Gigging with the NedPow

The last time I saw Mary Louise Sparrow she was five years old, plunking away on 'Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star' on the piano under my uncharacteristically patient tutelage.  Her father, my professor three times over, Ned, later wrote me the letter of recommendation, singing such praises of my work with children (his in particular), that was likely my biggest selling point when I was being considered for the art/music teacher position at Beatrice Rafferty School.  Ned had had his Short Fiction Workshop summer class students over to his home in Lutherville (on the same street where iconic Baltimore filmmaker, John Waters, grew up) to wrap up the course, an intensive four weeks that had ten or so of us art students writing feverishly, cranking out tales for our classmates to take home and mark up with red pens, then discuss and dissect during the following meeting.  It was this class that prompted me to become an editor, albeit a lowly acquisitions editor at Publish America after graduating from college.  (Note to aspiring authors: I could not caution more strongly against publishing your manuscript through these folks.  A seedier, more dishonest group I have never met.  They'll take your money and your integrity.)

Last night it was a thirteen year-old Mary Louise who played attentive and loving babysitter to Olive.  A few days ago, her dad contacted me to see if i'd come play a gig with him and his buddy, Wayne (a.k.a. "Pow Wow"), at 7 West Bistro in Towson, just north of Baltimore.  I was game, even though I'd barely picked up a guitar since December, when I played for the last time with the UMM folk group.  We went over to the Sparrow House, a darling Victorian former- post office, for lunch and to rehearse a bit before the 5-hour gig.  Ben, another former student of Ned's, met me at the house and he and I rode over to the venue, having made sure that Mary Louise and Olive were ready for the evening.  I felt sad to be leaving Olive for so long - the longest I'd ever been away from her - but knew she was in capable hands.  ML, fortunately, bears no resemblance whatsoever to the thirteen year-olds to which I'd become accustomed - no makeup, no cell phone, age-appropriate clothes not emblazoned with labels, and sweet and kind.  I knew that, though she was inexperienced with babies so young, that she'd do fine, and if not, I was less than ten minutes down the road, and Ben was manning the phone.

Chez Sparrow, one of my all-time favorite abodes.

When we arrived at 7 West we were in time for Happy Hour.  Not being part of the after work drinking set, this may very well have been my first one, but let me tell you: on a Friday after a week of work, the very last thing I'd want to do would be to cram myself into a bar with a bunch of loud, drunk people with really ugly clothes and even worse conversation.  And I certainly would never use the word "happy" to describe such a scene.  It takes all kinds, I guess.  That said, we were only to be their entertainment, which was interesting.  I'm not all that used to playing out, much less to playing to such a foreign crowd, but they were all a few degrees past tipsy, so that alleviated some of my anxiety.  I'm know I have ridiculous stage presence, but whatever; three or so hours into the set, I loosened up a bit.  Sound was a constant issue, piercing the ears of the crowd with deafening feedback, and I had to work at staying directly on the microphone so I could compete with Ned's more powerful vocals, but that aside, it was a really fun evening.  We played a boatload of material - mostly classics from the '70s - lots of Neil Young, and even honored a request for Lynyrd Skynyrd (not 'Freebird').  When the bar started to empty around 9:30, Ben and I took off; I was missing Buggy bigtime, and was incredibly sleepy.  We arrived to find Olive still awake and content, scrutinizing the straps of her stroller where she was sitting (ML found she was happiest there).  I was thrilled to've had it be such a pleasant experience for all concerned.  ML can get a good reference from me for any future babysitting jobs, and I now have my go-to Baltimore-area childcare lined up in the event that I ever gig again with the NedPow duo (which I may; I just got a phone message from Ned saying three different folks had inquired about me, wanting to get in on the musical action, and told me to come on down.  Not happening tonight).

Ben playing competent roadie, pulling a quick high E string change for Dr. Ned.

Our Favorite Meter Maid

Today we lunched with my old, dear pal, lovely Rita.  We hadn't seen one another since I left for Nashville, and that was four long years ago.  We'd done a good job keeping in touch, but had never been able to finagle a face-to-face meeting, as our trips to our parents' homes never seemed to coincide.  Rita had just returned from several months abroad for a summer program through Virginia Commonwealth University and, even though we never saw each other anyway, I missed her while she was in Europe.  We met five years ago while working at Roots Market, she as a cashier and I as a produce steward.  It was wonderful to see her again.  She is, easily, my most stunningly beautiful friend; people at work would judge her, jumping to the conclusion that she was a snob, but she's not in the least.  She's friendly, smart, down-to-earth, silly, and has excellent taste in music - all the makings of an all-around great person.  I'm lucky to know her.

