LOOK good enough to eat, which is another story all together once you actually DO know how to bake yummy things. Also, bakeries don’t seem like the heartiest of businesses. When was the last time I went to a bakery? I could probably go my whole life without needing a bakery—perhaps without even wanting one. Finally, I don’t see someone leaving a high-paying job to take one offering a fraction of the former salary and requiring the day to begin at 3am. But, MS has actually made this pipe dream of T’s conceivable. MS is a CUTE CUTE CUTE town, full of tourists all the time. They aren’t like regular people. They must buy their breakfast somewhere and, knowing this, are willing [or resigned] to pay a lot more than they usually spend on breakfast food. A bakery might actually survive. If it can happen at all, I think it has the best chance in MS.

E thinks so too.

The Grandma in Me

There are a number of things that I enjoy that are not “grandmotherly” in nature, like rock climbing or hot, spicy foods. However, I have recently come to suspect that I enjoy more grandmotherly things than others my age.

Exhibit A:
A couple years ago I signed us up for square dancing lessons. I loved it—both the dancing AND the socialization with other grandmas and grandpas. I’d join a club here if I had the time. (I do have the outfits! Hee hee!)

Exhibit B:
I am currently working on a cross stitching project, which I love. How did this happen? Well, I’d never cross stitched before and I like trying new things. So, here I am, a year and a half into the project with about a year and a half left to go (and, yes, I work on this EVERY DAY). I am addicted to it. It’s just the most relaxing thing I do. However, this will be my only cross stitch project: my masterpiece. The reasons for this are that I am VERY picky and that I will be blind by the time the work is completed. I chose the pattern because it is likely the only one in the whole world I like. Usually cross stitch patterns are sort of tacky, in my opinion. I don’t want cross stitched wolf heads on my wall (or any other wolf head art for that matter), I don’t believe cross stitched sentiments like “I like to shop”, and I don’t like Precious Moments. The only thing I’ve found that I like are ABC samplers (and embellishments) done Quaker-style (meaning: no color; all black).

So, I found this pattern at a fabulous website full of historical cross stitch patterns (someone really made this in 1818; she was probably 7 years old…). The only trouble is that the project comes in two sizes: 35 and 40. (These numbers correspond to the number of x’s in one inch. 35 is very tiny; 40 is microscopic.) I chose 40 simply because the project is huge and I don’t want a 3’x3’ finished product (as it is it will still be very big, made up of exquisitely small x’s). Should I have picked a different project? Maybe. But this is the one I liked best. Why mess around? Anyway, I feel a bit like a grandma when people ask me what I do for hobbies and my mind thinks instantly of the hundreds of hours I spend cross stitching… I have not yet fessed up to this, although B sometimes tells them for me.

Exhibit C:
The Metamucil in my cupboard.

Exhibit D:
I bought a sewing machine. I have never sewn in my life but I hope to love it as much as I love the cross stitching. I already LOVE the quilting shop I bought it from and ALL the grandmas there. I want to go there every day (but I stay away most of the time for a reason I will explain in a later post).

If this were the SNL game “Jew[Grandma]? Not a Jew[Grandma]?”, I wonder how I’d place. Of course, it depends entirely on who is playing.

King of the Nursery

E was a good-sized baby. Who knows what he weighed when he came out (though attmittedly it was something near the 9 lb 3.3 oz they weighed him at) thanks to his need to releive himself before being weighed. We joked that his time in the nursery as a baby would be his only chance to be the big kid on the block, since he will undoubtedly be a scrawny thing for the rest of his life.

But even with his big beginnings I never thought I'd have a baby in the 97 percentile for length. I figured the 90 percentile which he held constant for his 1 month and 2 month apointments would eventually begin to drop. Not so.

Everywhere I've gone since the hospital (and that's a lot of places), people think he is much older than he is. Because he grows so fast in that direction he is not chubby. He's gaining just fine but he looks lean and mature (if a 0 to 4 month old baby can look mature--and they can).

Just one more fact/stat/figure for you readers today: It snowed here today. I don't know whether that makes you wish you were here. I know it makes me wish I weren't!

Can't you just tell him that I'm sick?

Imagine: You are sick with your second cold in two weeks. The first cold only felled you. This second one has the husband and baby sick as well. But, since you were hit back to back and you get the least amount of sleep, you can’t seem to kick the cold and you suffer worse than the rest of the family. So, early Saturday morning you are trying to get some sleep while husband cares for the baby (which he is only able to do on the weekend mornings) and he and baby come in to wake you up with the news that husband has “destroyed the snot sucker.” Huh? How? WHY? Yes, the bulbous blue rubber instrument used to suck snot is gone. In an attempt to get rid of germs, the husband boiled the thing—but not in a pot full of water, rather as though it was an ear of corn. He simmered the thing, if you will.

E has taken his first cold like a champ. Two rough days and nights, but then back to happy (with the addition of rattling snot in his head).

B weathered the cold a bit worse. It lasted longer for him and he refused to take time off work, claiming that he “couldn’t” (meetings he had to attend, deadlines he had to meet).

It has now been two and a half weeks since the first cold hit me (with just a couple days reprieve) and the recovery continues. I have become convinced of the healing power of sleep. What else do I lack?

Perfect timing that we are off to the pediatrician this afternoon. She can check for ear infections and the like. Of course, the reason we are going is to get 4-month shots. Looks like another rough weekend ahead.

I stayed home from church last Sunday with sick E. This got me out of wrangling my 15 sunbeams. Yes. There are 15 of them. The class should have been split in Jan when it was formed, but it wasn’t. Talk about ill-adjusted kids. See, when you picture 15 sunbeams, you likely picture the sunbeams you know (a class of 4 or 5 or 6 or 8 even) and then add more of THEM to the equation. But 15 sunbeams is nothing like three groups of 5 sunbeams or like doubling your rambunctious class of 8. Because, you see, these 15 were never IN a class with just 5 or 8. They have no concept of what a class or lesson or chair is. It’s like nursery without toys. They are feral. And it’s September for crying out loud. They will move up to the next class and become the least adjusted 4/5 year-olds in the church. And I am convinced that it could have been avoided by splitting the class.

