Reilly Grove Meth Police

[My sister has been bugging me to write this story for a year. This one's for you, T.]

I guess I know how this happened.

For one, they have an aggressive anti-meth ad campaign going on in CS, which is the setting for this story. Have you seen billboards like these? The surgery? The dirty bathroom? What about the radio ads? The lady who loses her kids?

Also, on occasion there are articles on msn like the one about meth houses for sale, which make you feel like most people do meth and that any house for sale has been a haven for meth-use, if not meth production. Once you find out the all-but-inevitable truth that meth was made or even used in the home (after hundreds or thousands of dollars worth of testing), it will cost thousands more to get a hazardous waste company to completely gut the house.

Finally, there are more direct and personal reasons that I think and worry about meth.

So, hopefully that explains why on a sunny afternoon I became suspicious of two shadows loitering by the lamppost outside my bedroom window. It was a typical day—frigid and clear. The shadows looked like they belonged to tall, thin, baseball-cap be-decked persons milling about in very close proximity to each other … for nearly an hour.

Hoodlums, no doubt. What COULD they be doing there? I checked on the shadows every ten minutes…ok, every five minutes, plastering myself against our upstairs window with the hopes of seeing more than just shadows. No luck. So, I decide on the most likely story:

These two guys are drug dealers and they have newly discovered that the lamppost under my bedroom window would make a fantastic spot from which to deal methamphetamines. You know, quiet street—hasn’t been a car all morning. Perfect! No one to see their operations. They are waiting for someone, surely.

No way. Not in my town (at least, not on my street under my bedroom window). I decide to confront them. I will chase them away.

Having little-to-no training or experience on a drug fighting unit of local law enforcement, I formulate what I believe to be a never-been-tried approach.

Drug Bustin’ with L

Step 1: Dress warmly. (It’s freezing out there.)

Step 2: Call someone to let them know what you are doing, just in case you are abducted—or killed. (I can’t find my cell phone, as usual. Skip this step.)

Step 2 [revised]: Kiss sleeping baby good-bye. (Hope to see him again—in a safer world.)

Step 3: Stand at the front door visualizing my approach and rehearsing my line. (Our front door/porch is not in view of the suspects, but they may hear the door open and bolt, so I’ve got to be quick—take them by surprise—if I’m going to confront them. Also, I must be prepared to give chase.)

Step 4: In one motion—maybe two—open the door and race out (closing the door behind me). Cross the porch in two steps and JUMP off the side of it into the landscaped barkmulch/bushes/rocks in full view of the lamppost. (I wasn’t about to take our front steps and walkway all the way around, giving the suspects time to escape. I needed to catch them unawares. No sooner did they hear the door open, than they saw me flying out from the side of our house off the concrete ledge of our porch saying, probably a tad too loud for normal conversation, “Can I help you guys?”)

Step 5: Upon landing rush towards the individuals and formulate the rest of the plan. (Maybe they’ll be running and I’ll be chasing. Maybe I’ll be running and THEY’LL be chasing. Don’t really know.)


That’s the plan. I guess I can say that it worked.

All went according to plan—it was a completely by the book bust-up—that is, steps 1 thru 5 were followed with exactness. What I found under the lamppost as I landed and rushed toward it, only half expecting a reply to my “Can I help you guys?” line, was a guy and a girl [a “couple”] milling about, huddling really, trying to keep warm. They looked less hoodlum-like and more “trendy” than I had expected. They appeared quite surprised to see me, so obviously my plan of taking them unawares by running and jumping off the side of my porch totally worked.

They explained that my neighbor was tinting the windows of their car (yes, he tints windows in his garage) and they were waiting for it to be done. I took everything in (their look, their story, etc.) as I approached, and by the time I was just about under the lamppost with them I was satisfied that they were probably not drug dealers. Now, how to get back into the house.

I decided to tell them what I planned to tell the drug dealers—the beginning part—which is that they had been spotted, and not just by me. I explained that a “neighbor” had seen them milling about and called me to say, “Did you know there are some people hanging out under your lamppost?”

Everything from here on out till I get back inside is a bit hazy—due to the adrenaline drop, no doubt. Not really sure what happened once I ascertained that they were not drug dealers. I think they apologized. I think I mumbled incoherently as I wandered back into the house, taking pains to climb onto the porch from the side so as to give the impression that this is the way I always enter/exit the house.

So, Reilly Grove residents, you can all sleep a little more soundly tonight. I’m watching out...

Congratulations HH2!

It took a while to get around to scoring, then a while to score, and finally a LONG while to post the results, but finally we are sending HH2 her promised San-D Zoo winnings!

We messed with our scoring system each evening for about a week as we thought of ways to make it more “fair.” But, have no fear. You were not robbed of your victory [E]. No one other than HH2 ever had the highest score (although positions 2-5 [and perhaps many of the rest] changed daily). In the end, the scoring system we developed this year is much improved from last year. But we still discuss future changes—particularly in the gender category scoring. So, keep playing.

