Ben Folds with the Pittsburgh Symphony!

Last night Rob and I belatedly celebrated our anniversary (I was zonked and had no appetite after work last Sunday) with dinner and a show.  Our friend Maria came to watch Buggy so Rob and I could dine at Salt of the Earth, our second visit to a pretty remarkable restaurant not far from our house.  I was famished, and the portions are decidedly small, but we left completely satisfied nonetheless.  Rob and I are both voracious eaters so it can be a bit disheartening to have a plate arrive with but a smidgen of artfully garnished grub, but really, when we savor the deliciousness, the carefully considered elements, our bellies seem just as full.

My date

Risotto with crab

  Scallops with lentils and sausage for Rob

Hickory smoked tofu and asparagus for me

 Rhubarb, white chocolate, shortbread, granola, and ginger-mint ice cream

Strawberries, chocolate, granola, and dill!

Afterward, we followed Penn Avenue all the way downtown to Heinz Hall where concertgoers were flocking.  The masses were comprised of a diverse-yet-white group of what looked like pretty normal people.  Normal white people usually like Ben Folds, the quirky songwriter-pianist from Chapel Hill, North Carolina, whose echo of an accent reminded my of my own family in the Tar Heel State.  Our seats in the grand hall were sweet: twenty-five rows back and just a hair to the right of center; had we been sitting a seat farther over we wouldn't have been able to see his fingers dance and flutter over the keys.  The 90-piece orchestra took their seats, warmed up, we applauded, then Ben Folds walked out onto the stage looking rumpled as ever in his black suit and untucked white shirt.  He immediately took to the piano, the two things almost synonymous to me, and my jaw dropped.  It stayed that way for the remainder of the song while my eyes welled with tears.  Sometimes music really gets me.  It was stunning.  I used to bring a notebook with me to concerts to take careful notes.  I no longer do this and choose to just enjoy the show.  So I sat, watching Ben Folds play and sing beautifully and make witty remarks.  At one point he was asked by an audience member to make up a song, which is something he regularly does during live performances.  He arranged parts for the symphony and composed what Rob doubted was an off-the-cuff ode to Pittsburgh (he'd just learned that Pittsburgh boasts not only the highest per capita number of female sports fans but mullets, neither of which surprised me since Rob and I saw just that morning a man with a gloriously curly mullet that could have - should have - been a doll's wig walking his dog near the cemetery.  And female sports fans?  No kidding.  I think I'm the only female in the lot that couldn't care less about the Steelers, Penguins, or Pirates, though there have been many times when I wish I did).  Maybe it was pre-arranged, but it was grade A entertainment either way.  Lesson learned: see Ben Folds whenever he comes to town because, Buggy aside, there's not much sweeter than sitting in a beautiful old theater crying over Fred Jones Part 2 while holding Rob's hand.

When Baking Soda and Apple Cider Vinegar No Longer Do the Trick

It's been two and a half months since my hair has been cleansed by shampoo.  Do I miss it?  Absolutely.  There was a brief period when I felt like my hair was at its best as a result, but mostly it's been a major challenge.  The baking soda has stopped doing its scalp-cleaning thing and has since started building up, mostly in the back of my head, leaving a slightly greasy, slightly tacky mass that makes my skin crawl every time I touch it.  Instead of the apple cider vinegar rinse I'd been using, I experimented with lemon juice and honey (I like the honey), but the lemon pulp would get stuck in my hair and dry.  Not fun.  Today I very nearly broke the streak and washed it, but my hands alit on a bottle of baby powder in the bathroom closet.  I got an idea.  I shook some all over the greasier areas, around the crown, and hit the offending spot in back, then rubbed it all in really well.  Then I brushed thoroughly, trying to loosen the white powder from the strands, and could really see a difference.  I didn't succeed in getting out all of it, but the upside to this is that I could see what I'd look like once my hair really goes grey (it's there now, though harder to see from a distance).  It completely worked and breaking out the bottle of shampoo in a fit of being fed up with nasty (but not stripped, of course!) hair was averted.  It's an interesting journey, this commitment to going shampoo-free.