Friends part 1

Since we will be spending the next three years in different locations, I don’t have any time to waste finding friends. I don’t work, so I am basically a shut in if I don’t make an effort to get out. And yes, I can figure out ways to get out each day (many involve shopping), but I need socialization—for my husband’s sake, if nothing else. My initial shock & awe plan to make friends and entertain myself was to join all (yes, ALL) of our ward’s “interest groups.” In Atlanta our ward had tons of interest groups: book group, cooking group, moms with little kids (“breakfast group”), moms with bigger kids (park group), scrapbook group, etc. I really like the idea of these groups, although I never attended a single one. Still, I had it in mind to do every one in CS and then branch out from there in finding non-ward friends. “Sit-n-Stitch”? Count me in. “Intensive scripture study group”? Oh yeah.

So, we get here and I immediately ask what interest groups are and when they meet. Imagine my supreeze (read: horror) to hear that there are none. This ward doesn’t do interest groups. Apparently, there’s no interest. What’s wrong with these people? So, there goes my plan to occupy my time and make instant friends. Time to formulate a plan B.

New plan: buy some friends.

That’s right. I got online and found a stroller workout franchise. I’ve paid up for three months. E and I appear at a park at quarter to 9am and work out for an hour. I enjoy this because it’s really nice to work out, it’s really nice to get out, and there is the potential of making friends. In addition to the daily workout, there’s a weekly playgroup at one of the mom’s houses (they rotate), and a monthly “girls night out.”

Sadly, even money doesn’t seem to buy friends very quickly. Despite knowing about 20 children’s names, I can only name 3 of the mothers (one is the instructor). E doesn’t “play” yet, so playgroup is sort of out. And my first girls night out was, to put it mildly, a complete waste of a substantial amount of effort (and a tad embarrassing too).

The outing:
manicures/pedicures followed by happy hour at a Mexican restaurant

The difficulties:
I’m nursing E, it’s B’s birthday, all three of us are sick, and I don’t drink

So, I rsvp for just the manicure/pedicure part, begging out of the Mexican part on account of B’s birthday (I do not yet know that we will also be sick). Of the 10 of us who rsvp’d 5 requested “manicure” for reasons like “no one should have to see my feet!” etc. Two requested pedicure, and two planned to get both. After considering both for 10 minutes, I chose manicure, although I easily could have gone either way.

On Saturday I arrive just before 3pm. One mom is already there, sitting in a pedicure chair. I make my way to a manicure desk. Then, one by one the moms arrive. Pedicure. Pedicure. Pedicure. Pedicure. [That should be all of them by now.] Pedicure. Pedicure. [What the? Where are the other manicure moms?] Pedicure. Pedicure. Eight moms lined up in two rows of pedicure chairs and I am the ONLY one at a manicure desk. All alone. They, all happily chatting. I can’t even believe it. I would gladly have chosen pedicure had I known—I almost chose it without knowing. Oh well. The only friend I made was the 18-year-old Vietnamese nail girl who hardly barely spoke English. In fact, all I know about her is that she’s from Vietnam. She asked me one question: Friends? Meaning: Are these girls your friends? I said yes anyway.

So, the entire thing was a flop. I didn’t get to chat with anyone, I drove to the other side of town on a day we were all sick, and I got a mediocre manicure. Friends sure don’t come cheap. Can’t wait to do all this again next year in some new place. And the year after in another new place. And the year after… At least I’ll be in great shape. And my nails might look nice.

The End of the World

Don’t panic, but the end may be near. Very near. If you happened to live in our town home, you would be at the epicenter—the ground zero—of a future little event called the end of the world (that is, if something else doesn’t happen first to wipe out all sentient life). The end is nigh—even at our garage door.

I lived here for a few weeks before noticing it. One day I thought to myself, “Huh. I wonder why the pavement in front of our house is wet.” It looked as if we had washed our car in the street right in front of our house and the gutter was still running with the extra water. “Maybe someone else washed THEIR vehicle in front of our house…” Then, I noticed it a few days later. Then, again. Finally, I realized that the pavement in front of our house was ALWAYS wet. It didn’t matter if it was the middle of the night or if it was 110 degrees outside. The pavement remained wet from the center of the street to the gutter in front of our driveway, from one end of the house to the other.

I walked around the wet area several times looking for the leak. I expected to find a crack with water visibly bubbling up through it. But the pavement appears sound to the naked eye. Yet, it stays wet and the gutter flows with water at all times. Apparently, although there is no crack, water seeps through the microscopic holes in the asphalt, in an area that seems confined to our “street space” (think airspace) alone. The area is large enough that although you never see water “running” or “flowing” on the pavement, enough collects to be carried away in the gutter. This has gone on long enough that the wet pavement has begun to turn a greenish, yellowish, brownish hue. Algae, I guess.

Just a couple days after I put all of this together in my head, the city sent some water people out under the cover of darkness to investigate. (The only reason we know about this clandestine investigation is because we were sitting on our blackened porch at 10pm waiting for a locksmith to break us in—this was the fault of the garage door, but that’s another story.) Anyway, we watched and listened to the two water guys check things out with their metal detector-looking machines. They appeared very puzzled and a bit unhappy. One seemed certain that it was “groundwater.” I think the other probably worried that a city pipe was leaking. I have another suspicion.

Those of you who read A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson know what this could mean. If you don’t feel like reading it (although I can’t think of any book I recommend more) you can get the gist of what I fear to be under my house by reading last month’s National Geographic (although Bryson tells it better. National Geographic? You were scooped (years ago, admittedly)).You see, I believe there is a caldera beneath our house. It’s getting ready to blow and is pushing upward, creating a bulge. This pushes the groundwater up through the asphalt, as a sort of warning that the end is coming. Someone get National Geographic on the phone—it’s their turn.

If I am wrong, then we may simply lose our house in some sort of sinkhole, or, at the very least, suffer a flooded basement. If the city decides to tear up the pavement in front of our house, it could mean a rather long time without access to our driveway/garage, not to mention our water. If they decide to ignore it [which seems to be what they have chosen to do] then we will have a very, very icy spot on our street this winter—right where you turn the corner in front of our house.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Knife Fighting in the White House [please refrain from]

We originally thought we would award the winner of the Tuley Baby Guessing Contest 2009 something genuine “Atlanta.” Admittedly, we were waiting to see who the winner was before selecting their award, thinking that the appropriate prize would just come to us. See, brainstorming beforehand had only generated a lengthy list of half-baked ideas. (A Mexican drug cartel? A fine collection of rap music? A container of MACE? Would anyone want dozens of our empty Coke bottles? Should we simply steal the winner’s car?) Since any and all future children will each be born in different parts of the country, we figured we could send a souvenir each time. However, the winner of the Tuley Baby Guessing Contest 2009 happened to be the sole participant residing in Atlanta, GA, or anywhere in the South, so our genuine “Atlanta” souvenir idea was sort of deflated. But, after much consideration, we believe we have come up with an even BETTER prize! We have decided to award JLS the following:

JLS will be the subject of the bedtime stories and moral allegories we use to instruct, entertain, edify, and scare the be-geezers out of E.

