30

Highlights (or "everything that happened that was remotely celebratory") :

• Receiving all birthday packages in the mail on the very day.


• B arriving home from work with a BR ice cream cake, which was a) delicious, and b) an impressive feat seeing as he was on his bike ("How in the world did you climb up here?").


• Finding a set of mission style rockers at a garage sale for $50!!!!! (This is the highlight of the highlights.) Aren't they sublime? Don't worry, the ugly stained and faded fabric is just wrapped over the original leather seats. I'll fix this...someday...soon...I hope.


• Seeing "Inception" and going to Coldstone. These were on separate dates with different guys (B and E, respectively).


• Getting a new car!

Pretty good birthday, if you ask me.

San-D's Finest

(Yes, I’m talking about the firemen…and the 911 dispatchers. We were introduced today…)

The move is half over. We are in San-D, as I like to call it. Our belongings and our cars are en route. This is the part during which we enjoy the “pleasures” of hotel life and the pains of having everything entirely out of our control. When will the stuff arrive? No clue. A one million item long to do list? Just looming right now. But, I have said for a year that this move will be easier than the last one—the one with the three week old baby, the fly-by-night moving company, and no home in CS. And has this one been easier?

Clearly, it is a bit too early for us to call the move a definite success, but so far we have had to call poison control and 911 just once (each), so I’m feeling pretty good. Or maybe it’s the box of Sees candies next to me.

The poison control thing was last week, still in CS, and B’s call, so I will let him tell that story on his blog (no, he still doesn’t have one). The 911 call was mine, today, here in San-D. I was a bit conflicted (to call, or not to call, that is). It was almost time for E and I to pick B up from work. We were going to be a bit early, but I was long out of entertainment for the kid (we’ve been in hotel quarters for many days), so when I put him in his car seat and he seemed happy and entertainable, I just sat next to him and made him laugh for about 15 minutes. We played with all sorts of toys and nontoys. He had the rental keys at the beginning of the session and pushed the buttons repeatedly. When he became interested in something else, I took the keys away and dropped them onto the drivers seat and we continued playing. Several minutes later I decided we should head out before he became tired of the car seat, but, as I tried to get in the front seat, I found the door locked and instantly knew what had happened.

I’ve never called 911 before and I felt bad that it was a locked car incident, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’d have to look up a locksmith, they take over an hour to arrive, it’s now “rush hour” etc. I was parked next to the hotel’s open air Laundromat, so I quickly asked the young tattooed guy and the middle aged biker chick if they had any experience locking kids in cars and, more importantly, freeing them. The tattooed guy said to call 911. The biker chick said to too. A baby trapped in a car is an emergency. Luckily, the car was in the shade.

911 was very nice. I had limited information as to my location, but it took them no time to figure it out. They somehow even knew the layout of the hotel parking lot. I almost wanted to look up in the sky, expecting to see them (or rather a huge satellite) looking down at me. I felt stupid about making the call—the same way I feel stupid for going to the doctor (before I go…and sometimes after), but they handled it as if it were an emergency they knew right what to do with. They were sending the fire department for the rescue. Just DON’T break the windows. I have to say that although the fire department was quicker at getting there than a locksmith would have been, it was still TOO LONG if the car had been in the sun. Also too long if E would have been crying. Even in the shade where he wasn’t going to die, if he had been crying all that time, I really might have broken the window. I can’t believe how well he did. Strapped in his car seat, he just looked at me (and the biker chick) staring in through the windows. He even waved a few times.

I, on the other hand, cried the whole time. In fact, when I made the call, I was almost unable to speak to the first 911 lady. After they let me off the phone (with instructions to call 911 back if I were about to break the windows) B called. When I said hello, there was silence, stammering, then silence. I knew he didn’t recognize my voice and was checking to see who he had called. “Lyndsey?” “Yeah.” “I didn’t recognize your voice.” “That’s because I’m crying because the baby is locked in the rental and I had to call 911 and they’re sending the fire department.” I’ll be a little late picking you up…How was your first day of work?