Three Sweet Years

Who could resist saying "I do" to a man who salutes them?  Pas moi.

I can't say that three years ago today I married my best friend.  Looking back I realize how little I knew Rob and am amazed by my assuredness in committing myself to him for the rest of my life after having spent only a few short months getting to know him.  It was in that time that I was able to see the sort of person he was, though, and I was willing to see what unfolded from there based on just a glimpse.  He was always kind, fair, and optimistic.  He was straight-forward and honest and a matter-of-fact communicator.  It was never not easy to know where I stood with him.  He was brilliant but not a know-it-all, fascinating without being too enigmatic, talented but not arrogant, and quick-witted while still appreciating my own sense of humor.  Rob treated me like gold - and still does - even when I feel I don't deserve to be.  With a ravenous curiosity about everything around him and a constant interest in self-improvement, I knew without a doubt that he'd succeed as a husband, so I jumped in.  In the years since he's completely surprised and impressed me with his humility, work ethic, and gentle, loving nature.  As a father he is phenomenal and easily rivals the amazing Bruce Michael in that department.  Olive adores her Papa, and she's very fortunate to get to spend just as much time - if not more - with him as she does me.  I hope to look back on this three-year mark as I do the day we married, marveling at how much I thought I knew about this remarkable man but how little I did in relation.  I married him because I completely trusted that he would be my best friend and that was all I needed to know.

We'll Wean When We Want

In light of the backlash of the most recent issue of Time magazine, this article was released and I think it's wonderful.  I, too, am one of those mothers that most folks have assumed have weaned her child.  I have not nursed in public for nearly two years, yet it's still a daily occurrence.  I hadn't set a timeline for how long this would go on, so this neither surprises me or was something that I'd planned.  I know many children who chose to stop on their own, and I know that Olive will do the same, but I've never wanted to be the one to sever that precious tie.  The fact that she still loves to do it and giggles with glee at the thought makes me glad we're prolonging it, as does the World Health Organization's suggestion that a child be breastfed up to "two years of age or beyond".  It's certainly not causing her any harm and, if anything, it's reinforcing the feeling that she is loved and protected.  Who doesn't want that for a child?

Bedtime for Buggy

This morning I decided to let Olive have a go at sleeping in a bed for her morning nap.  We'd noticed her gathering blankets and cozying up in our own bed enough times for me to think that she may, perhaps, enjoy the transition from crib to railless mattress.  So in we went, gathering a few of her favorite crib friends and Blue Blanket, and got into the twin bed that's in her room.  I like this setup far more because it allows me to lay beside her as she's winding down.  I can sing to her with our faces almost touching, her eyes staring intently at mine, instead of hovering a few feet above her the way I used to.  The first run was not smooth, but it normally takes her a while to fall asleep during the day which is why we weren't surprised to hear her pulling at her door then plinking away at the piano a few times.  I wondered if she might rather be in her crib, but we wanted her fall asleep in there when she was ready, which she did.  Tonight she was excited to turn in and gave in without the slightest protest, even telling me she loved me without me prompting her.  How I adore that child.

Marathon #4

On Saturday my dad came to the market as we were closing the stand, his second year coming to Pittsburgh for Marathon Weekend (he's such a supportive pop, that one!).  Olive was delighted to see him and the two of them wandered around while Rob and I cleaned up.  Afterwards we headed back to Highland Park for dinner at E2, one of the local restaurants on Bryant Street, since I'd heard they made good pastas.  I wound up getting spaghetti and giving my meatballs to Rob and my dad.  Our waiter kept the delicious grilled, chewy bread coming, and Olive ate not one, but two olives!  She'd only ever spit them out in the past, so this was progress.  And they were some excellent olives.  We went back home, visited for a spell, then put Buggy to bed.  My dad and I went for a walk around the neighborhood then drove to Kellie's where we'd be staying for the night.  Her husband, Mike, was doing the half marathon, and given the nasty road blocks and parking situation we decided it'd be best to consolidate.  I slept pretty well in Jack's bed and rose before 5:30.  After a breakfast of four scrambled eggs (I upped my normal race breakfast by one egg), Pop, Mike, and I were out the door at 6 and parked downtown by 6:20.  The temperature reached 81 later in the day, but while we made our way to our corral and waited for the 7:30 start I was freezing and ready to run to warm my body more than anything else.  I decided to stick with Mike, who was shooting for an 8:35 mile pace, for as long as I could, seeing him as a means of improving my time a little bit.  I lost him before mile 1, but even the little bit I ran with him helped spur me to keep a livelier pace than usual.  Seeing all of the clusters of runners, part of me wished that I had a group for support when parts of the course became difficult, but I've always been more of a solitary runner, especially in marathons, and I know I can do it.  Besides, all of the spectators - far more this year because of last year's rainier conditions - are enough to keep me going.