We couldn't be happier about this. I mean, JLS -- Rocket Scientist; Canadian Mounty; Hearty resilience to harsh, cold climates as well as hot, humid ones; Pro-level athlete; Confident; Clever; Sensitive; Adventurous; Responsible; Returned Missionary; Rock climber; World traveler; Boston marathon winner; Speaks Chinese, German, Russian, & Spanish; Reads Latin; Hikes mountains; Devours classical literature; Dislikes oppression and injustice; Loves his mommy [best]; Saves his money; Composes poetry; Plays piano, violin, classical guitar, & bass guitar; Spiritual giant; Gourmet cook; Helpful; Friendly; Courteous; Kind; Obedient; Cheerful; Thrifty; Brave; Clean; Reverent.

And this isn’t all. JLS’s name lends itself to immortalization in legend and myth, provided, of course, that we henceforth refer to him as “Johnny”S. Consider: Johnny Appleseed, Johnny Canal, Johnny Depp—all larger than life American heroes and icons. And now that JLS has become an official citizen of the good ol’ US of A, all our reservations have been wiped out. However, it is rather cumbersome to have a list of four legendary Johnnys… So…Johnny Appleseed? You’re out. Auf wiedersehen.

Yes, my friends, this is a truly fabulous prize. Likely, there are some broken hearts out there. May you find solace in knowing that you will* have the chance to participate in the Tuley Baby Guessing Contest 2010!


* “will” in no way guarantees the actuality of a baby guessing contest in the Tuley family in the year 2010.


PS: Special thanks to Liz and Russell.


[mom, here are some photos of Everest http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/EndOfAugustEverest# ]

Do you know the Apple Man?

Before E came along, I used to be a real grocery-sale shopper. I had the time (at my job) to check the store ads each week. I’d make a list of the things that were on sale at each store and then I’d actually shop at each store for those specific deals. I knew what was a crazy high price for non-sale produce, and I’d avoid buying till the price came down.

Now, with baby in tow, I do none of that. I shop one store—I don’t even care which one. I never check ads for sales. I shop with a list, but I only have time to race through the store once, so whatever I don’t spot will simply not be purchased. Maybe I’ll see it next time. As I grab things from my list, I never even bother looking at the prices. Seriously, I just throw things in the cart and keep moving. I’ve got to get out of here.

So, yesterday, I showed up at a grocery store which I have heard is pricier than some others—but I didn’t really care because I also had to return a movie at the Blockbuster in the same shopping complex and I wasn’t about to tempt the fussies by stopping at two locations. As I raced into the store, I found myself in the produce section. The nearest display contains apples, which we needed. I pushed right past the display, grabbing a bag of apples without stopping. In former times I would never have grabbed already-bagged apples. I would have selected my own, thank you very much, and bagged them myself. I mean, who knows what sort of bad apples they may have placed in the bag in hopes that you won’t notice. And, if apples weren’t on sale, we would have gone without. Well, as I grabbed the bag yesterday, an old man who happened to be stocking the apples at that very minute offered the following unsolicited advice:

Apple Man: “You don’t want those apples.”

L: [stopping, startled] “Why not?”

Apple Man: [chuckling] “Those apples are $1.99 a pound. That’s a five pound bag. You’ll pay $10 for those apples!”

Huh? Aren’t you an employee? You should want to sell the apples you can. I’m a little annoyed by the chuckling, to say nothing of the remedial math. So, this Apple Man thinks the price at his store is ridiculous? Too high for people to be willing to pay? So, am I ridiculous? What if I DO want these apples, for reasons like getting out of here with a happy or sleeping baby? I am aware that it’s a five pound bag, and if the price were more important than my time, I’d have done the math myself. Time’s a’wastin’, Apple Man. But, as long as he’s stopped me (and since it appears I won’t get out of here with these bagged apples without accepting that I am a fool in the Apple Man’s eyes), I enlist his help.

L: “What are your cheapest apples?”

Apple Man: “These ones here are $1.79.”

Are you kidding me? That’s it? I happen to know that $1.79 is still crazy expensive (not that I care anymore)—a price that I would NOT have paid in the old days. But seriously, does he really think this is a deal? Now I’m the one chuckling. Like it’s worth it for me to stop, locate a plastic bag (because there never are any at the display you standing in front of), select my own 5 pounds of apples, and weigh them, all for $1 savings. I don’t think so, Apple Man.

--

In addition to several other produce items on my list, which I managed to shop for without ridicule, I hoped to find a spaghetti squash. B had put it on the list. But I didn’t see one as I made my way through the produce section, and I was not about to ask the Apple Man. Spaghetti squash is likely out of season and exorbitantly priced, although it would have given the Apple Man a hearty laugh. What ever happened to the customer being queen, I’d like to know?

Driver, why did we stop?

E is one spoiled baby. For many reasons. But sometimes you look at him (or at us) and his spoiledness is visible. Among the four strollers we wheel him around in, is a fancy-schmancy Burley bike trailer (this piece of equipment also has a jogger attachment, which is the reason I number it with the rest of the strollers). B rides often, I ride occasionally. But we bought the trailer primarily so that I could pull it on my bike while B jogs.

E is not yet stable enough to ride in his double occupancy chariot, despite the five-point harnesses. So, the other day, we strapped his car seat inside. He looked good reclining there and seemed to enjoy surveying the countryside as I pedaled him around the neighborhood. I might add that it was raining. But, he was all zipped in (yes, it has a lovely clear rain fly) and was cozy as could be.

I ride alongside B as he runs, but thanks to the invention of the wheel, I COULD be faster than him on the straight-aways and the downhills. The only place were he is generally faster than me is going uphill, so I try to get a bit of a head start. When/if he catches me, he usually signifies this by grabbing hold of the jogging push bar attached to the back of the trailer and pushing us the rest of the way up the hill. It’s a joint effort really. The Tuley Train. I’m sure we look quite silly. Me on a bike, pulling a baby in a trailer, with B pushing from behind…in the rain.