 Post-lunch, Buggy and I went to check out a car seat-stroller combo that I'd found on craigslist for $25.  To my delight, it was in fantastic condition, and will make our trip next week a whole lot easier.  The zoo animal print in the car seat is really cute, too, and is clearly geared towards little boys, but is way better than some of the girl items I found on my search.  People have started giving me funny looks for dressing Olive in less than feminine clothes (like the yellow Alaska t-shirt and blue Thirsties diaper cover she wore today), as if they're puzzled as to why I'd dress my bald little girl in outfits that didn't scream out her gender in radiating pink.  And for the record, I really kind of like pink - in certain shades and measured doses - and agree that it looks pretty on Olive.  Just not all the time.  

Bottle Snob

A few weeks ago I broke my trusty Ameda Purely Yours breast pump.  The poor thing had taken one too many blows to the floor as a result of my constant tripping over its cord and tubing, rendering it useless.  Having no backup, I had no choice but to nurse her exclusively (oh, right...there was also the option of putting her on Enfamil's new chocolate-flavored formula, but that stuff can get so costly!).  I finally went out and purchased a Lansinoh manual pump after reading some great reviews, and I'm pleased with it.  It works nearly as well as my electric one, but is a lot simpler and probably won't let me down if dropped on the floor a few times.  I imagine, also, that it will take my forearm extensor muscles to new heights.

Anyway, despite roughly three weeks of nursing, Buggy's form is still pretty touch and go, so to speak.  She has to be right on the brink of sleep to master it, otherwise it's a lost cause (and even more lost milk).  At this stage in her development, she's become really preoccupied with her surroundings, processing all the information she's taking in.  This is all well and good.  Great, really, except that, no matter how hungry she really is, she's unable to focus on the task at hand.  I've tried covering her face with a receiving blanket and have even formed a sheet tent over both of us to create a contained, private environment, but that tactic has only made her determined to pull and bat at the sheet.  This conflict of stimuli made the trip down to Asheville a bit of an ordeal; I stopped three times because her cries signaled to me that she was hungry.  However, each of these times, her big, inquisitive eyes caught sight of something and she'd have to crane her neck and look out at whatever it was - a gas station sign, telephone pole, tree, etc.  I knew I couldn't compete with these things, so I'd buckle her back in her seat and pull back out onto the highway, only to hear her cries resume five minutes later.

So I got the manual pump for such occasions.  Bottle feeding had really saved our lives on the 15-hour trip from Maine to Maryland, as we weren't having to stop every couple of hours to feed her.  Also, it's nice to have some extra milk stored in the refrigerator just in case I have to, say, leave Olive at home with my mother while I take our little gray cat, Wendell, to the vet because he's sickly again (when this did happen, Olive had fortunately just been fed and extra milk wasn't necessary.  Wendell was fine, too - just a victim of a flea infestation and weight loss incurred from the alpha cat hogging his food while my dad watched them while we were in NC).  

Today I'd been using the new pump and filled a bottle for Olive because she was pulling some of her usual tricks, but - wouldn't you know? - she refused the bottle.  I warmed the nipple and stuck it in her mouth, and she rejected it, scrunching up her face in disgust.  I'm going to have to work on getting her reacquainted and on good terms with the bottle, otherwise we're in for a very long, and far less pleasant, trip back to Maine next month.

God's Country

Some local color spotted in Black Mountain, NC.

We all had a pretty nice trip to North Carolina this past week, but I think I may've enjoyed it the most.  The Piedmont Triad area of central NC is nice and all, but doesn't hold a candle to the western portion - particularly Buncombe and Yancey Counties, where we spent Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.  

Olive and I got a head start on Monday to ensure that the bulk of our traveling would be done during daylight hours.  We weren't going to see Krysta till late that night, but we drove into downtown Asheville in the evening to mosey about and kill a few hours.  Our first stop was The French Broad Food Co-Op, as I needed to get some toothpaste and some snacks.  As I was perusing the oral hygiene products, an elderly man eyed Olive and asked, "Do you read Mothering magazine?"  I excitedly replied that, yes, I did!  He seemed pleased, saying that he recommended it to all of his pregnant friends, and was appalled that it didn't make the cut on a recent poll of the top ten parenting magazines (kind of a shocker, indeed, as I've yet to come across a better publication on the topic).  What a place; even septogenarian gentlemen have their heads screwed on straight!

The parking space I found at the French Broad Food Co-Op.  Super mom-friendly place!

