my week in objects (mostly).


five little things that made my week.

1. this bud.
{and the others that finally came.}

2. this tiny sock.
tiny sock
{for making its way into our laundry bag.}

3. this stuff.
coconut water
{because i don't usually go in for it, but it's helping to keep me hydrated.}

4. this starter.
sour dough starter
{because james and i took a sourdough class this week. we thought we needed two new babies, not just one.}

5. this clip lamp.
{for helping brighten the place up when we still haven't replaced the lights we took down.}

other things:
this is haunting.
something to lighten the mood.
something to lounge in post bébé.
these too. especially this.
to do this weekend.

things by me in other places:
an airy studio (with a dream tub).
benevolent thievery.
green eggs.

sprouted easter eggs.


easter eggs
Last week, a happy little experiment to prove that sometimes a fussy DIY doesn't take so much fussing after all. Full instructions for these sprouted easter eggs over on Gardenista.

Now, excuse me while I plant every vessel I own with wheat grass. 

Other things:

Last year's decidedly more labor intensive botanical eggs.
World's prettiest eggs left well enough alone.

life in a tiny apartment.


Did you see that little number up there? 100 tips? Seems like a pretty big number for a blog about something so tiny, doesn't it?

To celebrate the big 1-0-0, I'm answering a reader question about a subject near and dear to my neurotic little heart:

Scrub brushes.

Because this particular query struck a real kindred spirit kind of chord, I'm publishing the letter here for you all to enjoy as well. Can't keep all the good stuff to myself, etc.

Dear RMTL,

I think we have too many scrub brushes. There's the vegetable brush, the icky-pot brush, the bottle brush.... Each serves its purpose, but where does one put them all? I'm reluctant to stash them under the sink, esp. when they're wet, but man do I hate looking at them. Seeking your sage advice.

(I'm willing to replace any/all of these brushes. Would sort of love it if they matched or at least went together. Is that anal? I'm sure you understand.)

A Faithful Reader

Ah, the scrub brush dilemma.

First let me direct you to this tip and reiterate that there is no question that said brushes should be matching and nice to look at. Being anal is my modus operandi. See below for links to the good stuff.

Once you actually like the look of your classique brushes, you will not be so bothered by looking at them. But you might become slightly preoccupied with trying to keep them in tip-top shape.

Enter the jar.

We store our three dish-washing brushes in a glass jar on our countertop, next to the faucet. The jar system came about less for aesthetic reasons and more because I was sick of replacing the brushes when they got grody. Given my low tolerance for creeping mold and soap scum, the replacement was happening more often than was wise or reasonable and something had to change.

The above brushes are about 4 months old and still going strong, mostly devoid of nastiness. After each use, they get a thorough rinse with hot water and they're never left to languish in greasy dishwater. (I promise I've only brandished a soapy scrub brush in James's face and hissed, "Rinse. This. And. Put. It. Back. In. The. Jar." a handful of times. Victory for everyone involved.)

Note to germaphobes: I'm decidedly a neatnik, but not so much a true germaphobe. If the idea of using a scrub brush at all gets you ooged, sorry 'bout that. Bleach?

For the curious:
the dish brush.
the wool cleaning brush.
the tapered cleaning brush.

For tiny apartment survival tips #1-99, head here.

baby proof: gender-neutral colors.


James and I made our first baby purchase two weeks ago when we bought this impossibly tiny onesie in an innocuous shade of cappuccino brown.

Rehashing the problems with the old 'blue is for boys' and 'pink is for girls' business seems tired, until you are about to have—or have had—a baby. You think that all of that must be so passé and that we've surely moved on as members of an enlightened society to realize that colors say nothing about the gender—and certainly not the sex—of an infant. And then your sister has a baby boy and her home becomes flooded with fluffy blue things in the very worst shade of the color and you realize that you've been very, very naive.

Months later, you might even find yourself appalled at your own giggle, when the tiny nephew appears at your door wearing a pink hooded sweatsuit purchased by a doting, if colorblind grandfather.

Of course things haven't always been this way. And lo, we might still see the day when little boys run around in long locks and white frocks. But save a brief respite heralded by some supposed bra-burners in the 1970s, pink for girls and blue for boys has pretty much been the standard since the 1940s. (These guys give a little historical run-down if you're interested.)

And what happens when you're foolish enough to wait to know the sex of your unborn child? An onslaught of yellow and green and baby animals is what.

If I'm going to be picky—and I am—I prefer a rosy-cheeked babe in the soft neutrals of the near-colorless.

It's not that I don't like color. It's just that I often find more comfort in a softer palette. And just because there's a wee one on the way, I won't suddenly be embracing all things pale green and butter yellow for the sake of so-called gender neutrality.

A week ago when at my mom's bidding I put together a little collection of wish list items for what she insists on calling Junebug's layette, she sent this reaction to my "color" choices...

"...And when Junebug goes to Pre-K and the teachers ask about colors, Junebug will say that the carpet is more of a dove and the chalkboard is actually closer to a charcoal​ than the more accurately true gray of Farrow & Ball Mole's Breath. That is a nice quality in a small child—to be able to distinguish between these shades, because not everything is black and white and rainbows, you know?"


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