Maquinna's Poop du Jour

Bride

2009-01-06T17:29:00.001-05:00

Badger Gets Spayed

2006-02-01T16:53:00.000-05:00

I suppose there's some irony to the fact that while I'm actively trying to get pregnant myself, I took our little kitty, Badger, to be spayed this morning. Badger's not quite eight months old but it was time to get her snipped before she got to her first heat this spring. With our luck the Winterloper from the junkyard would try to do the daddy honours and then we'd have a whole house full of his smelly offspring.

Given her rambunctious nature, the vet felt it would be best to keep Badger overnight so she didn't try jumping around too much and possibly popping a stitch. I'm sure she's pretty groggy anyway so it's just as well. I know this was all for the best for her but I still felt like a dirty rotter taking her there this morning. The whole time I'm thinking, please fertility gods, don't punish me for this! Really, it's for her own good!

2006-02-01T16:48:00.000-05:00

Gillingham's General Store, Woodstock, VT

The Single Pink Line

2006-01-23T11:01:00.000-05:00

After feeling queer for the past week and strongly suspecting a bun was in the oven, I jumped the gun this morning and dipped the magic stick into a cup of my freshest urine in hopes of seeing those two - not one, but TWO - magic pink lines appear in the window.

Alas...only one line deigned to show up.

I tried to tell myself that I wasn't that disappointed, but I suppose I am, somewhat. Did I just will myself into feeling strange because I hoped I was pregnant? Seems like ever since I saw that single pink line, like the bottom of the sodapop cap liner that says "Sorry, try again!", I have felt completely UN-pregnant.

The strangest things go through your head. If so many people get pregnant all the time, why am I not pregnant? OK...I've only been seriously trying for the past two months. I realize this can take time, but I *am* going to be 40 this year and there's no sense in ignoring that. The truth is this could potentially be difficult. Have I squandered away my fertility over the years with chemical intervention, less than perfect diet and exercise, and thumbing my nose at a life tied down to diapers and nursing bras?

I feel as though all the gods on Olympus have decidedly, rather petulantly, to admonish me for my cheek. I seriously think Demeter is waiting for me to slaughter my finest heifer in her honour. If my womb is destined to spill forth this weekend, I'll crack a pinot noir and toast Bacchus, ask him to say a few kind things about me to the lady of fertility, and have her send me *two* pink lines next month.

2006-01-20T19:16:00.000-05:00

Tractor, 2006

It's Going To Be Okay

2006-01-16T14:34:00.000-05:00

OK, so it's been awhile...I admit it. But no whining and no excuses. Here we go:

Last Thursday night I was driving home from class. It was getting close to 10 pm when I got off the turnpike onto Route 9 and started heading west. Shortly after that exit ramp, the road splits into two but there isn't a great deal of timely signage so it can sometimes be a bit of a lane scramble. I always try to keep my wits about me through that section. Just as I got into the mix, however, I noticed that there were cars where there shouldn't be - most noticeably wrapped around a tree to my right, and hanging in a ditch to the left.

To be more accurate, they were both trucks, rather than cars. The one wrapped around the tree had been divested of its canopy (cap, for you yanks) and a dizzying array of equipment, likewise mangled, all over the road. No police or ambulance had yet arrived, and people started spilling out of the trucks, plainly dazed. I pulled over without even really thinking about it, and behind me others started to do the same. Someone got out a cell phone and called 911.

A woman came out of the totalled truck around the tree, crying hysterically. She was a little tan cherub of a woman, hispanic, blubbering back in forth in Spanish and English. She was holding her left arm into her chest, and it was scraped and bloody. A dark man with a face cratered like the moon got out of the other side. I asked him if he was alright and he just looked at me blankly with a 'no English'.

Across the road a woman with long light brown hair and a coat the colour of butterscotch got out of the truck listing into the ditch. She seemed so lost. She looked at the crying woman sitting beside her truck, and all the pieces of who-knows-what all over the road. I asked her if she was hurt and she started talking to me, in disconnected and disjointed sentences, and I could see she was starting to get very emotional. I remember telling her that it was going to be okay, that no one got badly hurt, nothing else mattered and it would all get sorted out. I touched her arm. By the truck-around-the-tree, the other woman started bawling and crying about 'the crazy driver' who had clipped her truck and forced her into the tree. The woman in the butterscotch coat's chest began convulsing, and before I knew it, she was sobbing into my chest.