If you think you should have received more points, remember that our system rewards consistent good guessing. So, a person may win the contest who has not “won” any of the individual categories. Solid guesses across the board are better than alternately being “right on” and “way off”. Also, you may be several days off for the date and do better in that category than you do on the length, even though you were only “half an inch” off there. This is because the range of dates is much larger than the range of length guesses.

Here are the final scores:

1. HH2 71.1
2. DMN 61.4
3. EMN 57.0
4. HH1 46.7
5. TEN 44.1
6. TJN 41.7
7. KES 39.8
8. LAN 27.5
9. DAN 27.1
10. JENC 6.6

[Perfect Score: 101.573768]

Blast.

Halloween was celebrated in costume by all. E donned the hat only partially and only for photos, but he was identified as a “Jedi” by several people who saw him just by the robes and his association with the rest of us. So, success.

In preparation for this event I did some “research” by going to Blockbuster to rent a Star Wars movie, though which movie to rent was a mystery to me. I needed Ewoks and I needed Han in his “classic” outfit—what he wears in the first movie (in movie production chronology). Does he wear the same thing in every movie? I didn’t know. So, I asked a Blockbuster employee, hoping against hope that he could direct me to a single episode.

It is my belief that Blockbuster is simply a job, not so much a trained profession. I don’t feel that the employees need to know anything about movies—or rather I don’t find that the employees know anything about movies. Alphabetization? Definitely. Movies? Dicey. So, I had little hope that the employee I approached would be able to do more than direct me to the movies in question.

When I told him what I wanted and why [for Halloween costume “research”], he congratulated me because, as he modestly informed me, he happened to be the BIGGEST Star Wars fan. Right here, employed at my neighborhood Blockbuster. Happy and relieved though I was, I found his assessment of himself to be a bit dubious. Star Wars’ biggest fan? That’s a tall order. For one, I bet the biggest fan is unemployed (although my assumption regarding Blockbuster employees didn’t hold on this trip). Also, I think that I would be in danger—or at least feel like I were in danger—if I were in the company of Star Wars’ biggest fan, and with this agreeable fellow I did not.

He gave me the movie I needed (yes, just one; although I was right in asking since Han does NOT always wear the same thing) and even described in detail what Han’s outfit consists of (all the way down to the gold on the sides of his pants, which I had to watch a good deal of the movie in order to even catch a glimpse of).

At one point I asked, “Doesn’t he have a gun?”

Big. Mistake.

“He has a blaster.” [silence]

I just stare. Is he serious? So, that's yes, right?

Two things I mention as postscript to Halloween 2010:
1. It’s a pretty good movie. I watched about 40 minutes of the episode I rented and was quite surprised by how entertaining it was—even more surprised by how GOOD it looked. Ahead of its time, indeed. I need to watch these movies. I have no idea what the story line is, I can just think of bits and pieces and find myself wondering how they got there and what they are doing (Why are they in the desert? Why are they in the snow? Why are they in the forest? Why are they in the swamp? Why are they in outer space?)
2. I sent a photo of us in our Halloween costume to a few people. Mere weeks later I found myself searching for a photo for our Christmas card. We do not, nor will we ever, have pictures taken with the intent of using one of them for our Christmas card. We’re just not that way, although I’d like to be. But it’s a bit of effort with a small likelihood of producing a shot with all of us looking and smiling at the camera. So, our cards are informal at best. But as I thought and searched I found only one photo of the four of us. It was taken at the Zoo around Thanksgiving time. That’ll have to do. Only after sending the Christmas cards did I remember that we DO have a Halloween photo of the four of us. So, we had TWO possible pictures for our Christmas card, and I think I will simply send a Halloween photo each Christmas from now on and omit the hunt.

Time is short...

I thought we had three more years—years where my Halloween vision would go unchallenged. But, it’s started already. E is REFUSING to don his costume.

I can’t understand it, really.

First of all, he never gets ideas about what he does or doesn’t want to wear. Which pants, shirt, hat, shoes, jacket/no jacket…it’s all the same to him. So, why would this be any different than anything else I dress him in?

Second, he has no “better” idea of what to be. This is what I thought would someday end my Halloween rule. “You’re going to be Marty McFly!!!” “I don’t want to be Marty McFly. I want to be a hamburger.” But E has no clue what he wants to be.

Finally, it’s not like I’m dressing him up in a generic furry animal costume. What’s he got to complain about?

This is really causing me a lot of worry because we are doing a theme and E is sort of what I would call “the anchorman.” His costume is the best and the cutest. Without him, the remaining costumes look quite rag-tag. Pretty much, we SHOULDN’T do this if E bails. But if we can convince him to do this for the family, we are going to look pretty awesome.