We left with our two tubes of toothpaste (Auromere, which tastes like licorice, and Jason Healthy Mouth tea tree-and-cinnamon-flavored), two plums, and bosc pear, and hit the streets.  The city was surprisingly bustling for a Monday night, but my Maine standards had led to to thinking that most cities shut down around 7 pm, especially on a Monday.  We walked around till about 10:15, Olive conking out against my chest, when I thought we should head to Burnsville where we were meeting Krysta.  Route 19E at night was reminiscent of Maine's Route 9: windy, hilly, and pitch black.  I was nervous that we might have gone the wrong way, but we eventually found our destination.  I pulled up to the gate, where I'd been instructed to give my name and all should run smoothly.  Well, apparently my name hadn't made it all the way onto the guest list, because the friendly guard was unable to place me.  As we sat idle at the gate, Olive began to wail in the back.  The guard had to take a call, and I called Krysta to help get us through.  I must've seemed suspect, not being able to tell the guard the last name of Meg, whose parents owned the condo where we were to be staying.  Olive's cries became more desperate, and I climbed into the back to console her, then began to cry myself, feeling despondent and lost, having almost made it, but stranded on the other side of the fence.  Krysta was running late, having hit a nasty patch of traffic in Tennessee, so I told the guard I'd wait it out while I tended to Olive.  In the meantime, the guard had called Meg's folks back in Nashville to get the scoop on me; they called Meg who informed them that a friend of a friend was coming to visit, and they gave him the go-ahead to grant me access to the country club (prior to our arrival, Krysta and I weren't sure what to expect; I was imagining something a little less posh).  The guard informed me, after hearing that we'd only be there for the night, that I wouldn't want to leave.  "Welcome to Mountain Air (Ay-re, as he pronounced it", he drawled as the gate raised.  

Once in, we wound up and up the mountainside.  Mountain Air is situated on one of the higher peaks in the Blue Ridge Mountains, not far from Mt. Mitchell, the highest peak in the eastern U.S.  Olive cawed noisily, probably in reaction to her ears popping; if nothing else, our visit was practice for her first flight experience in a few weeks, and she did quite well.  The resort was set up in such a way that makes first-time night visitors' quests nearly impossible.  With Krysta's assistance on the telephone, I drove round and round the neighborhood in search of the condo, taking my mother's van down golf cart paths and onto putting greens only twice.  Meg came out to meet me, after I'd been wandering through the labyrinth of rustically lavish houses and condominium complexes for nearly an hour.  Krysta was not far behind by that point, and she had no better luck than I did in finding the place.  

Olive, Krysta, and I shared the master bedroom with king-sized bed.  Olive could have co-slept in the bed with us easily, but I put her on a blanket on the floor just in case she got kicky.  That bed provided me with one of the most comfortable sleeps I've ever had.

  The next morning we got up and breakfasted with Bridgette and Alfie, Meg's two cute children, ages six and three, then K, O, and I set out for Asheville.  We hit the co-op again, and took advantage of the availability of Buchi, the locally-brewed kombucha that was a sight for sore eyes as we are currently in the midst of a kombucha famine (GT Dave's Kombucha is off the market indefinitely, and Rob and I are talking about brewing our own, since Krysta has access to the culture required to make it).  Our lunchtime plan was to dine at The Laughing Seed, as per the request of Krysta's friend, Chad, but once we finally found it, we saw that it was closed on Tuesdays.  Instead, we ate at Chai Pani, an "Indian Street Food" joint, where t-shirts and bumper stickers bore the slogan, "namaste, y'all".  Kind of funny.  The food was tasty and cheap (and local), and the staff friendly, as is to be expected in the south.  I kept it low-key with my order, not wanting to go overboard on cumin or curry, for fear that it would upset my sweet one.  My dish tasted like a sloppy joe, only with homemade cheese rather than ground beef.  We each got mango lassis, always a treat, and these were especially good with flecks of cardamom suspended in the thick mango-yogurt blend.

                                                                                              "Namaste, y'all!"

  Next on the agenda was ice cream, obviously.  Just down the street was a candy-fudge-ice cream shop, so we went in and sampled a few of the choices.  The toasted coconut tasted like someone had squeezed a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil into the vat.  Completely uninspiring.  We'd noticed a Subway across the street that sold Breyer's ice cream, so we decided to stick with what we knew.  In a city full of great eateries, the Subway was understandably empty.  We each ordered a cup of chocolate and vanilla, paid half the price of the tan-in-a-cone place across the way, and supported a failing business.  Win-win-win.  

I drove around with my mouth agape pretty much the entire time we were there.  

The name of this highway was too good.  The South at its very best.

We then took to the road in search of the Blue Ridge Parkway.  We were just following the signs which, as our luck would have it, didn't take us to the BRP.  Instead, we ended up in Bat Cave, a tiny hamlet with little more than a post office and a smattering of cabin-turned-businesses.  A hand-painted sign advertising "Bat Cave Art + Such", complete with misplaced apostrophes, was too much to pass up, so we pulled over.  

