Employee Evaluations (part II)

What can I say about Employee Number Two? Adorably, he thinks he is in charge. Mama and I get a kick out of letting him think so then later we chortle about it amongst ourselves. Truly, he means well, but he’s more like the lovable loser than the leading man. When they make my epistolary into a movie, central casting is more likely to call Woody Allen for a reading before Brad Pitt.

I’m still working on a suitable moniker for Number Two. He continues to request “Papa” ad nauseum. Sometimes I’ll give him a “Pa” or a “Ba” but if he wants a second syllable, he’ll have to earn it. The biggest problem he has to correct is absenteeism. He disappears for large swaths of the day to tend to tasks that have, at best, a tenuous relation to baby work. But he does earn points for returning in the evenings to play with me, read me books and sing me to sleep every night. Anyone who has ever heard him sing knows this is the next big problem to correct.

Basic truths seem to elude him. For example, one morning in a misguided attempt to be helpful, he thought squash would be a more appropriate breakfast for me than cereal. And he can’t accept the fact that there are other modes of locomotion than simply crawling and walking. I have invented a new form (patent pending), for which he is entirely unappreciative. In it, I remain seated while pulling myself across a tile floor, much like a dog with hemorrhoids. In truth, I am still working out some of the kinks. He insists I should be walking by now and while I have taken a few tentative steps on my own, I’m not ready for a morning jog yet.

I shouldn’t be too harsh with him, though. He does serve a useful function besides opening jars and chasing lizards out of the house. He and the U.S. Ambassador finalized an accord with the President of Guinea-Bissau regarding, I assume, the terms of my imminent trip to that republic. In this picture, after a particularly prickly negotiating session they agreed on an 8:30 bedtime for me. For my numerous jaunts, he arranges visas, purchases tickets, carries bags, serves as translator, and measures red carpets to ensure appropriate length. This is the gritty, unglamorous side of baby adventure travel but he manages to carry it off with a quiet dignity.

I also appreciate his expansion of my empire. To meet baby work quotas, he acquired an employee of his own. And not just any employee – he went to the top of Guinea-Bissau society and hired a well-known model/news anchor/actress. Here she poses beneath one of her billboards. Even I don’t have a billboard yet.

He's a work in progress, but worth keeping around because even though he fashions himself as the tough disciplinarian and provider, I can easily melt him with a simple sideways glance or one of my laughing fits. His easy manipulation will likely come in handy later as my demands grow.

Until next time, peace to all.

Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Employee Evaluations (part I)

My assistants have just completed ten months of service and I'm preparing their annual evaluations. I have decided, after some deliberation, to re-up their contracts for another year, although there will be no raises. As a token incentive to keep up morale, I am giving modest year-end bonuses – the gift of sleep. They are being granted longer durations of shut-eye punctuated by fewer bursts of pointless, frantic screaming.

I have begun recently to refer to Assistant Number One as "Mama." This seems somehow more personal and I think she appreciates the gesture. It takes so little to make these people happy. She goes by other names as well, for example my maid calls her "Madame" and Assistant Number Two calls her "Madame Wife." This always makes him laugh (and no one else). Number One is doing a particularly notable job attending to my whims. She earns high marks for coddling me when I cry in the middle of the night in spite of Number Two's protests.

For entertainment value, there is no question Number One is worth her weight in strained peas. She has me roaring with laughter from her crazy arm-flailing dances and elephant songs. She is the Lenny Bruce of hiding behind doors and then suddenly jumping back into the room, which I consider pure comic genius. The other one can be amusing in his own way but he's more of an acquired taste, somewhat droll, but often just weird.

Number One, or Mama, is usually present to prepare my meals and feed me (yes, yes, a full time job, very funny), pick my outfits, take me for walks, and be my hair stylist. So far, I have few complaints about her performance, but recent chat around the watercooler is that she intends to moonlight as a teacher at the local elementary school. Normally, such disloyalty would be met with harsh, and admittedly capricious, consequences. But the truth is, she is so wonderful at working with babies and other superiors that I have decided to share her with the world as part of my mission of spreading peace to all.

Another thing I like about Number One is her desire to constantly improve herself (although in my opinion, there’s not much to be done). As part of my organization’s new professional development program, I allow her to take classes related to her baby work. She studies French so she can better explain my importance to the locals. I also send her for training at the gym because hauling a dignitary of my impressive girth requires top-notch physical condition. Most recently, she has equipped her teeth with braces to make her look more like a teenager. I respect her attempts to emulate adolescents, for they are the pinnacle of evolution. Teenagers know everything and they are never wrong. I aspire to join their ranks one day and thus complete my long journey toward perfection.