After the first mile I was already drenched in sweat.  The miles were ticking by without me realizing; I'd pass at least three mile markers and not even know it, which made for a less arduous run.  Twenty-six miles is a long way to count down.  However, somewhere in the fifth mile I began to feel a numb pain in the outer side of my left foot.  I kept most of my weight on my right foot and hobbled along until mile 12 when the pain went away for good.  It worried me, though, and I was afraid I'd end up having to walk the remainder, putting a serious damper on the day.  By mile 15 the heat had risen to 79 degrees, more than twenty from when the race began.  Unable to stand it any longer, I took off my shirt and tied it around my neck like a makeshift dicky.  I spotted Sarah, one of my friends from the market, then Water, an employee at the co-op with whom I'd once volunteered, who was passing out apple slices and Sun Drops, little chocolate candies.  At that point I was fewer than five miles from my house, and the jaunt through Homewood, the neighborhood in between, was fun, filled with lively supporters and an easy enough course.  I was flooded with relief when I hit Highland Park and was on the most familiar terrain of all.  Though I didn't see many neighbors I knew, I saw Rob on the sidewalk in front of our house, where a water station and band were also set up.  I ducked inside to use our bathroom,  have a drink of water, and snag Buggy's sunglasses that we sitting on the table.  They're a snugger fit than mine, making them better for running, and they were much needed on such a bright day.  Last year it was after I passed our house that things plummeted quickly.  I was dreading miles 21-26 since they'd given me such a dreadful time before, but my experience was very different this time around.  I have unpleasant memories of the stretch down Liberty Avenue through Bloomfield, all but dragging myself forward and hearing the heckling of fat women on the sidewalk, "Come on!  You can do better than that!"  That was in no way encouraging when I was already giving all I had.  This time, though, I was feeling full of pep, and one woman in Bloomfield told me I had on the coolest running outfit she'd ever seen.  The dicky worked in my favor.  As I bounded down the hill that descends into the Strip District, nearing mile 24, I spied a sizable crowd that had gathered outside one of the rowhouses and saw my buddy, Keith.  He cheered and the rest of his pals roared.  The final two miles were the toughest mentally, but I imagined it in terms of the beginning of a run and thought of how short a distance that really is, how I rarely go out for such a short run unless I'm with Buggy and we're just running an errand.  

And then it was over.  The finish line ended up being closer than I thought it was and I felt like I ought to continue running.  The clock read 5:03, so I knew that I'd beat my time from last year, 5:15:16, by a good bit, and had broken my record of 5:06 that I did in 2008.  I'd hoped to run it in under five hours but hadn't trained the way someone striving for this goal ought to.  I felt oddly good, as if I hadn't just run one of the farthest distances I'd ever gone.  My dad was there just before the finish so I was able to meet up with him easily, but it was harder to find Rob and Olive.  I knew they'd left shortly after I was at the house and he'd been studying the maps of accessible roads.  My dad and I circled the area for a while then found the family reunion area, organized alphabetically, which was brilliant.  I hung out there and stretched while my dad continued to look around and, soon enough, they found me.  Afterwards, we went to the market to close the booth, which was probably one of the best things I could do.  Staying on my feet and active rather than collapsing into my bed allowed my overworked muscles to cool down slowly.  My sunburn hurts more than my legs at this point.  I'm ready for my fifth.