The open sign was out, but a peek in the darkened window said otherwise.  Across the road, another sign beckoned to us: Jonny Poindexter's Attic.  

We went into the house and were greeted by a barking dog behind a baby gate.  Antiques and stained glass trinkets glinted at us in the dimly lit room, and, presumably, Jonny Poindexter, himself, came to welcome us.  He was a short, squat man who resembled Elton John without glasses.  A crocheted beer cozy was in-progress on his oak desk.  I admired the jewelry case - a vintage turquoise, ruby, diamond, and 18 karat gold cocktail ring, to be specific - while Krysta rummaged through the record collection, snagging up a Harry Bellafonte and polka album.  The two of them struck up a conversation about oom-pah and polka music, and discovered that they both hail from Wisconsin.  Cooler still was that John's brother, David, was a theater professor at Carroll College in Waukesha, WI, where Krysta was a student while David was still there.  And Krysta and John are both sauerkraut-making fools.  Needless to say, those two had lots to talk about.  He said that his plan was to open up a B&B in the near future, and Krysta and I exchanged knowing glances that said, Oh yes.  We'll be his first visitors.

Look at that thing!  I need it like I need a hole in the head.  Good thing I didn't have an extra $750 on me that day.

We got back on the road to head back to Burnsville for another night in a comfy bed.  Just outside of Bat Cave, we stopped at a roadside honor system produce stand so Krysta could get some cabbage (sauerkraut, of course), and I could feed Olive.  A family pulled in behind us, the man saying, "Oh, another blue Toyota van from Maryland!"  We chatted with them; they were from Severna Park, where I used to go spend my Tuesday nights sailing with my friend, PJ, then cooked dinner with him, his girlfriend, Betsy, and another couple, Becky and Brad, then we'd go play music - an eclectic mix of covers ranging from Lucinda Williams to Alice in Chains to Lou Reed.  The husband grew up in - get this - Waukesha, Wisconsin.  His wife was from Biddeford, ME, and they, too, had married in the state.  Strange stuff.  

We got lost again on our trip back to the Mountain Air condo.  The place is like a fortress designed to keep out invaders, kind of like Washington, DC.  That aside, it was pretty great.  Right before we left on Wednesday morning, we drove up to the very top of the mountain where there's a treehouse overlooking the Blue Ridge range.  Breathtaking.

The treehouse

I don't want my family to feel slighted in this; of course our stay with Honey was fantastic.  We got to visit lots with her, Jean, and Weegie, and got some time with my uncle Don, their two year-old grandson, Jet, and even got to see Jet's mom, my cousin, Kenzie, who I hadn't seen in years.  And even though Jet bit Olive's thumb pretty hard (enough to leave a scab the next day), I think she'll still be happy to go back.  As nutty as she is, I think she'll fit in pretty well with that side of my family. 

Note: Jean isn't really beating Olive - just playful spanking.  She simply couldn't help herself.  

Love Letter

Dear Western North Carolina,

I love you dearly. I hope to visit you more often, if not become a permanent fixture in your wondrous landscape.

Yours truly,

Heather

Oh, I Wish I Were in the Land of Cotton...

Or tobacco, as it were.

In the early morning, my mom, 15 year-old brother, Roma, Olive and I will be driving five hours (hopefully; beach traffic this time of year, particularly on Saturdays, can be ferocious, rivaling the Los Angeles Expressway) to Graham, North Carolina to see my grandmother, Honey, while Roma attends basketball camp at nearby Elon College.  I'll be without wireless internet for the week, so my blog will probably be on hiatus.  I'm excited to see, and for Buggy to meet, Honey, my great-aunt, Jean, and aunt, Weegie.  Some other things to which I'm looking forward: The games.  Oh, the games that are played while we're there!  Lots of card games, that I've finally discovered that I like (thanks to Rob), and Scrabble.  I'll bring with me our deck of Quiddler cards - a sort of hybrid of Scrabble and Rummy.  Very fun.  

Also, the air conditioning.  Here at my folks' house, unless I'm coming in from the swampy air of the outdoors, 77-80 degrees is a tad warm for me.  I've found that my southern relatives like to keep their homes a little on the warm side in the winter, and, conversely, a little chilly in the summer, which is fine by me.  

And then there's the matter of the local dialect... How I adore the sweet, southern accent of North Carolinians!  I always have, but there's nothing like living in the far reaches of New England, with those elongated vowel sounds and worse - the "ah" in lieu of a terminal "r" (i.e. cah and lobstah - which is how a lot of businesses actually spell it).  I'm sure plenty of folks find this charming, and to each their own; it wasn't for me.  I think my ears bled a little every time I heard it, as I'm sure there are those out there who harbor a distaste for speech patterns of the south.  In fact, I know that a southern twang is often associated with the ignorant and uneducated, which is an unfortunate and equally ignorant and uneducated assumption.  Probably just jealousy.  

