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#