I put my arm around her and rubbed her back, and just let her cry. She clutched at my lapels, crying into my coat there in the middle of the highway. Memories of the accidents I had been in over the years flooded back to me and I remember how disoriented I was, and unexpectedly emotional. A combination of anger and relief, fear, guilt, and loss. I knew I could say nothing to console anyone but I said it anyway. It's going to be okay. It's all going to be okay. Her long hair was soft in my hand as I rubbed her back.

The police and ambulances came...it seemed like forever before they did although I'm sure it was only minutes. The darkness was now a chaos of emergency lights and flares and flashlights. A policeman came over and the woman on my chest went to him to talk. Walking back towards my car the other woman was still on the side of the road, holding her arm. The people who had been talking and tending to her were all elsewhere and she was alone again. She looked up at me and I just reached out to her and held her for a few moments too. It's going to be okay, I said. She sobbed and choked out something about being hit, and look at all her equipment, and this was her livelihood, all spread out and destroyed over the highway. I didn't have to look around me to know she was right, and my mind flashed with the idea of her being a tough little woman with her own company cleaning offices at night, and her despair over what would happen to her now. I touched her shoulder. It can all be replaced. What matters is you are going to be alright. And she just shook her head and cried and cried. And then the police came to speak with her, and I stepped away.

I never saw the accident happen. I have no idea who was at fault. All I know is that there were two women, two trucks, and a moment where everything changed for both of them. And I just felt so keenly for them both, felt their loss and pain and confusion, it didn't matter at all how it happened.

2006-01-13T16:19:00.000-05:00

Motorcycle on the Ice

2006-01-13T16:18:00.000-05:00

Pocket Rockets on the Reservoir, 2006

2006-01-10T09:43:00.000-05:00

Craig in the Cornfield, 2005

2006-01-09T16:55:00.000-05:00

Sheep at Moose Hill Farm, 2006

2005-12-09T11:44:00.000-05:00

Bottles in Concrete, Philadelphia

2005-12-08T14:41:00.000-05:00

Melting in the Parking Garage, Philadelphia

2005-12-07T10:36:00.001-05:00

Liberty Bell Museum, 2005

2005-12-07T10:36:00.000-05:00

Liberty Bell, 2005

2005-12-02T08:40:00.000-05:00

Winter Street, December 1, 2005

2005-11-30T14:30:00.000-05:00

Jenna, 2005

2005-10-25T16:35:00.000-04:00

Badger, 2005

2005-10-19T09:37:00.000-04:00

Ainsley in the Garden, 2005

2005-10-18T20:25:00.000-04:00

Ainsley, 2005

I Honk for Man Flesh

2005-10-06T12:11:00.000-04:00

Was driving to work this morning when I decided to slap a cassette tape in the stereo (no, the '98 Corolla LE did not come with a factory-equipped CD player) because the radio reception sounded like a bowl of corn flakes. Has done all week, I don't know what's up with NPR or my radio or what.

Anyway, I'm scooting down Highland Street past the high school and there's a kickass song on, and I'm in a good mood, when up the street comes some old guy pushing an empty grocery cart. I'm guessing he's one of these folks that roots through peoples' recycle bins for soda cans to return.

The morning was on the warm side, especially for early October, but even so I was still kind of taken aback when said recycle-bin-rooter paused on the sidewalk, stopped his grocery cart, and peeled his shirt off, revealing a leathery chest with ever so slightly sagging man-boobs covered in a thick snowy down of fuzz.

For some reason, I honked. And then I honked some more. The song made me all giddy, and there was a guy (albeit old and wrinkly) getting semi-naked. I made a little honky tune with my horn, giggled like a madwoman, and careened through the intersection.

In the rearview mirror I saw him staring at me like I was on crack.

2005-10-05T10:48:00.000-04:00

Kwamina 2, 2005

The INS Customer Service Line

2005-10-05T09:53:00.000-04:00

For the past twenty minutes I have been treated to the most banal muzak ever engineered, and to make it worse, the same song is on a continuous loop, peppered intermittently with encouraging and straightforward tidbits of INS information delivered by a strong and confident voice. After each little public service announcement, the muzak starts again with a Zamfir-like panflute trilling on a high G, then cascading down, echoed by some Chris Botti saxophone (he plays with Sting, so listen for Sting-sax), and underscored by delicately fingered guitar.