Number One has been with my organization for longer than I can remember and in many ways, she is the soul of the whole operation. Number Two is quite a different story and will require a whole separate letter. Until then, peace to all. Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Don't Meet Me in Saint Louis

Saint Louis, Senegal – former colonial capital of all French West Africa, current fishing village, and point of departure for the first trans-Atlantic postal flight – ushering in the glorious age of junk mail. The city is known for the run-down French colonial architecture, which fills the tiny island at the center of the city. Even the sole bridge connecting the city to the mainland was created by French designer Gustav Eiffel, although it never achieved the acclaim of his earlier works such as the Eiffel Ashtray and the Eiffel Potholder.

St. Louis hosts an international jazz festival that brings some of the biggest names in be-bop to town. For my own debut, the town arranged a raucous, well-attended fete downtown with African rhythms mixed with American jazz, and Latin American salsas. Through some snafu of communication, they had not gotten word that my musical tastes tend toward a simple electronic beep beep beep a la Baa Baa Black Sheep. When my request for it was met with blank stares by the “musicians,” my assistants were promptly summoned to retire me to my quarters. If I’m not having fun, I make sure no one is.

But the lack of musical variety was not the most disappointing dish on the entertainment plate. As you can see from these titles, the local moviehouse offerings are a notch or two below Fellini. One of my assistants begged to differ, however. Begged and begged and begged.

And speaking of disappointing dishes, the best meal sampled by my assistants was a stunning fillet of mediocrity braised with a bland ennui sauce served on a bed of ho-hum. I recommend if you visit, you bring your own food preparation team as I do whenever I’m on the road. It really takes the edge off roughing it.

One of the highlights of St. Louis is leaving it. Just north of the city, near the Mauritanian border, is Djouj National Park, one of the biggest bird sanctuaries in the world. Birds prefer it because they are the only ones who can find it. My assistant blundered through rice paddies and cattle stampedes, but alas, it eluded him. He did manage to avoid the unemployment line when he found a smaller sanctuary nearby, but of course it was much less interesting with mostly chickens and such.

What the up country lacks in cultural magnificence it makes up for in the friendliness of the people. Mauritania sent a delegation down from the desert to request an audience with me. They set up one of their traditional nomadic tents on the wide, sandy beach and invited me and my lovely assistant to take afternoon tea.

In a small village outside the city, I presented my credentials to the village leader. My arrival here was met with much aplomb, as it should have been.

In another village, negotiations did not go as well and I registered my displeasure loudly. I was able to turn things around, though, after correcting their mistaken identification of me as the Pillsbury Doughboy.

In retrospect, Saint Louis really wasn't so bad, but there is a lot of work to be done if it wants to eat a bigger piece of the booming baby tourism pie (please excuse all the food metaphors, I'm getting hungry again). Until my next adventure, Peace to all. Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Mid-life crisis

Well, I’m at that difficult time in a person’s life when they look back on what they’ve accomplished and they think about what little time is left. Sometimes I fear the future looks somewhat dim compared to the heyday of my youth. I guess this is a normal preoccupation for people as they approach the middle of their lives and now that I’ve been out of the womb nine months -- just as long as I was in -- I feel my mid-life crisis coming on.

The first thing getting me down is my weight. Even my assistants have taken to calling me Superchunk. They say the extra folds of fat in my thighs look like I have two additional butts. I find their weak attempts at humor demeaning and unnecessary. After all, it is they who continue to ply me with rich tropical fruits such as papaya and mango that grow in my backyard. And I don’t even gorge myself on all manner of sweets such as jar after jar of raw Nutella like one of my assistants (who is developing his own impressive paunch, although I will not lower myself to his level by dwelling further on his shame).

But even my massive bulk does not outweigh the conflict over gender identity. Tell me, dear fans, how you would feel if upon meeting you for the first time, your public immediately asked if you were a boy or a girl? Allow me to venture, that you would not like it one bit. Even dressed in pink and sporting my most winning smiles, the masses are not convinced of my feminine wiles. One of my assistants continues to believe earrings are the answer to erasing this ambiguity. I am sure I would enjoy having two sharp metal objects forced into my head and I am just as certain that the experience would not make me cry, even though something as simple as putting me to bed at night can make me scream like a monkey. However, the other of my assistants continues to think earrings would be a bad idea for some reason. I’m re-evaluating his continued employment with my organization.