Four fire men suited up in the red suspenders and yellow waders piled out of the truck—the ladder truck—to work on the car. They were middle aged guys, built like refrigerators (I find refrigerators to be solid—not fat—which is exactly how I think firemen should look). Maybe it’s the waders that make them look solid. Anyway, they were nice and quick and one even had a fun curly mustache that I thought was perfect for a fireman. Very nostalgic. Like pin striped baseball uniforms. We had a firefighter friend in CS who just didn't look the part. He looked just like a regular guy. Not solid. He should seriously consider growing the mustache. Anyway, people were watching from windows and balconies. Hotel security was hanging around to ask me after the firemen left if there was anything the hotel could do for me. The words “mini-bar” did not come to my mind in the moment. I wonder if they’d accommodate me now…

--ok, so it’s probably time to sign off. I just got back inside after running out on account of an earthquake. We need to be quicker. Practically the whole hotel was out of their rooms before we were. As it started, B and I looked at each other, then I went for the baby as B sat and realized aloud, “I don’t think those people above us can shake this whole building.” Nope. This is an earthquake. 5.7. Same latitude as San-D, but east. Welcome to southern California. Although actual earthquakes are scary, I look back with fondness at the time I spent huddled under my desk for monthly earthquake drills in elementary school. I was good at those.

But back to my 911 emergency from earlier today… It is nice to finally get something for that 911 cell phone tax—and to get it for something as benign as this emergency.

I'm prepared to pay you twelve. [aka B Versus the Wetsuit]

Preface:

I admit that I succumb to the siren song of garage sales and thrift stores. At least, I succumb enough to stop—whether I purchase anything is another matter. Luckily, I don’t like junk and I don’t like “stuff”. So, when I come home with something, it’s usually something that we have been waiting to find at a deal. Seriously, nearly everything we own is second hand.

Back when we were living at the Holiday Inn Express in CS, we were looking at the brochures in the lobby for ideas of things we might be able to do. Among the myriad of advertisements was one for the CS flea market! I’d never been to a flea market, but it sounded like a great way to entertain oneself on a Saturday morning, and, since our baby was turning 4 weeks old that day, river rafting and the like were out of the question.

I have been back to the CS flea market four or five times. I would have gone more, as I can think of no more enjoyable way to pass a Saturday morning, if we hadn’t been experiencing CS’s 11th coldest winter in its 115-year recorded history. That’s right, it’s STILL snowing weekly; we never got a fall or a spring. Anyway, a couple Saturdays ago, B came with me—his first trip back since the one last June.

B was—how shall I say—happily surprised at how awesome the flea market is. Apparently he had forgotten or simply not noticed last year. A kid in a candy store, verily, this time around. We each stop to look more closely and ask prices of the things that interest us. I say nothing to any of his inquiries or purchases, as I expect the same of him.

With that, I give you B Versus the Wetsuit.

A man selling primarily an entire van-full of boots and shoes (seriously, hundreds of pairs) also had a two-piece wet suit. B picked it up and asked a price. We all keep walking. Then B stops to try on and try out a pair of roller blades. E and I keep walking. B will catch up. After about 25 minutes, I call B to find out where he is.

"What's going on with the roller blades?"

"Uh...they're good."

"Where are you?"

“I decided to try on the wetsuit.”

I tell him where we are and hang up, wondering how on earth that wetsuit try-on is going. Is he putting it over his clothes? Is he taking off his clothes in the middle of the flea market? He had sounded a bit preoccupied, so I had not asked. Whatever. E and I keep walking.

About 40 minutes later, still no B, I decide to head back to the wetsuit/boot-selling man’s area. I get there. No B. What is going on here? I eye the van. Could he be trying on the wetsuit in the van? I call him again.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the bathroom. This thing is like a Chinese finger trap!!!! I’m rolling around on the floor and I can’t get it off.”

Yes folks, B was rolling around the restroom floor, completely trapped in the wetsuit. He needed a rescue. He mentioned the fire department because as he told me “you can’t come in here.” The fire department? Watch me come in there. I mean seriously people, the fire department? You want them to rescue you from a wetsuit on a bathroom floor at the flea market? We’re getting that wetsuit off if it takes buying both it and a sword to cut it off him right there in the bathroom. This is a flea market; there's bound to be some garden tools or something.

In the end, he was freed without the assistance of the fire department and without damaging the suit. He did not opt to purchase the wetsuit. He did, however, purchase the roller blades and several other items, including a drill press which he has since tasked me with selling on Craigslist. (“I don’t know why I bought it.”) Don’t judge him too harshly. He is still a novice.

Announcing

THE TULEY BABY GUESSING CONTEST 2010

Because, seriously, the only thing better than two babies under the age of two is two babies under the age of 18 months.

Into the second trimester, we are now beginning in earnest to prep E for the new bundle of joy that will soon be dethroning him from his ruling baby status. We encourage him to walk everywhere and we are teaching him how to treat a baby softly using a singing goat puppet. Mostly E just looks at us like, “Give me a break, I’m 10 months old.” We anticipate disgust when the baby turns out to be nothing like a singing goat puppet.