Ar any rate, we're in for a fun week where I'll not only get to see my family, but also two of my dear friends: Mary, who moved to NC two years ago for massage therapy school and lives in Durham, and Krysta from Nashville, who I'll see in Asheville, one of my favorite places in the world.  I hope to live there one day.

Pictures from Tar Heel Vacation to follow...

Hey, That's My Bike

This is sort of what I look like this evening, minus the gray suit:

That's right.  I'm the proud new owner of a 2006 Trek 7000 hybrid bicycle.  It's been a long time coming.

You see, I have never had what might be described as a stable relationship with les velos, at least not during the last ten years.  I once pedaled around blissfully on my first Trek hybrid bike, the blue and purple Multitrack I got for my 13th birthday, until it was snatched from my possession by the local riff-raff in Bolton Hill when I was a freshman at Maryland Institute, College of Art.  I was diligent about keeping it locked up on the bike rack outside of the laundry room, lulled into the false sense of security that those tall blue fenceposts of The Commons provided.  Reality check #1: chain locks are easily clipped.  When I was again presented by my father (from whom I inherited my enthusiasm for cycling) with a royal blue Trek mountain bike, I stepped it up and invested in a Kryptonite U-lock.  The mountain bike only took me into my junior year of college, but I logged countless miles on its rugged wheels during the summer of 2001, when I'd often take off on 50-mile tours of Frederick and the neighboring counties, and along the C&O Canal tow path on the banks of the Potomac River.  One day, however, I was met with reality check #2: local riff-raff will take bike parts to the pawn shop in west Baltimore and leave the skeleton frame and U-lock dangling from the sign post outside of the dorms where it was locked.  An acquaintance of mine, Sergio Barrale (kind of a tool.  sorry.) approached me, a concerned expression on his face.  Is your bike locked up on the sidewalk outside The Commons?  Already I didn't like where this was going, as I knew this guy wasn't just making conversation.  I pushed past and ran down the steps to the carcass, picked clean by the neighborhood hooligans.  A black and white snapshot exists somewhere of me cradling in my arms the cold remains, eerie in their seat and wheellessness (courtesy of Samantha Lane Busfield Fiddy, forever at the ready with a Canon Rebel 35 mm in times of crisis).   This had been the bike that had first seen the yet-to-be-made-an-official-Olympic-sport, "tag-teaming", a sport of such extremes that, after that year, I felt ready to take on any physical challenge.  I was in a perpetual state of training, as one friend noted.  Tag-teaming is a misnomer, really, as there is no tagging, and, while the participants function as a team, only one member is doing the gruntwork.  This is not to demean the role of dead weight, however.  Sam did a brilliant job, and was my much-loved backseat rider as long as I had a bike while we were in school.

Shortly thereafter, I abandoned the idea high-end wheels, realizing that the mean streets of Baltimore were no place for the upper echelons of bicycles, and found at a yard sale an old red, white, and blue number with an excessively padded seat.  It was a fixer-upper, and I'd had some experience in bike maintenance in the few years since being in college.  The quality, if I recall, wasn't up to my standards, however, and the bike was quickly passed on to a classmate, Julia Molnar.  To usher in my senior year, I found an aptly-named olive green Schwinn Collegiate at the Salvation Army.  I think I may've ridden this bike for a week or so before its disappearance set the tone for The Worst Three Consecutive Days of My Life (1. stolen bike; 2. broken-into '87 Honda Civic and pilfered Canon Rebel 35 mm camera; 3. new kitten falling from the busted-out back window of the Civic onto Route 70 on my way home).  Let's just say that one just wasn't in the cards.

For my birthday the following year, my 22nd, my dad, refusing to give up the ghost, gave me a Schwinn Sidewinder mountain bike, a nod to my favorite R.E.M. song, "The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite".  While I was living in the questionable (but now totally gentrified, I'm sure) Reservoir Hill neighborhood, I'd taken to keeping in the the laundry room across the hall from my apartment.  Other tenants of the secure building kept their bikes there, so I saw it as an invitation and a display of communal trust.  I posted up signs in the lobby, hoping for the anonymous return of my Sidewinder, but it never resurfaced.  I still blame the seedy-looking boyfriend of the strung-out-looking bag that lived on the second floor, but I'll never really know.  

Right before I moved to Nashville in the summer of '06, I found on craigslist a vintage burgundy beach cruiser, complete with front basket.  This bike served me well while I was there, shuttling me to and from work at the neighborhood natural market, The Turnip Truck.  When I left, I left the bike with my old housemate, Emily.  I hope that it's still there in that wonderful city; it was a sweet little bike.  