I almost wish the little voice would stop interrupting the muzak, because I know that once he stops speaking, I'm going to have to hear that warbly G note again, and I'm heartily sick of it.

AH! Someone has answered. Given the accent, I would surmise I have been connected to somewhere in Texas. This ought to be interesting, given that my case is being processed in northern Vermont.

"Yes, I'm calling about my I-102 application."

"How can I help you ma'am?" Wow. Her voice is treacle, and immediately my guard is up. I know this voice. This is the 'I'm going to talk to you very sweetly, like a kindergarten teacher talking a bunch of five year olds into taking a nap when they really don't want to' voice.

"Well, the information on your website says my application was received on September 13, 2005, but the delivery confirmation card I have says that it was delivered on September 3, and that your office actually processed the submission on September 6. So why is the date on my application a full week later?"

"Ma'am, I don't have that information, the information on the website is never the same as what they have in the offices. They're probably processing it as September 6."

"Well," I ask, "How am I to know this, and get this corrected? They do them in order and this erroneous information could delay my processing if it's been put behind other cases."

She pauses. I think she's trying to figure out the word 'erroneous'. "Ma'am, we don't have that information here, you have to understand, they are processing it in Vermont."

"I know they're processing it in Vermont. That's where I mailed it. How can I contact Vermont to clarify this?"

"You can't call them in Vermont, Ma'am. We don't have a phone number for them."

"What do you mean, you don't have a phone number for them? They have phones. You're just not publishing the number." I refrain from suggesting that Texas hasn't yet learned how to call anyone outside of their state.

"That's right, Ma'am. They're too busy to answer the phone. Just imagine if everyone who had a question called them."

Just imagine indeed. I might actually get an answer. "So how would you suggest I contact them to get this information corrected?"

"You can write them a letter."

I wonder. Should I say that my experience so far demonstrates that mail to that office gets shoved under a pile until someone digs through it looking for a tuna sandwich? I take a deep breath. "But when I mailed something before, they didn't note it received in a timely fashion. How can I believe that sending them another letter will even get to someone soon enough to answer my question and sort this out in time? I followed all your published procedures. I'd like to know why my application isn't being processed in the way your site says it will."

"Ma'am, if you have a complaint, you can write a letter."

"And to whom should I write this letter?" I'm trying to be courteous here. As much as it is staffed by morons, this *is* the INS, and all it takes is for this prissy little bitch to make one keystroke and my application could be shoved behind a file cabinet for six months.

"To the Vermont Service Center."

"Attention to anyone in particular?"

Her voice is testy, and the saccharine level is rising. "No Ma'am. Just to the Vermont Service Center. Now is there anything else I can do for you?"

I lose it. "Well, we both know you haven't done anything for me so far, but I realize they don't give you a lot of latitude there to make any actual decisions, which is probably a good thing..." I'm about to go on, but she interrupts.

"Ma'am, if there's nothing further, have a very nice day and thank you for calling the INS." Click.

That bitch hung up on me, and I hadn't even finished talking.

Probably just as well. My application's likely already propping up a short table leg in the staff cafeteria in Vermont. I shouldn't make it worse.

2005-10-04T13:54:00.000-04:00

Kwamina 1, 2005

End of the Smellyzoic Period

2005-10-04T10:24:00.000-04:00

Miss Smelly got canned.

Last week I received some information that I knew, if true, would spell the end of her fragrant days here. After a little investigation, and bringing in our HR department to assist us with the legal dotting of i's and crossing of t's, we prepared to give the bad news to her last Friday afternoon. I made plans to take the rest of the afternoon off doing other errands, and we advised the head admin in our office to gather the rest of the admins and take them out when HR arrived.

All plans fizzled when Miss Smelly, in perfectly predictable fashion, went home at lunch time and didn't return. I thought maybe she'd caught wind of what was about to go down; at some point in the afternoon my director received an email from her saying she was not feeling well and was staying home.

Personally, I had a feeling that if I followed my nose to her apartment nearby, I'd find her packing her bags in her newly purchased VW Bug and heading for a weekend back home in New Hampshire. No matter, though. If not Friday afternoon, then first thing Monday morning.

And so it all went down yesterday morning. I cleared out and ran some errands, and came back when it was all done. Gone are the pictures of friends in gothic clothing and Care Bear figurines...gone is the front page of the newspaper showing her as Princess Amadala at the Star Trek III premiere...gone is a certain...aroma.