If you played last time, then you know the drill. Email, call, or comment your guesses. As for dates: mid September to mid October is right on time.

And to the winner goes a free ticket to the San Diego Zoo!!!! Yes folks, this baby will be born in San Diego (but hopefully not at the zoo). You must get to San Diego in order to redeem the prize (no word yet on whether you can stay with us—our living room floor may already be occupied by the resident Mr. & Mrs.). If you turn down this grand prize, you will receive some sort of free merchandise that we will be given when we become zoo members—perhaps something along the lines of a San Diego Zoo calendar.

Best of luck!

Cooking with L

I do not have an entrepreneurial bone in my body, nor am I an inventor. However, I have a gadget in mind that would really come in handy in the kitchen. Ask yourself: How many minutes do you spend sweating and silently swearing in an effort to cut open a spaghetti squash or a butternut squash, or an acorn squash? It takes all your strength to get a knife into the squash, and then it’s stuck there. It will not cut. So you have to muster up all your strength again to pull the knife back out, which, surprisingly is even harder than getting it in. It must also be admitted that throughout these maneuvers the squash cutter is the very picture of how NOT to be a good scout. Knife safety techniques simply will not get the job done. This perilous in/out struggle must be repeated at least 20 times. It’s enough to make people decide not to bother with squash, which is a crying shame.

And so, my friends, I give you the “kitchen ax”. Sold with the kitchen chopping block, naturally.

Seriously, I’ve thought about this a lot. Sometimes I get B to cut open the squash before he goes to work so that I won’t have to deal with it. I have wished that we had a run-of-the-mill outdoor chore ax that I could cover in plastic wrap and use for this purpose. I have also considered before-and-during my squash-cutting episodes whether there is a way I can get myself to such a height that dropping the squash onto concrete would bust the thing open. I don’t know how high that is…certainly higher than for a comparatively hollow pumpkin. I have even considered opening the garage, backing out the car, and running over the squash to break it open. No joke. I had it all planned: I’d put E in his stroller in the garage so he could watch. Then I’d back the car out and put the squash on a metal pizza pan, with another on the top forming a sort of ramp. I was a bit concerned about the possibility of E being hit in the face with flying raw squash, which I am convinced would be significantly more dangerous than being hit in the face with flying strained squash. So I haven’t tried this yet.


B has just entered the room and I have told him my grand idea.
His first remark: “How is this different from a cleaver?”

[silence]

What’s a cleaver?



After hearing his cleaver pitch, I still believe the ax would do a better job. It sounds like a cleaver (lighter weight and shorter-handled) would get the job done after several hacks. The ax would take care of it in one blow. B is worried about the kitchen counters and floors of the ax wielders. I have promised to use the kitchen ax in the garage.

Thanks for the mammories...

Not really.

To commemorate E’s eight-month birthday, I gave him what he’s been wanting, hoping, begging, asking for and demanding: I weaned him. He is overjoyed. So, I guess I will allow myself to be too. It’s no secret that I hated nursing. After just one week I said that I’d rather go through the natural childbirth again than continue to nurse. (I’m not kidding either. Natural childbirth, though horrendous, is OVER when it’s over. The nursing torture just keeps on coming—every two hours… it never ends… )

Mantra 1: My comfort is of no importance when it comes to what’s best for baby. Were it not so, what kind of a parent would I be? At worst, unfit and incarcerated.

In light of Mantra 1, I, of course, endured.

After two months of this agony, things eased up and I had one enjoyable month, during which I could READ while nursing. I could have gone on like that for months. As it was, I did go on for months, but without the reading and with a new obstacle. See, when E turned three months old, he made it very clear that he was through with nursing. From that time on, he was a terrible eater, taking in very little, or refusing all together, and always putting up a huge fight.

Mantra 2: E’s comfort is not a matter of importance when it comes to what’s best for baby. Were it not so, what kind of a person would he turn out to be? At worst, spoiled and insufferable.

And so, he endured as well.

For several months he ate [drank] very little (though always lots of solids; he thinks he’s a grown up), and I commented to B often that he was obviously NOT into this and I should stop. B followed these complaints up with separate pep talks for E and myself. I have to say that it was more than a little offensive on a personal level when after all the pain and trouble I went through and was still going though to have him completely reject the nursing for an inferior product—one he didn’t even know existed.