Mexican Spices

A long time ago, my sister and I were at a baseball playoff game with our great friend A. A and I sat on either side of my sister and were in deep conversation about how the game was progressing and how the players were performing. We thought T was also in on the conversation—merely listening at the moment—and would join in at any moment with her own assessment of things. But when she did pipe up—right in the middle of the conversation—she wistfully said only, “Man, those taquitos were good.” Obviously, she had been so lost in good-taquito-land that she had not even known that we were having a conversation—one we thought she was actively participating in.

I was reminded of this story yesterday as we drove to church. It was pretty much the biggest Sunday of the year for us. B had a talk to give, E was being blessed, and we had a friend coming to church (in honor of both E’s blessing and B’s talk) who had never attended our church before. I normally abhor being late, and on this particular Sunday, being late was simply out of the question. We had to be there to meet our friend, be on time for the blessing (which happens at the beginning of the meeting), get B seated on the stand, and, oh yes, in time for B to ask the people he would like to be involved in the blessing if they will participate. Nothing like the last second… In any case, we MUST arrive early.

Nevertheless, we found ourselves leaving the house 12 minutes behind my intended departure time. As we pulled out of the driveway and headed through the neighborhood, B was waxing poetic about—of all things—the burrito he had in his hand. Specifically, the tortilla, if you must know. That’s right, it’s just SO STRONG. He can eat the burrito without fear of spilling on his Sunday clothes. He needs no protection. Isn’t it divine? I suppose after a lifetime of inferior tortillas, it is a joy to find one that lives up to the measure of its creation.

Well, I’m nervous about the time issue and remark that our 15mph Sunday pace will not help matters. So, we speed up to normal speed and get on the highway. Halfway to church, after the glorious burrito has been consumed, B panics: “Did you bring my scriptures??????” [Why would I bring his scriptures?] “No, but don’t worry, you can use mine.” “But my TALK is in my scriptures!” You have to know B to understand just how awful this is. The first time he was asked to speak in church after his tour of duty in Afghanistan, he was worried about it for a whole week, to the point of being physically ill. He admitted that he was more afraid of speaking in church than of Ak-47 fire. He admits it’s irrational, and dutifully speaks when asked, writing out his talk word for word. There is absolutely no possibility for “winging it.”

Well, we could NOT turn around (our poor friend would have been left high and dry, plus B wouldn’t have been able to talk to the people who he wanted to help with the blessing, plus we probably wouldn’t make it in time for the blessing to take place anyway…). So, we decided to split up. B got out on the highway to hitch a ride with someone else going to church (so that he could meet our friend, recruit blessing helpers, and generally assure the people in charge that, yes, we were blessing our baby and, yes, B would be giving the closing address) and I turned around to go home and get his talk, taking the baby with me to ensure that he wasn’t blessed without me being present.

I arrived at church after the meeting had started. B ran out to the car to grab the baby. As we ran through the parking lot, our poor, certainly bewildered or incredulous friend is holding the front door of the church open for us and calling out, “They just called your name!” So, as we race into the chapel we find it silent. Everyone sitting and waiting. The people involved in the blessing have already assembled at the front of the chapel and are just waiting for B (the blessor) and E (the blessee). There are no empty seats. Our friend ducks into a pew in the back and I duck into one close to the front while B races to get E out of his car seat at the front of the chapel. B is out of breath for the blessing and I don’t hear a word that is said. Our friend thanked us after the meeting for letting him “be part of your adventure.” Great.

So, it wasn’t the best Sunday. But at least there is a type of tortilla can hold. Tender mercy. Mexican food does this to people. T and the taquitos; B and the burritos. Me? I guess I’m no different. I’ve been dreaming about my birthday dinner at a certain Mexican restaurant for weeks. Only one day left now! Hopefully I can keep the baby alive…

http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett
or
http://picasaweb.google.com/lyndseyandbrett/EndOfJulyEverest#

"nEverest"

I spent the first five weeks of E’s life gushing that he was such a “good” baby. And he was. Wasn’t he everything we needed him to be, and so much that we had never even dreamed he would be (ie SUPER CUTE; truly, I continue to be shocked by how cute he is). He took it like a champ when we celebrated his three week old birthday by becoming homeless and taking up residence in Super8 and Holiday Inn Express. He traveled across the country and house hunted and ran errands for weeks. Of course, how could he put up much of a resistance? Even now he has no mobility, very limited purposeful movement, and has not yet learned to talk back. This was probably the best move of his life. And we’ll be able to test that theory by moving every June for three more years. Is moving with a three week old, one year old, two year old, or three year old best? Stay tuned for the answer.

When he was 5 weeks old, he and I traveled home to the Northwest. I seriously had the best time ever. E seemed to enjoy it as much as he enjoys everything else. However, it was on this vacation, the first time in his life when he was observed by people who unlike B and myself actually know something [read: ANYTHING] about babies, that I found out he is not exactly the typical definition of a “good” baby. Two days into the vacay, my dad observes, “He’s sort of high maintenance, isn’t he?” He is? I asked my mom what on earth he meant by this and she fessed up that E is not as “mellow” (thanks for breaking it softly, mom) as all of us were. Uhhhh…you mean, babies don’t normally fuss all day and most of the night? There are brand new babies that aren’t in a seemingly constant state of discomfort or malcontent? I really had no idea. Oh well, he fooled me into thinking he was a good baby and that’s what counts.

So THAT explains why I was given literature on colic at the pediatrician’s office. I thought colic was 6-hour stretches of purple-old-man-faced crying. E just fusses. And he never sleeps. Hyperalert or high needs they call it. With mild colic. Hyperalert babies “need more of everything—except sleep.” They cat nap. Which is exactly what he does three or more times a day. 15 to 45 minutes. Never more. So forget about catching up on sleep when he naps. They also need to be held a lot and really like [read: fuss less] when they are moving. Night time was probably typical baby fare, except for the nightly 4am fuss-fest. This is the colic part. Every night, no matter what schedule he was on, he would begin serious fussing at 4am and fuss for the next two and a half hours. No stopping it.

He’s also SUPER cute, super healthy, a great eater, and a super smiler. All the time he’s not fussing he’s smiling. Such a good baby. But, I have to admit, I was absolutely butt-kicked by the lack of sleep. I went 8 weeks with 4 to 5 hours of sleep a night, and I firmly believe that 5 hours is exponentially better than 4 hours. In any case, I shed tears at the thought of ever having another child. It is my philosophy that you can have no children, or two, or three, or how ever many more you want. But one? Naw. So, here I was, committed to do this again. I was so happy with this baby, but I did NOT want another.