It's going to suck, in some ways. My director and I both developed a lot more gray hair the last time we were without someone in Miss Smelly's position. It took a long while to get her up to speed. Honestly, though, she was never the ideal candidate and she was never a particularly good representative for us. Perhaps this incident was a blessing in disguise. All puns intended -I hope this is the breath of fresh air we need.

2005-10-03T16:19:00.000-04:00

Bancroft Tower Detail #1

2005-09-29T16:10:00.000-04:00

Reservoir, Route 56

Miss Smelly on the Ropes

2005-09-29T10:39:00.000-04:00

Oh yes...Miss Smelly is back in the news, but this time it might be the end of it...

Yesterday I heard disturbing reports of her breaching confidentiality of personal files kept by our office. If true...she'll be cleaning out her desk today.

I'm conflicted. On one hand it would probably be a good thing for us to start fresh with that position. On the other, it's going to be a bitch to hire someone for it, get them trained, and have us all live through the transition without pulling our hair out. In the end, we might get someone worse than Miss Smelly.

One thing I will be sure of though, if it comes to this. The new person will smell good.

2005-09-28T10:50:00.000-04:00

Trapped in the Powder Room

Channeling MacGyver

2005-09-28T09:57:00.000-04:00

You know how you have one of those days where everything points to a completely normal day...and then in one small instant, your day is completely upside-down?

Yesterday I returned from Boot Camp and started getting ready for work. Showered, dried my hair, got dressed. No breakfast - I was supposed to be making a stop at the lab for some routine bloodwork so I needed to be fasting. Fully dressed - skirt, blouse, heels - I headed back into the bathroom to brush my teeth and throw on a bit of lipstick before heading out the door.

I opened the bathroom window to let in some of the fresh breeze and de-fog the place. I opened another window on the other side of the landing to create a cross-breeze. When I returned to the bathroom, the door, swollen from the summer humidity and unable to fully shut for several months now, got caught by a gust of wind and slammed shut tight. It's just after 7 am.

I didn't think much of it at first, spitting out toothpaste into the sink, but with my first attempt to pull the door open, I realized it was going to be a lot harder than I thought. I pulled, and pulled, and the door wasn't budging even a bit. I checked the knob - was it locked? No. I pulled some more. Nothing.

What to do? I was all alone. I live on a fair amount of acreage in a rural area with few neighbours nearby. Craig wasn't expected home for about 12 hours. I didn't have my cell phone with me - and even if I had, I doubt it would have been much help. My cell reception in the boondocks is nearly zero.

I started to work on the door. I tried sliding a nail file through the gaps to the tighter areas, thinking I could slowly shave out the sticky parts. No luck there - the file was not nearly up to the task. Lubricant, I thought. I squirted some hair de-frizzer, a slick wet gel, along the edges and tried to work it in. Waste of costly hair styling product.

I thought about the pins in the hinges - maybe if I could work those out, I could pry the door out from the opposite edge. I looked around the bathroom for anything that would do the job, and settled on a pair of slanted tweezers and the bottom of a metal soap dispenser for a hammer. After about 20 minutes, I had the pins out. Feeling smugly clever, I began to pull the door from that side instead.

Nothing. Not even a budge.

It was close to 8 am by this time and I was starting to get pretty frustrated, and pissed off. Options? I could stay in here, stuck all day. At least there was water, and a toilet. I thought about taking a 10 hour bath. I thought about cleaning the bathroom (that thought passed very quickly due to total lack of interest). I thought about...the window.

I was on the second floor. The bathroom window is a tall, narrow crank-out mechanism, and I'd guess it was about 20 feet off the ground. Below, a soft grassy landing - but that's still 20 feet down. How to do it?

There is a partial roof, maybe 4 feet down and 6 feet to the right of the window. Could I jump from the window to that roof, and then from the roof to the ground? I doubted it. The more it seemed like I could do it, the more I saw myself clawing for the edges of the shingles, to no avail. What about a rope, I thought. I could cut up a towel, and make a rope.

I took the worst towel from the stack - or at least, the one with the most stubborn stains - and figured if I cut it into strips and knotted the strips together, it would make enough. But what to cut through the binding on the edges with? Toenail clipper, of course. After another 20 minutes, I had 20 feet of towel rope in my hands. I wound it around the window crank and tested it - it was certainly strong enough to hold me. Then I sat down on the toilet for a few minutes to gather my courage and ensure that I didn't shit my drawers on my way down to the ground.