But all is not bleak, and I am sure I will come through this difficult time with a renewed outlook on life. Like all of you, I too have my vices to help me cope with each day. If any of my simpleminded fans doubt my femininity, they need look no further than my shoe obsession. I have discovered the sizeable curative properties of a lovely pump and the soothing, almost transcendental state of sucking on an open-toed sandal. I have been known to crawl over piles of expensive, though worthless toys to get to a distant slipper across the room, just to hold it, shake it and savor the taste of it in my increasingly toothy maw. I can see this habit is going to cost someone dearly over the course of my life.

I’m also starting to exercise more. Despite earlier disparaging comments about crawling, I’ve taken up the hobby and found it not nearly as “pedestrian” as I originally thought. Though, quaint as it is, I still prefer bipedal transportation and I’m doing my best to move in that direction. I can now stand in place for several seconds all by myself. I think once I put one foot in front of the other, this baby will have a lot more adventure travels.

Until next time, peace to all.
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Baby on Safari

One evil I’ve always struggled against is the natural human tendency toward the cliché. This is likely one of the key reasons that I continue to be so popular with the literary masses. But I also know that if you want to make it in the Baby Adventure business, you have to give the people what they want. And when you go to Africa, people want safaris. So I’m afraid those of you who think there is no angle from which a giraffe can be shot that you have not seen before will have to be at least placated, if not somewhat delighted, by the fact that the following beasts are more special than your garden variety giraffe because they have been seen by me, Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler.

Adventure travel is about a search for knowledge, not just about the world, but about ourselves. I wonder, for example, as I look over these pictures, why the large African mammals are so well represented in our zoos and museums when other animals, such as the weevil and the pigeon are scorned by intellectuals and naturists alike? Is it because oftentimes these great beasts possess a photographic oddity such as a neck like a fireman’s ladder or a superfluous phallus on the proboscis? Why is it we don’t soliloquize or even slow to honor a flattened, mangled pile of roadkill we may pass on our way to the zoo? Why have some species been invited into our homes while we support industries designed to exterminate others with brutal efficiency?

I don’t pretend to have answers to these questions, but I suggest that the distinction we make between winner and loser animals is not something we are born with but rather is acquired at some point after the age of eight months. I know this must be true because I spent much of my morning following the amazing movements of an ant on the living room floor. Drool trickled down my chin as I sat in wonder of his tiny, determined movements. I’d like to say I will never lose my innocent sense of wonder, but life with my assistants and others of their generation has showed me that it is inevitable. Maybe the fact that I still have it is what makes me so special at this age, like a graceful, rare Nubian giraffe.

Look closely, there's a giraffe hiding in this picture

Peace to all,
Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Top 10 Reasons Why You Have Never Been to West Africa

After many weeks of research, I am now ready to publish my first substantive analytical report entitled:

Top 10 reasons why you have never been to West Africa

1. You can’t afford it. Senegal apparently produces only malaria and yellow fever. Everything else is imported and boy do we pay for it. But even if you could afford it…

2. ...you don’t know what to buy. There is a stunning lack of advertising in public spaces. Without constant bombardment of consumer messages, I do not know which brand of baby wipes will make me look more like a movie star. Very disorienting.

3. You don’t dress well enough. Even though garbage is found along every street and improvised dumps spring up in all unused space, people take great pride in their personal appearance. They adorn themselves in make-up, jewelry, high heels, and immaculate tunics and turbans, which makes you Americans look like a bunch of schlubs with your “Joe’s Crab Shack” t-shirts and your drawstring waistband pants. Here's me with Betty, my maid.

4. You aren’t tall enough. The Senegalese are so tall, my assistant has to stand on his tippytoes just to use the urinals.

5. You are turned off by the sight of women spitting. ‘Nuff said.

6. Your pet dog or cat would be turned out on the street to make room for your new goat or lizard, which seem more welcome in homes. I am still a dog person, though, so I adopted the one on the left and named her Gazelle after the local beer. Her mommy on the right came to visit for a few days to make sure we didn't have any goats.

7. Sacre Bleu! You don’t speak French. Of course, you could reside comfortably in The Gambia or less comfortably in war-torn Liberia, both English speaking countries. Here’s a quick lesson for you, which has always served me well: Ma couche est vraiment repugnante (My diaper is really disgusting).