Back in Baltimore, I got a $25 vintage white racing bike.  It was rickety, had bad tires, but it was a great city commuter bike; I worked 1.3 miles downhill from my apartment, so I could pretty much coast all the way to the jewelry store, arrive to work windblown but not sweaty.  Perfect.  This bike came with me to Maine, and sat under my outdoor steps, virtually unused on the inhospitable rural Maine roads.  Two summers ago, though, complicated circumstances involving my car requiring retrieval from a gas station parking lot 38 miles south, the White Wonder performed and retired all in the same trip.  The tires had been shot long ago, and were no match for US Route 1, all pot holes and frost heaves.  I struggled against the bike - even on the downhills - and finally deposited it on the side of the road in East Machias, four miles from my car, for some student to find and adopt.  

So it had been nearly two years for me sans cycle.  In anticipation of our urban relocation, Rob and I had planned to get ourselves bikes, and I found just what I was looking for on craigslist two nights ago: a barely-used Trek.  Olive and I drove 80 minutes roundtrip to retrieve it, and my father lovingly gave it a little tune-up when he got home, filling the tires with air, removing the little bit of rust, and oiling the gears.  It runs like a dream, and I am, once again, a very happy rider.  

Planner by Necessity, Not by Nature

I'd already recognized the fact that having a baby makes you plan ahead.  Instead of breezing out of the house with only my keys, I now have to ask myself things like, Do I have Olive's diaper bag?  Are there actually diapers in the bag?  Cloths for wiping up drool and spit-up? Her toy moose?  An extra outfit?  Three more extra outfits? (because there's often more than one accident)  These are just the day-to-day things for which to be accountable.  Our Alaska trip isn't for another three weeks, but I'm consumed by planning for it.  I'm excited to see Rob, but that eagerness certainly never would've had me scouring craigslist (the idea of buying a new outfit for our first back-together day is a silly one, indeed) or reading up on air travel.  It's the logistics of this trip that are sending me 'round the bend.  See, this trip will be about me going it alone (albeit with dead-weight Olive, bless her heart; she's sweet, but will probably be zero help, unless I count pre-boarding privileges and pitying looks from other travelers) until I get to the Homer Spit and am reunited with my fantastic and badly missed helpmeet (what a funny word.  I don't think I've ever used it until now).  The flight itself will be a cakewalk compared to what will happen afterwards, and this is the part that I've yet to iron out.  What I have to do first is score a used stroller and snap-in car seat on craigslist because, while I plan to keep Olive in my lap for the flight, unless we happen to be seated next to an empty seat, there's the matter of getting from the Ted Stevens Anchorage International Airport to my sister-in-law, Schelly's house (she and her husband, Tim, will be out of town when we arrive, attending his daughter's wedding, thus the no airport pick-up.  I'm super thankful that we're getting the use of their house for the night, nonetheless.  Schelly and Tim are pretty great folks).  

I was feeling thrifty and resourceful and put out a call to the good people of Anchorage for the use of a vehicle for two weeks.  No one was going to push their cars on me unless I asked.  I'd initially looked into rental cars, but was shocked by the price; I could go on a gorilla expedition in the Congo for what it would cost me to rent a Ford Focus hatchback for two weeks.  Plus, I did a little research on the safety of rental car seats, and the interweb had nothing good to say about these things.  I'd be better off Britney Spearsing it; Olive would be in just as much peril.  Instead, I get the use of a Toyota wagon (hello, old friend!) for $250 from a cycling fanatic named Alan.  I'm not going to implore Alan to come pick us up at the airport or anything - not his problem - so I imagine that I'll shell out for a cab to take me to the in-laws', then arrange to meet up with Alan and the Wagon either that evening or early the next morning.  Or better, maybe I'll just have the cabbie take me to Alan's and get my sweet ride straight away.  I like this idea.  I hope Alan's prepared to adapt his schedule to mine. 

I've sort of worked through the game plan just by typing, so I'm feeling a little less anxious about the plans.  Things will come together, I know.  The kind of cool thing about this is that I'm actually feeling like I'm getting my act together.   Flying by the seat of my pants all my life was fun and unpredictable, but I've hit a point where I sleep much better at night when I have a clear idea of what's going to happen next - at least what I can control.

Someone Told Me It's All Happening at the Zoo...

This is the opening line to Simon & Garfunkel's 1967 number, "At the Zoo", a song that, without fail, plays in my head whenever I so much as think of going to the zoo.  I just don't care much for the line, "...the elephants are kindly but they're dumb..."