I figured if I was going out the window, I might not be able to make it back into the bathroom, so I tossed out all the things I had with me that I thought I'd need, or would get in my way. Heels came off and went down first. My glasses and purse followed. I looked down at them waiting for me.

It still seemed like a long way down, though. I had a lot of trouble just getting up onto the windowsill. I pulled down a shelving unit to make a step up, but the particleboard was pretty iffy. I tried the garbage can...but the lid groaned and bent to the side. Eventually I monkey-climbed my way up. and sat there, legs dangling over the side. It was a beautiful morning.

How hard can this be, I thought. Five minutes and this will all be over.

Five minutes, I thought, and I'll be lying on the ground with a broken neck.

I chickened out.

Pulled at the door some more. Got REALLY angry. Took the toenail clippers, opened them up, and started using the lever to pry around the edges of the door and attempt to unstick it. All I got was a lot of damage to the door frame, and the door still firmly and resolutely shut.

Back to the window. Chicken out again.

I realized there was only one tool left to my disposal - my lungs. I didn't know if anyone could hear me over the wind, or if I could yell loudly enough, but I thought it was worth a shot. I waited for a pause in the wind, and filled my lungs with air.

HELLLLLLPPP!!!!

HELLLLPPP!!!

Over, and over.

I heard a truck coming up our long driveway. I yelled, and yelled some more. Nothing...and then I heard the truck leave. Fist slammed against door.

Considered long bath again. Noted mildew around taps and drain of sink, found a cloth and wiped them out. Climbed up to windowsill again, decided that the only way I could ever go down that rope was if the house was on fire. Chickened out, removed dustbunnies from behind shelf unit. Noted tub needs cleaning. Thought about a nap, but figured that would totally eliminate any hope of someone coming to my rescue before evening.

Started screaming out the window, non-stop. Every time I yelled, I could hear Abby, the neighbour's dog, barking. I remembered that Abby's human, Dave, worked evenings and would probably be home, but likely in his basement working with power tools (Dave does a lot of woodwork). But at some point, he'd have to turn the saw off or get sick of that dog barking. I kept yelling, and yelling, until I thought I'd be hoarse. It's past 11 am.

Suddenly I hear Dave calling back - WHERE ARE YOU!!! - and I know I'm saved.

Poor Dave was worried I'd gotten hurt somehow, but once I explained the situation, he's relieved and comes up the stairs to shove against the door...before I had a chance, however, to tell him that the pins were out of the hinges...and that door came crashing into the bathroom like a drawbridge slamming down over the moat. Four hours of thwarted creativity and abject frustration gave way, like the door, to a welling of tears. Dave made a hasty exit before having to deal with a blubbering (but intensely grateful) neighbour, and the only thing that was going through my head was...

Thank god I have clothes on.

2005-09-26T14:32:00.001-04:00

Lens Baby at the Beach, 2

2005-09-26T14:32:00.000-04:00

Lens Baby at the Beach, 1

Summer's End

2005-09-26T10:27:00.000-04:00

I'm one of those people that hangs on to the end of summer as long as possible. Sometime around November, I usually give in. Even though I know that the warmest days are behind us for the year, I'm loathe to admit it. I do love the cool evening breezes right now, though, and I don't miss the humidity of August.

September is also the ideal time to be down on Cape Cod. The weather is gorgeous, the water is hanging onto the warmth from the summer, and everyone else has bugged out. There's no traffic, no nasty bugs. OK, it's a little harder to find an open clam shack, but that's definitely a small trade-0ff.

We took a break from house renovations, perennial clutter, and the spazziest kitten on the planet and spent the weekend snuggled up on the beach. We rode bicycles and walked the dog in the morning. I watched Craig get bowled over by waves on his boogie board. I read a really bad novel.

I also spent a little time getting to know my new toy - a 'Lens Baby'. It's a kind of selective focus lens that you can manipulate to put a sweet spot of focus where you want, and blur out the remainder of the frame to a greater or lesser extent. It was created by a guy who was trying to mimic the old Russian Holga cameras that were notoriously poor in focus. Essentially it's like the lens of a pinhole camera with a little wiggle room, attached to a far better camera. I can see this making for some very interesting portraiture.