8. You don’t know where to walk. Here’s a hint for you: the sidewalks are for parking and the roadways are for walking or possibly driving during the hours of 3:15-3:28 a.m. when there is no traffic jam. Of course, all bets are off if there is a massive tree growing in the middle of the road.

9. You are too out of shape. Senegalese exercise seemingly around the clock. The beaches are filled with young men running back and forth and doing calisthenics in practice for soccer. Along many roadways you can see people doing random leg exercises and squats to improve their soccer kicks.

10. Because there aren't nearly as many topless natives as the National Geographics of your youth promised.

STV Cribs

STV Cribs

Taking a cue from some of my fellow celebs, I have deigned to give a tour of my crib.

Can you find me in this picture? This is the upstairs hallway and at the end is the room I’ve given to my assistants. Even though I have four bedrooms in my house, I require them to share so I have more space for my hobbies and research activities.

My food taster searches for traces of arsenic on the terrace.

My two assistants, while well-meaning, often cannot keep up with my rigorous demands, so I have hired a third for security. The idea was for him to protect the house from strangers, so you can imagine my surprise when I saw him beating up the gardener yesterday. When my assistant demanded an explanation, we didn’t understand much of it (French and Babytalk, alas, have few similarities). I choose to believe he was defending my honor.

One of my assistants harvests bamboo from my garden for artistic projects.

You’ll notice the goat horns on the terrace near the potted plants. One of my assistants (I’m sure you can guess which one) thought it would be a good idea to bring them home after finding them on a beach. As we walked back to the car, a man tried to convince us they were his uncle’s horns and if we gave him the money, he would be sure it was turned over to his uncle, who clearly had intended to put them on the used horn market until we foiled his unexecuted plan. Impressive bit of entrepreneurship.

I’m standing on some tapestries which traveled back from Guinea-Bissau to be my property. I have gone from sitting to standing and soon I expect to be walking without ever learning to crawl. I find it undignified.

I hope you enjoyed the tour. Until next time, peace to all. Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler

Pasty Face in Dakar

I'm not sure why they require a safari hat -- the shade provided by my guide's nose was more than ample. Here we set out from my house for a city safari.


To my dear readers,

Many of you have been patiently waiting for reports of how my arrival was received by the good people of Senegal. News of my adventure blog had spread faster than I expected and I was greeted at the airport as a local celebrity by a woman holding a sign with the name of one of my assistants (to protect my privacy) and an air conditioned car which sped me to my delightful new digs.

My home is huge and my cries for those of you I have sadly left behind echoed throughout the bowling ally-like hallways much of the first night. In my first week, I have already compared travel notes with some new colleagues that attended my assistant’s Mommy/Baby play group. Although I must admit, I found some of their theories to be puerile and under-researched.

I was a hit at the local fish market. African women in beautiful multi-colored robes and matching turbans reached out to me, touching my feet and playing with my cheeks, hoping for an autograph or some words of wisdom. Personally, I enjoy the much-deserved attention and I always give a coy smile then bury my face in the nearest shoulder to give the air of coquettish shyness. My assistant (the girl one) was less impressed with the market, however, being overwhelmed by the rancid stench, abundance of flies, garbage, and rotting stuff all around. We may be going more upscale on the next shopping day.

My other assistant has thrown himself into some sort of non-baby work and therefore I have not paid much attention. But even with his daily digressions, he still comes home every evening to be debriefed on my findings and take care of the findings in my debriefs. He is planning a trip to Bissau and will travel ahead next week to prepare for my arrival.

Thank you all, devoted fans, for your lovely messages. For your dedication, I have included some pictures to keep you going until my next report.

Peace to all – Omi, Baby Adventure Traveler


Waiting for our ship to come in

My assistant in front of one of the famous baobab trees of Senegal in my neighborhood.

I love the African masks they have everywhere.

I get nostalgic at New Years

Me and mom shortly after we met

In this time of reflection as we say goodbye to an old year and welcome in a new one, I am reminded of some of the special moments I've shared with my family. I believe I have grown a lot as a person this year and I am proud of some of my accomplishments. The bald spot in the back of my head is filling in nicely, I'm sitting up like a champ, and I no longer cry when I fart, which has made for more pleasant social interactions with my colleagues. Here are some of the gems.

Three generations of Ticas

I don't know what they're so happy about.

The camera adds ten pounds (more or less)

Damn Paparazzi

My popularity has generated a cult following

My first Hanukkah. If singing ability is inhereted, I'm screwed