Today I decided that we'd take advantage of the lower humidity and visit the National Zoo.  It was a nice Sunday and it's free.  I called up my friend Sam, my roommate for four years in college, who lives about a mile from there, to see if she was available.  I drove in and she, Olive, and I walked to the Dupont Circle Dolcezza location.  I'd never been to any of the newer shops, and I missed seeing the display of all of the flavors shown with some of the whole ingredients used - peach and avocado halves, chunks of 70% dark chocolate, basil leaves, etc.  However, they made up for it with some flavors that I'd been yearning to try (just this morning I was hoping that one day they might have a blueberry gelato, and today was my day): a blueberry lemon thyme that was incredible.  I sampled both a cucumber tarragon gin (strangely good and summery) and a plum (that tasted exactly the way a tart plum would taste if its flesh was frozen and pureed smooth).  Frequenting this place makes me want to open up a little gelaterie of my own one day, or at least have a basement laboratory where I can concoct all sorts of intriguing creations.  My friend, Krysta, gave me the idea of a mango Sriracha (Rob's favorite hot sauce) gelato, and on our way out of DC, I heard a chef on NPR talking about his gazpacho recipe that included a dollop of dijon mustard ice cream.  Wow.

  

Sam's 30 weeks pregnant now with a boy - Grant.  She held Olive, who sat perched atop her belly - a bond that, we hope, will carry over into adulthood.  We have the highest hopes for this union.  Besides, Buggy is already really taken with both Sam and Howard, and vice versa.  

Olive and I walked to the zoo after Sam had to leave to pick up her mother - already a doting first-time grandmother - at the airport.  Once there, we found many of the animals to be in hiding, seeking refuge from the 90-something degree day.  I pushed Olive in the stroller, and she gurgled contentedly or slept.  I'd been a bit anti-stroller for a while - up until this past week, really, as carrying her so close to my body in these temperatures was no longer pleasurable for either of us.  I'd was done with peeling a soaking wet Olive, her face imprinted with folds from my shirt, from my chest and waiting for the front of my shirt to dry.  The stroller is keeping us both dry and happy.  We did get a good gander at a mother and baby gorilla, that we'd first seen during our visit at Thanksgiving, that I guess would now be considered a toddler.  The great ape house was packed, mostly with a large group that seemed to be from an African nation.  Olive was mesmerized by the din of the crowd, and possibly the stench of the ape house.  I'm certainly looking forward to brining her again to the Pittsburgh Zoo, and have the inside scoop on the goings-on of the gorillas that live there.

Olive & Me

My friend, Dana, inquired, not too long after Olive was born, "Does Rob know how to use a camera?"  She was making a reference to there being no photographs of me with Olive, just a slew of sweet, sweet shots with Rob and her.  Yes, Rob knows how to use a camera, and does so with gusto when there are beetles, wood lice, and slugs about.  Not being one to bask in the glow of the flashbulbs, I gave Rob the impression that I disliked having my picture taken, so he honored that (though did make a few unsuccessful attempts at snapping us together).  I was getting a little sad that, years later, we wouldn't be able to look back on her early days and have her see pictures of her with her mother.  So I went to Ben, who most certainly knows his way around a camera (he shot our wedding).  Here is a sampling of the session, taken two weeks ago.

Alaska Bound

Olive and I can take it no more.

I decided over the weekend that eight weeks without Rob was a heinous idea, and that measures need to be taken.  It's not going to be fun, and it's certainly not going to be pretty, this business of traveling sans husband or help beyond the borders of the Lower 48 (I wish I could apologize in advance to my fellow plane passengers en route from DC to Anchorage), but the end result will be well worth it: the three of us together again, crammed into the spartan confines of a '70-something Toyota camper on Ice Dock Road in Homer, Alaksa.  I can hardly wait.  

Tickets are surprising cheap for summertime fares.  I mean, isn't this the time when people go to Alaska, if they're going to go at all?  We'll go out for two weeks at the beginning of August, then travel back on the same day (though not on the same flight; that would set me back additional $300).

Oh, and it's been hotter'n hot sauce in Hades here this week, and only seems to be getting worse.  We're heading to North Carolina, which - so we hear from the folks down'air - isn't quite the oven it's been here this summer, and better still: Buggy and I are making a getaway to the mountains of Asheville for a sort of-midway meet-up with my old friend from Nashville, Krysta.  This promises to be heaps of fun, and a welcome respite from the oppressive heat...and should tide us over till we go the the land where "oppressive heat" is a mind-numbing 70 degrees.  

So, though it's still four weeks away, I feel like it will come faster than the last two weeks have gone by.  The end is in sight, and I have a few things to keep me going till then.  It will be so wonderful to see our beloved guy again!

She & Him

It was another big day for Olive yesterday.  Ben came and picked us up in the early afternoon to go to Philadelphia for a She & Him show (for those unaware, She & Him is comprised of actress Zooey Deschanel and Matt Ward, or M. Ward, as he's more commonly known).  We stopped by the coffee shop in Baltimore where Ben works to check out his photographs on display there (very nice, by the way), then headed east.  