So, I now am doing my best to focus on the positive of the entire experience: that it is over. So wonderful. While nursing I often wondered how bottle feeding would be. If you are wondering too, let me tell you, it's at least 500 times better. Will I try nursing ever again? See Mantra 1 and Mantra 2.

Stairway to Heaven

Let me explain.
Out in front of the giant glass pyramid that is the Rock&Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, there is a large courtyard/square. In the center is a raised garden/fountain area. Throughout this entire space there is rock and roll music being piped.

So, says I to myself when we arrive, “I think it would be a great idea to run up to that raised garden/fountain area and jump up on it and dance.”

So, I did. T saw and liked my idea and joined me soon after.

We danced and danced and danced. I enjoyed myself immensely, and after several minutes of dancing I had to pause, doubled over from laughter in an effort to keep from peeing my pants. My parents were in hysterics too. B was…well he was…I’m sure he was around here somewhere… Oh, THERE he is; watching from a safe, hopefully un-related looking distance at the corner of the garden/fountain area; looking uncomfortable.

After several minutes of dancing, we convinced my parents to join us. (B’s cover was somewhat blown when they chased him down to give him the camera.)

I reflected on this event a few days later as we drove home from the Denver airport. I’m not known for “freestyle” dancing. I would be the first to call myself inhibited. Not only would I vehemently refuse to participate/perform such a feat 99% of the time, if forced (like, say, under threat of guillotine), I probably wouldn’t know what to DO. No moves would come to me. But on this day, it seemed a great idea and I knew intuitively what to do. It was the right time and the right place, and it felt great.

So, as I reflected on this event, I wondered why such nirvana is so rare and foreign to me, and how I could ever again find myself so moved and able to get-on-up-und-boogie. I asked B how he had felt about the whole thing. He replied: “When you first got up there, I was kind of embarrassed, but then I thought, ‘hey, she’s having a good time.’” Poor, inhibited B.

I won’t quit my day job. I will frame these photos.

The Good Word

How many fast food chains can you name? How many can you drive to in your mind? With soft serve and French fries near the very top of my favorite food list, you can bet I am familiar with the names and routes to several of these establishments (although other than the soft serve and the French fries, I know little to nothing about the rest of their offerings).

Recently we received a mailer that included a stellar coupon deal offered at one of these restaurants. So, I saved it. “Just in cases.” B also saw the mailer while waiting to get his tire fixed at the shop; he snagged it and then we had two! We still had no idea if/when we would use the coupons, but as the expiration date approached, I asked if he were up for a fast food frenzy. We decided on a date and looked forward to it more than I’d like to admit.

When the date arrived, after B got home and we fed baby, we giddily headed out the door. “Do you know where we’re going?” B asked. “Yes, I know there’s one at [insert address].”

We arrive and pretend not to know each other (only one coupon per customer). I step up first, since B appears to be feigning interest in the menu. I hand the kid my coupon and say, “I’d like this.” He takes it, looks at it, and replies, “This is Carl’s Jr.”

Total confusion ensues. I take the demonstrative “this” to refer to the establishment that I am patroning. So I take the coupon back and am totally confused because it too says Carl’s Jr. So what’s the problem. I even ask him. He informs me that I am at Jack in the Box.

I really couldn’t believe it. I had never realized that there are two restaurants out there—Jack in the Box AND Carl’s Jr. Never having eaten at either one, they just sort of blended together. I stepped out of line, broke our cover and told B the astonishing news. Neither one of us could think of a Carl’s Jr. location, or another Jack in the Box for that matter. We just don’t go there. Although, I CAN take you to several McDonads, Wendy’s, Burger Kings, Dairy Queens, Sonics, Subways, and Taco Bells—even if I’ve never eaten at the specific location. Weird that I somehow still see some of them.

So, we called T from Jack in the Box to get her to boot up her lappy and tell us where in CS there is a Carl’s Jr. Apparently there are ten of them. Imagine my supreeze when she tells me the address of the nearest one: the corner of the intersection that I turn at to go to Walmart and the post office. This can't be right. Easily this is one of the most often traveled corners for me.

We drive there, all the while with me wondering how a Carl’s Jr. could be there. But there, it was.

I feel both proud and embarrassed when I think about this experience. But more than that, I feel utterly grateful to have stumbled upon this GEM. Carl’s Jr., despite the weak name, is the BEST fast food place I’ve ever eaten at. I LOVE IT. Please, find them, get to know them. Do not let this chain go unnoticed and die. It’s the only fast food you will ever need.

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.