So, finding out that it was possible to get a DIFFERENT sort of baby next time [wait…so kids are different from each other?] gave me hope. Then, week 8 was a breakthrough. The 4am fussies went away (they’ve only reappeared twice in the last week and a half). Also, he’s fussing less during the day. I now get 6 to 6.5 hours of sleep each night, and yes, it’s exponentially better than five!

Bring on number 2.

Come on, Dover!

So, for the two of you who are interested, the post below this one was written by Brett to explain the scoring of the Tuley Baby Guessing Contest 2009. I am now going to explain his scoring method in my own words and according to my understanding.

See, instead of running the scoring the way I suggested (a total of 100 points; a certain number of total points possible for each category; fewer points awarded the further from the actual value your guess is) Brett decided to conduct much of the scoring like a bookie at a horse race. It’s all about odds. For example, we asked and found out that 90% of all births at our hospital used epidurals for pain relief. So, if you guessed epidural and were right, you would be awarded fewer points for that correct answer than you would have been had you guessed natural and been right. So, how many points were “possible” in the “method of arrival” category? Well, we didn’t know ourselves until we knew what the right answer was.

Of course, the “method of arrival” was an all or nothing category. For weight, length, and date the horse race scoring method was again used, but this time every guess received was awarded some number of points (or fraction of a point, as was usually the case). We obtained a graph indicating the range and average weights/lengths at 37 through 42 weeks gestation; so Brett figured out how good your guesses were (based on expected values) and then ran them against the actual weight/length of the baby. The percentage of births occurring before the due date, on the due date, and after the due date were used in computing the points that should be awarded for each date.

Gender was simply all or nothing, but I demanded that the number of points assigned to this category be low enough that a person could still win without having to guess it correctly.

A brief caveat:
While Brett did the computing, I did the research for the “expected values” (a great way to occupy my time at the work desk). I must here admit my own misgivings about basing our “expected values” on the averages of the public at large. My family generally has large babies, has them early, and has them naturally. So, the guesses from my family members generally indicated larger weights, earlier dates, and natural delivery. I’ve felt bad about this possible “edge” from the start. But, in the end, my family did not produce the winning combination of guesses (although the second, third, and fourth placers were relations). In fact, the baby was not as early as the family trend would dictate and was a pound larger than the largest
guess, so the advantage of my family members was minimal.

Explanatory Note on Equations

[Note: there is also a cool graph (which is referred to in this write up) that will be included in this post at a later time. Also, the equations would not work in Blogspot, so L paraphrased them. Good luck deciphering the paraphrasing.]

Intention
My intention was to normalize the point values and adjust the point distribution for each category so that the expected value (Ex=[strange sign]Pxi*xi) for uniform random guesses within a reasonable guessing range for each category would be equal, and contestants would be rewarded proportionately greater for more accurate guesses. The difficulty for me was to define what is a reasonable range for each of the parameters, and how to shape the distribution. There were also various types of data among the different categories, some continuous and others discrete. The expected value for each category was 10 points.

Distribution Ranges
I relied on research L did on the internet to help define the relevant ranges. It was difficult to find satisfactory and matching statistics for all the categories so we used the process of best guestimation.
Discrete: The categories with discrete data types were: Gender; Method of delivery. Gender ranged from Male to Female. Any uncertainties were to be settled decisively by the doctor. Method of delivery could range widely. We limited the range to only those that were guessed by contestants and those suggested as possibilities on her website which all fit into five broad categories: C-section; Epidural; Forecepts; Vacuum; Natural.
Continuous: The categories with continuous data types were: Length; Weight; Time; Date. Admittedly "date" could be treated as a discrete data type, but it worked well with a continuous normal distribution and bins. The range we settled for length was 18-21.5 inches. Weight was 6 lbs 2 oz to 8 lbs 5 oz. Time was 0 to 24 hours. The range for dates was the range of the guesses from contestants: May 3 to May 24. These ranges do not include all the possibilities, but they set up a good range to bound point distributions.

Distribution Shapes
Discrete: Gender: the approximation was made that each gender is equally likely and therefore worth 10 points if correct. Method of Delivery: according to the data we were able to gather on P hospital and other general trends we calculated the probability of C-section = 20%, probability of Epidural = 57.6%; probability of forecepts = 6.4%; probability of vacuum = 8%; probability of natural = 8%. Using the expected value formula with the condition that Pxi * xi = Pxi+1 * xn. So, like horse betting or roulette, contestants win more points for guessing correctly a less likely outcome. The points were: Forecepts = 31.25; C-section = 10; Epidural = 3.47; Vacuum = 25; Natural = 25.
Continuous: I decided to use a normal curve for the base distribution. This is different from what many use, such as exponentially decaying point distributions, in that it has two ranges each side of the peak separated by an inflection point instead of a single range of rapidly decreasing values, were the penalty starts off very steep but slowly decreases or visa-versa. The first range starts with only slight point penalty as you deviate from the correct answer, but with increasing penalty as you get further, peaking at the inflection point. The second range has decreasing penalty as you get further away from the correct guess, however in this range the point values are already pretty low.
The height of the curve can be adjusted by a scaling factor so that when multiplied by a uniform guessing distribution the resultant expected value can be adjusted to zero.
The next adjustment that must be made to this shape comes from the previous heading title "range". By adjusting the ranges of each category (or equivalently adjusting the standard deviation) such that approximately 99% of the area under the normal curve fits within the defined guessing range it is hoped that "good" and "bad" guesses within each category carry equivalent penalties, making each category as important as the other.
Guesses were made into bins in order to calculate the area under the normal curve, for example if someone guessed May 18 the area would be calculated as that of the left tailed probability of 18.49999 minus the left tailed probability of 17.5.
The general form of the equation in excel is:
=(Scale Parameter) * (NORMDIST[(guess + (nealry one half of bin width) , (actual birth value) , (Assumed St Dev) , 1] - NORMDIST[(guess - (one half of the bin width) , (actual birth value) , (Assumed St Dev) , 1])
The scale parameters and standard deviations are on the spreadsheet for your perusal. Contact this blog's host with a special request to have it emailed if you are really a glutton for punishment.

Conclusion
I wasted many hours of my life coming up with a baby guessing contest that is convoluted and not significantly different or cooler than others, but it is our baby guessing contest and I don't plan to change the methodology. However, if you request a copy of the spreadsheet and can find error in my calculations, I may be glad to correct such an error.

de Colores

And now for another issue of “I would. Would you?”