Once we got there, the parking situation was atrocious, it being a Friday evening in the Old City district, on 4th of July weekend, no less.  The spaces we could find were good for only 2-3 hours, which wasn't good enough for what we needed.  Ben's local friend, Alli, was navigating us over the phone, and we settled on a 3-hour parking space from which we'd have to move later.  Ben wedged us in the tight space that Alli had held for us, bumping up against the Subaru behind us, and called it good.  We walked to a restaurant to grab a bite for dinner.  I wish I'd caught the name, because it was unusual and good, even though I wasn't bowled over by the bar-like atmosphere (though those places do provide a good sound buffer when Olive inevitably decides to act like a baby).  We got a bag of popcorn (my fave) as an appetizer, Alli had the octopus salad, Ben the grilled chicken sandwich with lavender mayonnaise, and I had the grilled tempeh club with basil aioli.  Good choice.  

We started out for the Grand Plaza, the outdoor concrete venue on the waterfront, and met up with Alli's boyfriend, Eric, on the way.  We didn't wind up with the best view of the stage, but the sound was still excellent.  The show was well worth the $26, 2 1/2 hour drive, and $25 parking lot fee (after dinner we'd sucked it up and parked the car in a lot to avoid a $25 parking ticket).  Ben, holding Olive, fielded questions about her like a pro from other concert-goers, who clearly mistook him for her father.  Of course we found this amusing, but, unless he's wearing a rainbow flag t-shirt and talking fashion with his hand held mid-air, it's easy assume that a guy is a baby's father if he's toting a diaper bag or the baby.  

The drive home was rough on Ben, as Olive and I conked out, leaving him to shovel down my mom's chocolate-covered almonds for fuel and entertainment.  The Philly commute is much easier coming than going; I can relate: after a Decemberists concert years back, I blasted one of their boppiest tunes on repeat until I hit Baltimore, at which point I felt I was home enough to give it a rest.

We pulled into the driveway at ten till 2.  Typical Friday night for Olive.  

Honda #4

No sense in straying from a good thing.

I just purchased my 4th Honda yesterday, and it's basically a Civic masquerading in the guise of a miniature SUV.  The 2000 CR-V is in immaculate shape and was ready to go, and the owner's father, who was selling it for her, was good enough to remove his daughter's Delta Zeta sticker before I arrived to take it for a test drive (the University of Virginia spare tire cover on the back, with its orange V with crossed swords emblem, stayed).  It's fine with me if folks think that I went to UVA; it's not at all fine if I'm a mobil representative of the so-called "Enriching" sorority.  

Anyway, it's a 5-speed, which I adore.  There's a cd player, a functioning lap belt and - from what I've been led to believe by seller Rick Walsh - an oil reservoir that doesn't require me to put in a quart or two every 250 miles.  You can understand my excitement.

Now I'm grappling with how to get this puppy registered in my name and the Virginia plates back to the Walshes.  One would surmise that, since I have Maine plates and me still technically being a resident of the Pine Tree State, I could have my tags transfered to the new vehicle by simply faxing in all of the necessary paperwork to save me the 30+-hour roundtrip drive.  One might also think that the poor State o' Maine would have the good horse sense to accept any sort of financial help possible - namely in the form of my registration fees and excise tax (which, incidentally, is far lower than Maryland's).  Does this never happen?  Given that I'm only vacationing in Maryland, must I become a MD resident to purchase a car and drive it legally?  According to the slow-talking, dim-witted clerk at the Eastport city hall, I have to be present to sign the paperwork.  My practical suggestion to send them a notarized signature was shot down.  Driving all the way up there to essentially stand before them at the counter and scrawl my name is out of the question.  The system is bunk.  Registering in Maryland is almost plausible, as I believe I have some mail bearing my parents' as my forwarding address.  Going down this road is just as distasteful as driving to Maine and back, as it will set me back many hundreds of dollars, not to mention raise my insurance, and require me to get a Maryland license, when I hold a perfectly good Maine license.  Once Rob figures out what zoo will employ him after this internship in the fall, I'll gladly relinquish that for one of the new state, but until then, I'd prefer to just sit tight with the Maine info for simplicity's sake.  I'm going to look into getting it registered in Pennsylvania (perhaps I'll tell Bangor Savings Bank to send me a statement to Kellie's Pittsburgh address to prove my residency) since I'll be living there for a spell.  Ah, the complexity and red tape of all of this is sending me reeling.  You'd think that, in these tough times, states would want to make it as easy as possible for folks to get cars on the roads.  It's making them money!  Thus solidifying my notion that Maine, lovely as it is, is still a little backward.