Diaper Story

Real quick:

Today while making our weekly eBay ship-off at the post office (by the way, it's amazing what people will buy from you on that incredible site), the clerk, looking down at Buggy who was holding my hand, made this comment: "You're lucky you get to use Pampers and not diapers." HA! "Oh, sir," I began, "I do use diapers." He looked at me like I'd just told him that the package he'd just checked in for me contained Anthrax. "Does it cost you less money?" (probably assuming that I used a diaper service) "Sure. I wash each of them myself and don't really have to buy new ones." This was big news to this man. He said he remembered having to rinse out his baby brother's when he was a boy, and was probably thinking how times, blessedly, had changed, and there I was telling him that I was scraping and rinsing my own dear child's diapers each and every day of my own will! I guess it is one of those things that, when not used to it, cause many folks to turn up their noses in mild (or severe) disgust, but for me it gives me a tingling rush of excitement when I toss another soiled nappy into the bin or when I'm folding all the clean ones, all fluffy and warm from the dryer and thinking of all the chemicals and chlorine and Disney characters we're not putting on her bum. That and all the money we save by choosing cloth, but I wasn't going to go into all of that with the gentleman behind the counter.

Schelly!

To help gloss over my recent loss we had a visit from Rob's eldest sister, Schelly. I like Schelly, and not just because she's Rob's family member I know the best. She's an artist, she's smart, she's funny, and she really loves her brother. She also doesn't want to be that aunt of Olive's who lives in Alaska and never sees, so she pays her expat family a visit whenever she and her husband, Tim, travel east. Her stay was short but very enjoyable, filled mostly with lively conversation (she and Rob often talk of their family, their childhoods - she's six years older - and their father) and punctuated with several nice meals (Salt of the Earth. Wow.), a tour of the National Aviary, and Bananagrams. Rob and I declared Olive an FAS baby (Full-a-Sweet, not the Fetal Alcohol Syndrome baby topic that had spurred this in the first place) while Schelly was here; she was particularly lovable and instantly warmed to her aunt, bumbling into her bedroom to wake her in the mornings, learning to say "cow" in response to the cow-shaped humidifier, and being captivated by Schelly's candy-colored pink purse and the wonders inside (especially the little compact mirror). We are looking forward to Schelly's next Pittsburgh trip, when she'll hopefully have Tim and her son, Zac, in tow for a more extended stay.

My Full-A-Sweets

Olive enjoying her brunch at Pamela's Diner in the Strip: toast, a bowl of strawberries and bananas, tomato slices, and an egg white and vegetable omelette.

Schelly's scallops at Salt of the Earth. That frothy stuff is saffron foam.

I got the tofu dish - I can't pass up tofu, and yuba (tofu "skin") was on the menu, served over popcorn grits and dotted with a huitlocoche sauce (it's a mushroom that grows in corn. Who knew?)

And Rob got the squab. Squab is a farm-rasied pigeon and very good to eat.

And THIS was my dessert: Berry pretzel jello. Mesquite-herbed cream cheese at the base sprinkled with crushed pretzels and topped with local golden raspberries and huckleberries. Unbelievably good.

Schelly's got the Swiss Maiden dessert, finely shaved Swiss Maiden raw cowsmilk cheese topped with bull's blood microgreens all over a line of almonds, apricots, and maple.

Rob's s'mores may've taken the cake. Rich chocolate patties with the texture of flan, a scoop of maple ice cream, toasted marshmallow, crushed Golden Graham cereal and elderberries with orange zest curls. It was stunning, really. Go to this place if you ever get the chance.

Earth-Shattering News

I know this is of little consequence to most people, but when I read today that R.E.M., my longtime favorite band - my "spirit group", you could call them - announced that they were hanging up their hats as a band my head was reeling. Yes, it was bound to happen at some point, that much I knew, but I was so unprepared for such news. Everything has a way of balancing out. There I was, pleased as punch over the morning my girl and I had spent singing songs and banging away on drums, so when the news arrived I felt like I'd been sucker-punched. Bigtime. I was already disappointed that the band opted to not tour in the wake of their latest album released this past March, but I consoled myself with the knowledge that they'd take their show on the road in due time. Both of my parents are still using this tactic: "They'll do a reunion show!" But I'm not convinced. I've known this band a long time and they don't strike me as the sorts to rally like that, but who knows? I've been wrong before.

So suffice it to say that I am bummed. I called my parents' house after I found out and scared the pants off my mom when she answered the phone and, hearing my grief-riddled tone, got to thinking that seriously bad dealings had gone down on my end (conversely, when In Time, a best-of compilation was released in 2003 and I called her to express my fanatic praise of the record, her first thought was that I was calling to tell her I'd gotten engaged. Please!). I got home from a long evening at work and I got a sympathy call from my father, the man with whom I shared so much of their music, who took me to see them when I was only thirteen, and probably knows how this event affected me. He gets it because he feels the loss, too.

After polishing off a young coconut in a matter of minutes (including prep time!) and enjoying a tall glass of the delicious juice that Rob and I have been enjoying fresh nearly every day for the past three weeks (kale, apple, lemon, cucumber, carrot), I'm feeling a little bit better and am ready to proceed onward like a normal person. I remind myself that the world went through this when the Beatles disbanded, and on a much, much larger scale, but still. I absolutely adore these guys, but at least that much won't change.