There are few things that interest me more than home improvements/decorating. Of course, it’s just the thought and sight of them—I’ve never really done any. But I love reading on the internet or in magazines about what could be done. Then, while we were living in the Holiday Inn Express I found the home improvement channel!!!! HGTV. I was in heaven. I watched it with or without the sound each time I had to nurse. I’ve never enjoyed nursing so much.

So, now here we are in our rented town home. I am allowed to paint, provided that I paint the walls back to white before we move. I was faced with this dilemma when we moved to Atlanta, and I decided NOT to paint, since we only had a 15-month contract. It would be a waste of time and money, I thought. We ended up staying in that apartment more than two years and I often regretted not painting it the way I wanted. And so, with that, I give you the pros and the cons this time:

Pro:
I could practice painting—like learning a new skill. Although I just have to paint over it in less than a year, I will have a little more experience when I go to paint my own house. Plus [provided that it looks good] it will look good! Cheap home improvement.
Con:
Painting will mean work for me now and, worse, work for me in a year when I’m getting ready to move and have a one-year-old running around. Why go through the trouble for such a short return?

So, I’ve decided to paint. Originally I had big plans. Paint lots of rooms! But I scaled back to just the baby’s room and a bath room (I even got the baby’s room taped up for painting). Now I have scaled back to just the half bath. It’s the smallest (and ugliest) room in the house—even the closets are bigger.

Now for the “I would. Would you?” portion of this post. (You may have thought it already happened. Alas, no.)

Color selection. I went to Lowes and picked out four triptych paint samples (meaning: four little cards that each has three similar shades of paint). They all “work” with the flooring and I know I don’t want to go with the mid- or light shade on each card. That narrows it down to the darkest four shades. I found the one that matches best: Ivory Brown. But then, I remembered HGTV. Have I learned nothing? Why match your floor exactly? Why live so monochromatically? I should choose the one that is the biggest stretch. Sure, it still matches the floor (it’s sort of multi-colored flooring), but it’s kind of orange. It’s the shade I first threw out. But now, thanks to my home decorating education, I know that THIS is the color I should probably be painting. So, the decision came down to the monochromatic color or the “stretch”/counterintuitive option. It was at this point that I really noticed the color names: Prairie Dance, Lovely Buff, Cake Batter, Sahara Sands, Woodlawn Lace, Woodrow Wilson Putty. Maybe these names will contain the answer... And what were the names for the two colors I was choosing between?

Ivory Brown vs CORAL GABLE BILTMORE MEDITERRANEAN CARAMEL!

Decision made. Why didn’t I just look at the names to begin with? Seriously, who wants "Oatbran"?

Everest Kai

Date: May 16, 2009
Time: 13:13
Method: Natural
Weight: 9 pounds 3.3 ounces
Length: 20.75 inches
Gender: Male

Total points possible: 127.73

JLS 75.96
LAN 75.14
EMN 73.47
DAN 68.55
RAJ 61.74
DLK 58.29
CB 54.44
DMN 53.43
MB 49.65
TJN 49.56
KES 49.49
RSA 45.79
JMB 40.50
NW 36.80
GD 32.87
ECH 30.19
BT 27.54
DP 25.26
JEM 22.49
TKY 15.80

Congratulations JLS!

*More scoring info to follow shortly.

In a way I envy my friend at work who says she always knows what her taxes are going to look like because nothing ever changes. My tax situation is so different year-to-year that I NEVER know what to expect at all. Owe or refund? And to what order of magnitude? $20, $200, or $2000? This makes preparing taxes a rather hopeful, exciting endeavor, but admittedly one that can end VERY badly.

When I was a teen (and when I was out of the country for three years in my early 20s), the responsibility of seeing that my taxes were paid fell to my dad. He dutifully filed them and billed me for what I owed (the government and him). It wasn’t until I was in college AND in the country during tax time that I finally started getting money back and eventually MAKING money on taxes. While at BYU I used their tax lab most of the time, a friend once. Seeing how much money I was getting on my return made me question what on earth my dad had been saying that had always left me owing. After age 25 (yes, still in college) the EIC boosted things to a whole new level. These experiences gave me confidence to try doing my own taxes on paper a couple years ago. After all, I was in GA—no BYU tax lab here. Well, like the years of dad-prepared taxes, again I came up owing…this time a lot. So, I waited until my next trip to Utah (you know, the week I traveled there to defend and revise my thesis, and get married, and do my taxes…) and used the tax lab again, who true to form got me a hefty return.

The last two years, I have been the primary tax preparer. I get them all worked up online while at work. I have plenty of time to try different things—even different tax preparation software. I ask B questions in the evening and search for information during the day. Then, once I’ve done everything, he looks them over on a Saturday, changes/adds whatever he wants, and files them.

This year, the first tax preparation software I used was telling me that we owed a lot. Really, a lot. I was not satisfied with this outcome, so I tried the other software. The best I could do with the new software was to “balance” the taxes [keep in mind we have three states to deal with]. This was quite a feat, considering what the first software had been telling me. How is it that I put the same information in and the softwares tell me vastly different things, both guaranteeing the lowest owed amount and biggest refund? Of course, breaking even was still not what I was hoping for, even though I know that no return means you didn’t give the government a free loan on your money, so theoretically it’s ideal. B spent ALL DAY Saturday going over the federal and trying to get the states sorted out (I had been too frustrated with my week of taxes to do more than the federal) and ended up getting us a nice return. Can you believe that?

The fact that he was able to get a substantial return SHOULD be because he’s so stinking honest, but we all know things don’t work like that. It is true, though, that B is the most honest person I know. That $1.67 interest from your savings account? It needs to be taxed. The odd job someone gave you $20 or $100 for? Mention each of those. I like to laugh at this and complain that it’s ridiculous, but that just sets off a long speech about integrity. What’s it worth? Is my integrity worth $1.67? $1000? Do I want to go to hell over an amount of money? Well, there really is no legitimate retort/rebuttal to these questions, for while I cannot definitively say how much my integrity really is worth or whether there is an amount of money for which I would want to go to hell, I am certain that none of the amounts of money we talk about are enough. So, I simply respond by trying to come up with as many things that we could try to pay taxes on as I can. There must be more things for which we can be taxed…

Classified

Could someone make the case for me in favor of going private on a blog? Why is this done? I understand that ANYONE can read my blog if it isn’t private. Of course, I’m one of those “anyones” and I am only somewhat ashamed of the amount of blog browsing I do on blogs belonging to complete strangers. But really, how much of a threat am I? Ok, so maybe for some, just the idea of ANY unknown reader having access to their blog is distasteful. But, all in all, the threat of people like me stumbling across my blog and reading it doesn’t bother me.