Up above are some examples of what happens when you use this thing. The biggest trick is that SOMETHING has to remain in focus for it to make an effective shot, and that's easier said than done.

One other thing - about my theory of stride last Friday? Nah. I'm just damn slow.

2005-09-23T10:36:00.000-04:00

Pond at Elm Park, 2005

Taking It In Stride

2005-09-23T10:18:00.000-04:00

I was pretty focused this morning on the mile run I have to do as part of the first week of boot camp - this establishes a baseline for improvement over the course of the camp. My last baseline mile run, in early June, had me coming in at 11:49. Not great, but I was looking forward to some improvement.

And then the ruptured tendon thing happened...and a summer of living like a slug...

I really thought I was running better this morning than I had that first run in June. Back then, I kind of split the walking and running evenly. This morning, I know I did a lot more running than walking. I keep track of these things.

So how is it I came in at 12:30 today?

I was so disappointed. I couldn't figure it out. I knew I'd been running more than walking, and I felt fairly strong. I was so pissed at myself, that when it came time to do the other part of our baseline endurance testing - pushups - I did 25 of them in a row, with an angry grunt punctuating every extension (for the record, back in June I managed 8 pushups before giving up, but since then I've learned how to do them a little better).

I marked my time down on the clipboard and put a :( frowny face beside it.

Through the rest of the workout, then cool down and stretching, I tried to analyze where I'd gone wrong. The improved stamina will come, I know - and even by changing little else I'm sure that better stamina alone will result in a better time three weeks from now, but if I'm really going to improve, I have to start taking a look at what I'm doing - or not doing - compared to those who are running better. What occurs to me is their stride.

Sure, I was running, but my strides were barely greater than I might do simply walking. Part of that I think is nervousness - I'm still a little afraid of overextending my legs and getting injured again. But as I thought about how I watched all the other women in front of me (OK, I wasn't dead last, but the vast majority of the others were definitely in front of me), I realized that I was seeing their legs stretching out further, taking up more and more of the pavement with fewer and fewer strides. I spent all that extra time and energy taking a lot more steps.

I'm going to have a few weeks to test out this theory. During the usual short morning runs at boot camp, I can try taking longer strides and see how my legs react.

Boot camp this morning ended, however, on a far more positive note. I made a photography pitch to all the other attendees, offering free portrait services to help me develop my portfolio. Before I left I had given out at least twenty business cards, which was a far greater response than I expected. Looks like I'll be busy over the next few weeks doing portraits for Christmas cards, more engagement photos, and who knows what else. I expect to have a real trial by fire dealing with small children as subjects, but maybe I can talk one or two people into having some more creative portraiture done.

2005-09-22T13:25:00.000-04:00

Pajama Party, 2005

Odes to Cleaning Commodes

2005-09-22T12:41:00.000-04:00

This morning while listening to NPR, a segment on housework-themed poetry caught my attention. In the last several weeks, I have been aware of a growing, seething resentment towards the dirt and disaster in my house. Unwashed dishes, haphazard piles of recycling, dust and mildew, bathtub rings and the as-yet-unsourced sulphury smell emanating from the water in the kitchen - they all taunt me.

I am not a neat freak, but I do feel far more relaxed in an orderly atmosphere. This means that kitchens and bathrooms especially must be clean and fresh. Everything's put away, or in neat little piles for tending later. Beds are made, floors are swept, and no food is turning into the next super-bug antibiotic in the back of the fridge. Alas, this is not the case in my house.

It's tough these days, with the schedules we keep. It's hard to even find enough time to sleep. And yet, listening to these poems on the radio this morning, I realized what it was that truly bothered me. Housework is never a completed task. It's the greatest act of futility there is. I was reminded of the myth of Sisyphus, doomed by the gods to forever roll the giant stone up the hill, only to have it fall back to the bottom again, and to watch it go, knowing he will have to push it back up again. And again. And again.

It's enough to drive one insane. Other projects have a start, a middle, an end. You never have that complete satisfaction where housework is concerned. No sooner is the counter wiped in the kitchen, then someone comes along and leaves a juice glass on it, staining the formica with a ring of grape.

Just for a moment, couldn't time stand still? Couldn't entropy just turn away from my house, only for a few minutes?

