Erin Shaw Street

The Zoo

A lot has been happening in the Street household lately, so we have been trying to take some time out to have fun. Last weekend we went to the zoo. We'd been once before with Nate but he was just an bitty then, so he enjoyed it much more this time. He especially liked the monkeys (perhaps because we call him our little monkey), kangaroos and the butterfly garden. He got a game that involves catching paper butterflies for his birthday, so he enjoyed trying to catch the real thing in the butterfly enclosure, which he is doing here.

We're looking forward to spending more time at the zoo -- Shane and I enjoy it as much as he does I think. There are some more pictures in the album "Summertime 08 July - ?" to the right.

This weekend we had the chance to spend some time with our friends Steve and Nancy, in town for the Post-Herald reunion. Steve and I sat across from each other during my time at the paper -- my first job. Steve taught me many important lessons, like there's no such thing as too many snow globe's at one's desk, and the value of various Birmingham eateries (many of which are now gone ... rest in peace La Paree). We had a great time catching up.

The Post-Herald Reunion was interesting. The paper closed in 2005, five years after my short tenure there, and there were people at the lunch who worked there long before I was born. Like everything else, I didn't realize at the time how lucky I was to work alongside some people who were such talented journalists and people who told me about the bygone glory days of newspapers. I liked to imagine the smoky newsroom and the sound of typewriters and men in suits and hats (maybe that's why I'm really into "Mad Men" now). Of course that was all long gone by the time I came around, but I could hear it in the edges of the stories that people shared yesterday when they talked about late night election coverage and actually stopping the presses. It's just downright sad when you know what happened to that paper, and many more like it, and more importantly, what's happening to the hundreds and thousands of newspaper people who are losing their jobs.

But I digress. On a totally different note, I'm counting down the days to my trip to Atlanta this week, where I am going to see the one and only Mr. George Michael. Nate said his last name for the first time last week (Nate's last name, not George Michael's.) And that is our story for now.

Hot August Nights

Got back this afternoon from a quick three days in North Carolina, where I learned about goat farming and country music singing, neither of which I am remotely qualified for (though I do love to eat some chocolate goat cheese, a new found treat on this trip).

I walked in the house bleary eyed and exhausted from my travels, and was surprised by many fantastic things: Nate bought me a dozen lovely roses, including my most favorite hot pink variety and a bottle of "Goats Do Roam." He is most thoughtful and tasteful, and I was glad to build towers out of blocks and march around the family room for the next three hours at his command. Up since 4 am? No worries.

After he'd gone to sleep I checked my email and about died when I found out that my favorite (given, only) Neil Diamond cover band, Hot August Nights, is playing in Birmingham August 2 ... my birthday!!! Holy Cracklin Rosie serendipity -- I haven't seen or heard about them in at least six years. (The last time I tried to see them I waited till about 3 am at The Nick, only to be dragged away while holding out the hope that they'd still arrive.) I called my best Neil Diamond friend (who shall remain anonymous) and told him to put on his sequined vest. We got all night/to set the world right.

You Like Music, I Like Music, I Can Tell We'll Be Friends

I'm getting ready to go to sleep, only to wake up at a ridiculously early hour to catch a plane for work. Although I love traveling, it's always hard for me to leave my guys. I think that the longer that I stay up tonight the longer I will be able to smell the Johnson's baby soft lotion in the air, even though Tater has been asleep for an hour. My parents watched him while Shane and I went to a movie and out for Indian, one of our favorite Sunday night things to do.

What's on my mind tonight: The best discovery that I've made the past few weeks has been this book called "Love Is A Mix Tape," by Rolling Stone writer Rob Sheffield (who is easily recognizable from various VH1 "I Love The Fill In The Blank" shows). Sheffield chronicles his life and his marriage, cut short by tragedy, in this 2007 book . He writes about his wife as an Appalachian punk rock girl who sewed silver pants, and tells their story by detailing mix tapes beginning with his late 1970s youth and continuing through their mid-90s life, complete with the dawn of The Best Music Ever (see: The Smiths, Donna Summer, Sonic Youth and Hanson in the same breath). Maybe it's because his music evolution is similar to mine (a few years advanced) but wow, it resonates (and is really good writing).