I realized this problem a month and a half ago when I pulled out his costume and wanted him to try it on, just to make sure it was going to work/didn’t need any modification and so that I could see how cute it was. I hoped that if I just pulled it out the next week, he would be fine with it, since, as I said before, he never cares what I make him wear. No go. Week after week, no go. So, finally, this week, in desperation, I have been having B wear the hat/headpiece in the evenings. E adores B, so it’s our best shot. I’ve worn it too during the day. Still, E refuses to have any part of the costume near him. We’re running out of time. I still have work to do on the remaining three costumes, and I’m putting it off, wondering if I should even go through with it, since we may have to can the whole thing. Curses.

Adler Kai

October 5
8lb 13 oz

It's a Motorcar

No, it's not a minivan. That would have been overkill. Plus, although I was turning 30, a $30,000 gift, though fitting in way, was not something I was comfortable accepting. Went with the Mazda 5. Much better. Almost the ideal car, really. Two seats in the front, two seats in the middle, and, theoretically, two seats in the back (we won’t be using those). So, it’s basically perfect for a family of four.

I mean, think about it. If you have two carseats, you WILL lose the third seat in any vehicle bench. And, who wants the middle really. Why even make five seater cars? But back to the M5. Here, we don’t have to have two car seats squished on either side of a three-seater row. There are just the two captain’s chairs. Perfect.

And, get this! As the marriage of a car and minivan, we get the best of both worlds when it comes to the kids’ doors! They slide—like the minivan—so you don’t have to worry about chipping the car next to you, or about having someone park so close that you can’t get the door open enough to get the infant seat in. But, they are REAL windows. You know, ones that can go up or down like the back seat windows of a car (not like the fixed windows of a minivan).

So, after those two captains chairs, there’s a big cargo space (provided you have the two rear seats out of commission) for groceries, strollers, surfboards, etc.

It’s dark, sparkly blue with dark tinted windows. And it’s just about perfect.

Words of caution:

First, if you did want to use more than four total seats, you would have NO cargo space. Seriously, you get two more passengers OR stuff. Not both.

Second, my only disappointment is in how few places there are to put stuff (like sunglasses, Kleenex, etc.) up front, and how “uncontained” everything in the back is. The babies in rear facing car seats with tons of groceries, etc. hanging out loosey-goosey in the back is kind of unsafe. They’d be hit with all sorts of projectiles in the event of an accident. We’re working on a solution (net or something) to this problem.

And now, is anyone looking for a 2003 Nissan Sentra? Runs good…

Smaller, Older, Dumpier

[This is not the post where I recount my 30th birthday.]

Think of the rent/mortgage you pay monthly. Now, just for “fun,” imagine what sort of living space upgrade you could get if you DOUBLED that amount. I know you don’t have the flexibility in your budget to do so, but just imagine that you did (or that you were FORCED to double it). You probably don’t know exactly what the market offers at that amount, but certainly it’s something bigger, newer, and nicer, right?

Well, here in San-D, our doubled rent has us in a smaller place, one with no garage (bad news for people like us with 5 strollers, three bikes, two large RC planes, a kayak, an elliptical trainer, and camping gear for five…). Additionally, the place was built in 1967. A blessing and a curse. I instantly liked the “charm” that such an “established” property affords—very different from the last couple places we have lived, all of which were built within five years of our occupancy. However, during our first month, we spent two weeks wearing headlamps after dark in the upstairs because of an electrical problem; water has been leaking through the cupboards and floors in the kitchen for who knows how long, which is nasty and produces a crop of mushrooms growing out of the baseboard in front of the kitchen sink almost daily; and the “original” appliances (fridge, oven, W/D)—don’t even get me started. But after weeks of nagging, these troubles have each slowly been addressed.

Recently, we visited some friends who are living in a suburb community in the type of place we would usually live in (that is, new). It seemed SO NICE. Nevertheless, I’m very, very glad we live where we do, because the location COULDN’T be better.

Beach: 5 minutes
Sea World: 6 minutes
San-D Zoo (and a dozen museums in Balboa park): 10 minutes
LDS temple: 5 minutes
Airport:13 minutes
Brett’s office: 5 minutes
Library: 1 minute
Church: 1 minute
Cross the street (I walk it) and you’ve got TONS of shopping (plus a DMV).
Head the other way—into the condo community—and you’ve got the nicest pool I’ve seen in as long as I can remember, plus a separate kiddie pool, a basketball court, recreation room, weight room, exercise room, club house, sauna, reading room, playground…

So, come visit. Only, remember that you get what you pay for. And although staying with us will be cheap, it will not be comfortable. (Plus, remember that lodging with us will be the ONLY cheap part of your visit.) More on the topic of San-D, both the good and the bad--read:expensive--(there is no ugly) later…

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.