So, I guess there are a few other “anyone” types out there. They are the threat, right? But what, exactly IS the threat? Will they move from blog stalking to physical stalking—shadowing me as I run errands, watching me through windows, and copying my birthday wish list and children’s names? Certainly, there are those who would steal my SS# and bank accounts if I let them, but you will notice these numbers are conspicuously missing from my blog (and I suspect from the private blogs as well). So, why does everyone go private?

Basically, I’m wondering if I missed a report on some sort of new and growing trend [threat-trend] that has everyone scared, and the way to protect yourself and fight back is by going private. Did something awful happen? Was it in the news? I read both TIME and Newsweek every week, which, of course, means that I know exactly what is NOT going on. So, if you know what the threat is, please tell me so that I can evaluate it and decide whether I need to go private. So far, I’m comfortable but open to privatization should anything make me sufficiently uncomfortable.

It’s funny, because I consider myself a very private person. I only want people to know what I tell them, and I carefully consider what information I want to go public (this blog is fully-approved, by the way—no secrets here). Don’t even get me started on what an irritable hostess I am for house guests—even under the best conditions. Mi casa is no tu casa. But mi blog is tu blog. For now.

Just listen to me.

This all started a long time ago…
My gas mileage used to be inconsequential. By that I mean, I don’t know what it was. It didn’t stand out as being totally AMAZING or very, very poor. My gas gage has been broken since I’ve had the car, so I have to fill up when the gas light comes on (or soon thereafter). In order to have one additional aid, I also reset the mileage counter each time I fill up. I don’t work out the miles per gallon, but I figure that the light WITH the mileage counter is nearly fail proof. And it is. I’ve only run out of gas twice. That’s average, right?
Well, it’s been really bugging me for a year now that my gas mileage has been falling akin to the stock market. True, I don’t know what it ever was to begin with, but I can remember it being well into the 200s before the light would come on. Then I was sad when it was in the 220s, then 180s, then …eventually… 140s. This caused me no small amount of concern. I would dread seeing the gas light—REALLY dread it—“just a FEW more miles…don’t come on yet…” I drove in a state of fear even greater than the state of fear that I normally always drive in. So, a couple months ago, the dealership was called and they asked me to drive three-tanks-worth of gas from the same station on my normal route, recording the miles/gallon.
…

This all started a long time ago…
About a million months ago, I noticed that my tires looked low. I mentioned it to B and he gave me a very “my dad” type response, “Your tires look fine.” Sure. He knows more about tires. Whatever. But the tires still looked low to me. It was bugging me as the months went by. I’d mention it monthly, “Honey, the tires look really low to me.” Always the answer, “They are not low; they look just fine.” I couldn’t understand it. I even SHOWED him the tires. “Look at THAT one!” How could he not see it?
Finally, after MONTHS of this, as we parked his car next to mine one day and the weather was nice and we were not in a hurry to get somewhere, he decided to prove to me that I was crazy. So, he got out his tire-pressure-checker-device, intent on making this a learning experience. “I’ll check the first one, and then you can check the rest.” First, he showed me that my tires are 44lb. tires. Then he used the device: 22lb. Ha HAH! He was so shocked he quickly checked the next one, forgetting about how he was going to make me do it. This next tire was so low, we don’t even have a reading for it. The pressure thing didn’t even pop out, which means it was 10lb or fewer. Now I was excited! The next tire was the one that looked the worst (and that, when I showed it to him thinking he would not be able to deny how low it was, he could not see anything wrong with it). But B was done checking. “Well, they’re all going to be low. I’ll pump them up tomorrow.”
And he did. B normally gets up when I leave for work, but on this day he got up 15 minutes early, put on his jacket (it was POURING RAIN) outside, and headed out to my car with his bike pump (the tall, stand-up kind you use your arms for). When I got out there he was soaked and working hard. I sat in the car for a few minutes (the rain, you know) until finally he stopped so I could get to work (the final tire was mostly pumped up). He said it was a great start to his workout. His arms and chest were burning and he was worn out.

So for months we had both fretted and despaired over the tanking gas mileage, but also for months I, alone, had fretted and despaired over the ever-more-flattening tires—the very CAUSE of our mileage problems. Think of all the wasted gas. Think of all the wasted fretting! The car is currently getting GREAT mileage (I guess). Comparatively the mileage is great; certainly it’s good enough to be inconsequential. And, a lesson has been learned. I finally got B to see that not only do tires have a HUGE impact on gas mileage (bigger than he thought they would), but I should be listened to when I think there’s a problem. It will save us money and save him 15 minutes in bed on a rainy morning.

Srant Eyes

When people hear that you don’t know whether the guest in your human hotel is a boy or a girl, they will try to enlighten you. Their guess, regardless of what it’s based on, is as good as mine or yours or anyone’s. Still, many people feel conviction when they share their insight. For all I know, most people either go with a random guess or a gut feeling, that is, these folks don’t share how it is they came to believe [or KNOW] one way or the other. That’s me. When I guess about others, I’m just playing the game, because it’s FUN to guess when the odds are 50/50!!! I might be right! Other people try to impress upon me the accuracy of their guess by sharing the way they came by it. For instance, the FedEx Ground guy knows because of the height of the belly. Others know by asking me about cravings or fetal movement. The grocery bagger…well, I don’t know how she knew, but she’s from India and told her guess to the cashier who translated it to me, so it sounded…well, very sage coming from a tiny Indian woman in one of billions of Indian languages. The girls at work know because of the “ring test.” In fact, they didn’t think I would let them try it on me, since I didn’t want to know the gender. Ummm…okaaaaay.

But the most interesting gender prediction to date was given a couple days ago by a Japanese man. I work for a Japanese company, so I work with a lot of Japanese people as coworkers and clients. This man was a client, here in the office to meet with one of my coworkers. His English was very limited (much like that of the guy he was meeting) but we’re all totally used to that. He saw the belly and the following conversation ensued:

Him: [pointing] When? When…auhhh…when…auhhh…
Me: In May.
Him: Boy or gull?
Me: I don’t know. It’s a surprise!
Him: Suplize. Ah-huh. I sink it is gull.
Me: Maybe!
Him: [pointing] Very round. If boy, … [bringing his hands together] peak.
Me: Oh.
Him: Also, you have calm, nice face. If boy, … [at this point words fail him and he proceeds to put a finger on the outer corner of each of his eyes and pull up and back, creating very slanty eyes—or, srant eyes, as some might say. I am a bit perplexed by this Japanese man making slanty eyes in an effort to tell me how my face would look if I were carrying a male fetus. What does he mean? If it were a boy, I would look Asian? I would have srant eyes? I don’t feel comfortable asking him these things or supplying him with these words, although I cannot figure out what else he could be saying. Finally, it comes to him:] mean! Mean face.

And now we know.

Observations

Being pregnant makes people really friendly—not pregnant people, OTHER people. If you aren’t moving, everyone around you will start talking to you and asking you questions—and without you returning the asking, they will tell you all about their experiences. They can’t HELP themselves. The time you spend in line at a grocery store or post office, the time you spend waiting on an elevator (or IN the elevator), the time you spend filling up at a gas station, you are a sitting duck and EVERYONE wants to talk to you.

I don’t typically like strangers knowing things about me without me telling them. It’s a tiny bit uncomfortable. Strangers have known about the pregnancy for months; now they also know I’m having a baby SOON. The other time I can remember having everyone know something about me without me telling them was on my mission. The nametags we wore everywhere drew people’s eyes to them like moths to flames, although based on their glares and other reactions you would think they got too close and the flame was burning their eyeballs out. No pleasant (or even apologetic) smiles, and beginning conversations with those who seemed unable to divert their gaze ended in a pleasant conversation approximately .00001% of the time. Everyone who saw us would know our names and that we were religious, never less than that and, sadly, rarely more.

This time, people just can’t HELP but talk to me based on what they instantly know. And they are happy, friendly, even thrilled when they see me. When the elevator stops halfway to the ground floor to take on an additional person, the formerly deadpan face the elevator opens up to will invariably smile at the sight of the belly and start talking to me. It’s as if I made their day by being on the elevator. By the time we get off the elevator they will know that I’m expecting, when I’m due, that it’s my first, and that I don’t know if it’s a boy or girl. Additionally, they may also know where I’m having the baby, how long my maternity leave is, whether I’m coming back, how I’m feeling that day, and whether I feel “ready.” They also may feel compelled to let me know many things about themselves. It’s the complete opposite experience of the mission, and while it’s very pleasant to have everyone so friendly and happy to see me, it’s still a little strange knowing that no one who sees me won’t know these things. Elevator rides used to be conducted in silence. I actually find the current phenomenon entertaining and amusing in its predictability and a bit fun in its departure from normalcy, although I admit that I sometimes wish not EVERYONE knew--or at least that the elevator will occasionally make it to the ground without stopping.

B does not wear a veritable scarlet alphabet on his belly, so strangers do not know that he is about to be a father…for the first time…to a nameless…currently non-gender specific progeny…so soon [unless we’re together]. (ok, ok, so people don’t know all that from just looking, but like I said, they are compelled to ask, and of course I have to answer, so basically, everyone I come in contact with inevitably will know these things.) I’ve told B about how “popular” I’ve become and regaled him with stories from some of the people I’ve encountered, but he finally had his own “experience” a couple weeks ago. Our crib had come in, and I had sent him to pick it up. The thing was supposed to weigh over 80lbs. Even if other people managed to get it in my car [I would be no help], I’d never get it out again. When he picked it up, the worker who retrieved the box for him began, “So, you’re going to be a father? First time? You’re gonna need to buy a lot of stuff. I have ___ kids, and believe me _______. Is it a boy or a girl?....” [B must think: Goodness! They’re doing it. It’s just like L said!] All the way out the store, people saw and knew.

[This is not even the story I intended to tell… Time to start a new post. This one got away.]

St. Patrick's Day

Today’s entry was written this morning by B. He doesn’t know I’m posting it, and if he objects when I tell him (I can't call and check as his cell phone is out of commission), I will remove it. So this may be a treat just for the few who visit the blog the second it is updated.

Quick background:
1. Last night we were at a birthing function when B started feeling some severe abdominal pain and pressure. Although he thought he was experiencing labor, I am sorry to report that after helping him relax and breathe through it, he had produced nothing by bedtime--least of all a cute miniature human.
2. This week is B’s spring break. He is, however, waking up before dawn (5:20 AM) to drive some youth to our church for seminary. He waits there for an hour and then drives them back home. We do not live near the youth or the church, so it’s something I would never do, but it’s just like him to volunteer.

This morning at work I receive the following email from him. It also is “just like him.” I laughed and laughed out loud at work each time I read it. It’s a great email to get anytime, but especially on your anniversary. Lucky me!

[WARNING: VERY GROSS BEGINNING.]

So, I was dropping some really large turds in the church toilet this morning after the intestinal pressure had built to a point I could no longer withstand. I have this nice pair of fleece pants that you like so much, that however, are not good at keeping my cell phone in their pockets. Many a time my cell phone has fallen out and under my seat in my car. So, I put the phone in my jacket pocket, which has never failed me. Today I found that my jacket pocket also has one position where it likes to release its contents. Warning: this is where the story gets gross, if you thought it was gross above think again. Having found this new weakness in my pocketing systems, my cell phone dropped down into the toilet and found itself a place surrounded by large, fuzzy turds. I briefly considered leaving it there but quickly realized sooner or later I would have to dig it out because it certainly wouldn't flush down, and I would lose all those numbers like I did when my sweet phone from China got wet shortly before we got married. I quickly grabbed it out, tossed it on the floor, and finished my business.

Well, what do you do with a poop-water soaked cell phone? You don't want to get it more wet, but you can't leave the poop-water on there. So, I briefly rinsed it, hoping not to further the damage too much. Then I dried it with paper towels and remembered a recent article in consumer reports on "what to do if your cell phone falls into a liquid" (this may have paid for the magazine in itself) and quickly took my phone to the oven, which was warm from something that somebody from seminary must have baked or warmed up. I left my cell phone in there being careful to check it often that it at least wasn't getting too hot to touch. Of course, I also immediately took the battery off, since corrosion, as we recently learned, is essentially an electrical process that is advanced with the presence of water. It can also be advanced in the presence of electrical charges.

I baked my phone while at seminary and then put it on my defroster on the way home, which I ran the whole time even though that meant running the ac. It actually got hotter there than it did in the oven. Hopefully not too hot.

I brought the cell phone home, took off some of the outer casing, blew it out with the compressed air computer duster, and it is sitting in our warm oven as we speak.

You will not be able to reach me today because I do not plan on turning the phone on today. I will just gently bake it and hope it dries out by tomorrow.

I'll see you when you get home from work. And don't worry--I have washed my hands and will likely shower before you get here anyway.

Love, B