Sheffield writes about music and the magic of hanging out in the mall authentically and without apology, and the book is an ode to the art of the mix tape (see: posting title) and their role in the life of anyone who has cared about music (or wanted to get a party started or solidify a friendship based in ability to rock). I am almost done listening to it and highly recommend. Anyone who can write ... "She had a serious and ongoing relationship with the first three B52 albums, like all Southern girls" has my vote.

Pittypat's Porch

Every year my mom and I say that we won't go back, and every year we do: The Our Lady of Sorrows 4th of July garage sale. 36 hours later my arms and back still ache, and I'm not really sure it was worth the heat, the crowds and the dowright ugliness that ensued somewhere in the handicraft aisle. But I did get:

This prize of a tiki glass (a rare female Tiki) marked "Pittypat's Porch" (left center) -- Mom actually spied this treasure; a Kermit the Frog Welch's juice glass (circa "Muppets in Space"), a vintage copy of "Trixie Belden and the Mystery of the Missing Heiress," two porcelin doves (I am obsessed with decorating with images of birds [maybe something I saw on "Swingtown]), a black and orange laquered makeup box and two Paul Bear Bryant commemorative Coke bottles. (With Coke still in them, which we will drink when Alabama rises again to a national championship.)

I can't say why I get such a thrill out of getting up at the crack of dawn, driving halfway across town fueled by coffee and a dream, then standing in long lines in 90 degree heat only to stare down the person next to me over that original Yahtzee set (yeah, I got one of those too yesterday). Even stranger is that this is on a weekend when I was bound and determined to completely liberate our garage from all the clutter that's been weighing it down (so much for doing that when you're carting in a car load of junk in the name of decor).

We spent all of today digging through our artifacts (um, that would mostly be *my* artifacts), and yet I still can't let go of the archaelogical collection in our own backyard. How could I dare part with all those yellowing 90s newspaper articles? My Pee Wee Herman lunchbox? And that velvet poodle? That is a collectible. But at least we're putting in shelving ... just in case I need to get to that martini shaker and fast.

My Hood

When we moved into our neighborhood, I really had no idea of what it was all about. Very pregnant, very stressed and very crazy for trying to juggle a new home, a soon to be new baby, a full time job and full time grad school, I just wanted to get into a house and soon. The paint and decorations would come (much) later -- at the time I was just focused on getting into a good house in a good school system (preferably with a Starbucks nearby). In December 2005 we moved into our red brick house in Hoover. Although I loved the house, I had secret suburban guilt. Wasn't I supposed to live downtown, or at least in a charming neighborhood nearby? Wasn't that what I preached?

Here's the thing: I love our neighborhood. It is a neighborhood in every sense of the word. When we moved in, fresh baked cookies and pies started showing up at our doorstep. When I came home from the hospital, exhausted from child birth and this squggly new person in my arms, dozens of warm meals were dropped off by women I'd never met. When Shane had his surgery, the casseroles and phone calls kept coming. And every month I have the chance to go to dinner with the women who make it happen, the neighborhood moms.

I remembered how much I love this place tonight when our neighbors Kevin and Amy came to our door with Kevin's tasty BBQ butt. (OK it makes me laugh to write this, and I get a childish giggle every time I talk about "Boston Butts." It's funny!  I didn't grow up with all this BBQ lingo so cut me some slack.) Kevin is a competitive BBQer, and every few months we get an email letting us know he's going to fire up his mammoth grill. His homemade sauce and the delicious melt-in-your-mouth meat is a treat for anyone lucky enough to have it. They brought it by on the way to the Barons game, and minutes later we were fixing warm sandwiches, with Nate begging, "Taste please, mama."

Literally jumping for joy, I sliced a piece for our little dude and said to Shane once again, "Man, I love our neighborhood." It's so different than any place I ever imagined living as an *adult*, and so much better at the same time.