Have a listen to one of my all-time favorite songs:

Music Together

This morning Olive and I attended our first Music Together class at the Center for the Arts in Shadyside. I'd signed us up for the wrong session - the babies only class which caters to infants eight months and younger, but I hadn't read the fine print. I took a chance and showed up at the mixed ages class, hoping there'd be room for us, and luckily there was. The instructor, Karen, had been highly recommended by the mother of one of my younger piano students, and I immediately knew that she'd be a good fit for us. There were seven or eight other families in the large room (which had a mirrored wall that beckoned to Olive for much of the hour), and most of the children were right around her age. She was easily the most active of the lot, buzzing around happily which, thankfully, was encouraged. Part of me wanted to rein her into my lap to sit quietly like the other children, but I knew she'd react negatively to the restraint, and moreover I knew that that wasn't what Karen expected me to do, so I left her alone to explore the classroom on her own, circling back to me whenever she felt inclined (I'd intervene only when her curiosity drove her to the contents of other peoples' purses and diaper bags). We were one of the only new families there, so I got the impression that the other kids were simply more familiar with the space and format of the class. We started out with a greeting song that will be sung at the beginning of each class, followed by a series of songs with claps or other hand motions. Farther into the hour a bin of small percussion instruments was brought out and we all got to experiment with them, creating a grand cacophony. Olive took a particular shine to a shaker that looked like an orange, and held onto it tightly when the time came to put them away. Another little girl, the oldest in the class at five or so, was outraged over this but Karen kindly explained that Olive had grown attached to the orange but would return it at the end of the class. Once class was over the girl quickly snatched the shaker and delivered it to the bin. I fear that my gal may not have made a friend in this girl over that incident, but I feel like Olive's pleasant demeanor will prevail and win her over in the end. We closed with the lights dimmed, and the children who had strayed from their parents made their way back. I so wanted to take pictures but didn't want to be that mother, so I'm trying to recreate the experience as best I can through words. After this first day I'm very encouraged; it's a great way for Olive to get to discover more about music, something she's always loved, meet and interact with other children, and for me to be around other parents, something I feel is very important. I was very impressed with the quality of the class, with Karen's methods and kind treatment of everyone, and the wholesome atmosphere. This is something Olive and I (and Rob, when he can make it) are going to really enjoy this fall!

Time to Go to the Park

Lately I've been awarded free Friday afternoons when my boss comes in and relieves me around 2. I normally get home around seven, just as Olive's getting ready to go to bed. Yesterday was the perfect day to be off early, and although I was dragged down with a nasty cold that I was fighting like mad with some homeopathic remedies, I was not about to miss a walk to the park with Rob and Olive in weather that has just started to call for sweaters. I stuffed my pocket with some soft flannel hankies and prepared to go.

Here she is before we left the house. Don't pay any mind to Rob's and my mundane talk - just look at that sweet little thing there in the hat. And yes, Mom, that pig sty of a living room was tidied up shortly after the video was taken.

Our little hiker:

And More...

Thanks to a late-night ballgame I was able to crank out more on the mural. It's nice to see some green filling in all the white space. And 'rillas, too (based on our zoo's own Harry and Ibo)!

Mural Progress

Thanks to my encouraging and always wonderful Rob, I've been able to bang out some evenings of painting in the back studio (Rob will chat with me or we'll listen to Seinfeld reruns or he'll watch football). My deadline for this mural is less than a month away, but I work best under pressure. It's been a real relief to find out how quickly this project moves; this shot was taken after about three hours of painting.

I'd say I'm in pretty good shape. The piece includes another panel to the right and another full row higher, as well as two additional panels the go over a doorway and six to the far side, but those will have far less information and thus less work. I was actually dreading the ark itself, but that's proving to be a much less daunting task than I'd worried it would be. Still loads more hours to put into this job, but I'll get there.

My favorite part of the piece is the pair of lemurs, those white patches, particularly the one captured in mid-leap.

Flea Infestation

Well, the cats are out of our hair now, being outdoor pets for the better part of the last month, but a new, perhaps even more vicious problem has taken their place. Fleas. Chances are they came in on the backs of the cats, mated, laid eggs, and now the eggs are hatching. Everywhere. I noticed the first one on Saturday as I sat on the couch. I felt a tickle then looked down at my arm where a small, dark spot sat. I went to brush it away and it sprung nimbly from its feasting spot. It had been a while since I'd seen a flea. Yesterday morning I was standing by the kitchen and felt the same crawling sensation on my ankles. There, swarming all over my socks like fruit flies, were fleas. I began to panic, realizing that the problem was quickly multiplying, and commenced vacuuming every surface, then left a message for an exterminator to give me a quote for services. All day long while I was at work I dreaded returning home, fearing that our home would be engulfed in a brownish haze of flickering fleas. Rob set to work researching natural remedies for home flea removal and called me while I was shopping for juice ingredients at Whole Foods to instruct me to pick up a hefty quantity of Borax. I got the stuff, dropped it off at home, then skipped out to give a first piano lesson to a three year-old girl in our neighborhood, then to a family meeting at the Khoreys'. When I got home I saw that Rob had gone into battle with the fleas: Borax was sprinkled over most everything in the living room. We can really only do one room at a time, which isn't necessarily the best way to attack these varmints; they'll simply relocate. This evening we'll probably do our room, then tomorrow Buggy's room. All the time I'm feeling phantom fleas, though it's hard to discern a phantom from the real thing since both are so fleeting. Their bites really don't bother me all that much; it's the idea of them that makes me shudder. I could hardly shake the feeling of having them bouncing all over my legs as I fell asleep last night.

One more reason the cats are never, ever coming inside again.

A Goon Devours a Kiwi in Record Time and Others

Get a load of this girl and her kiwi. Annihilation, pure and simple.

Here's a delighted Buggy with Rob in hot pursuit. It's most definitely her favorite game.

Here she is busying herself in her toy chest.

And here we are just doing what we do: