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.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
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# ]
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
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?
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.
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.
Monday, July 27, 2009
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#
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#
Friday, July 24, 2009
"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.
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.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Monday, July 20, 2009
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"?
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"?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)