2005-09-21T10:07:00.000-04:00

Washed Ashore, 2005

Back to Boot Camp

2005-09-21T09:42:00.000-04:00

This week marked my return to Boot Camp, and while the mornings are much darker than they were back in June, at least the mosquitoes aren't outnumbering us 100 to 1. I was a little nervous about returning, because I really want to avoid injuring myself again, but at some point I had to believe my body was ready. I'm trying to ensure every one of my body parts remains where it is, intact - with the exception of all that extraneous Maquinna thwarting the zippers on my trousers.

So, I stretch...and stretch, and stretch. I guess this is a sign of aging - that one's flexibility really does decrease as you get older. I can handle not ever doing the splits again as I once did - both back-front AND sideways! - but I really think I should be able to get through some basic exercise without detaching any tendons, ripping any muscles, or suffering a massive myocardial infarction trucking it back up the hill during a run.

Third day down today. My biggest complaint so far is that it's so damn dark when we start, and for a good 30 minutes into the workout, that I can barely see anyone around me or see what the hell it is Sergeants Erica and Alexis are cooking up for our next torture. The dark does come in handy, though. Worcester has to look a lot harder to see me jogging up and down Salisbury Street, and that will probably save a few accidents.

Yesterday, about 15 minutes into the workout, an ROTC group from the college across the road came down to where Boot Camp happens, plainly with the idea that they were going to use the space, and shocked to see 42 women, and one smashingly gay man, already running around (the gay man was apparently adopted over the summer as some kind of mascot. Hans is 6'2" and I'd put him at about 220. He's a pretty imposing figure until you hear his voice, which is more like Tiny Tim). The ROTC folks opted to use the field next to our area, which was fine, and proceeded with their shouting drills and jumping jacks. It was sort of fitting - one boot camp next to another - but I guess we scared them off because they weren't out there today. Our two sergeants jokingly said they learned a lot from them, and before we knew it we were a chorus of:

"I don't know but I've been told!"

"I DON'T KNOW BUT I'VE BEEN TOLD!"

"Airforce wings are made of gold!"

"AIRFORCE WINGS ARE MADE OF GOLD!"

"Sound off!"

"ONE, TWO"

"Sound off!"

"THREE, FOUR"

"ONE TWO THREE FOUR ONE TWO...THREE FOUR!"

The beginning of camp timed mile will be happening again this Friday. I don't know how much improvement I'm going to make over the first time I did it back in June (11:49), but you'll hear all about it then. Wish me luck...and no ruptured tendons.

2005-09-20T10:08:00.000-04:00

Maquinna's World (with apologies to Andrew Wyeth), 2005

Pitter Patter of Little Feet

2005-09-20T09:41:00.000-04:00

I won't deny that Craig and I have every intention of starting a family sometime next year, but in the meantime we have been unexpectedly, um, blessed, with a new baby of the furry variety. Family relations on Craig's side had one final kitten from a litter last June, supposedly the runt, and she needed a home. Given our collective experience introducing another cat into the house ruled by Motorhead, I was initially skeptical, but moved by the plight of a kitten facing the shelter, willing to give it a shot.

For the last ten days, then, our lives have been turned utterly upside-down. I had forgotten how much energy a kitten has - how fast it moves, how it gets into absolutely EVERYTHING. Nothing is safe that isn't tied down, and even tied-down items are at risk. Anything that moves needs to be pounced on, repeatedly - this includes feet innocently moving under bedcovers at 3 am. Banishment only results in plaintive mewing outside the door, which naturally breaks my heart and my resolve.

And then there are the other animals, naturally bewildered by this addition, an affront to the silently agreed-upon equilibrium at the farm. Motorhead is definitely put out, and continues to hiss vigourously at the kitten whenever she sees it. Little kitten is certainly wary of her, but oh, her curiosity! You can literally feel just how much she wants to push her luck. Ock is relatively oblivious, and doesn't seem to mind having the new one around, but she is not to be trifled with either. At first, the kitten was terrified of Ock, who as a 30 lb shepherd-cross must have seen an enormous animal. Gradually she began to realize that Ock was no threat...unless, of course, you approach her while she's at her food bowl. That encounter resulted in Miss Snapper Jaw delivering a clear indication of what will NOT be tolerated, and little kitty ended up with a temporarily swollen eye, new respect for distance around the dog, and her first honestly acquired name - Sockeye.

We're still calling her other things - Badger, Pagoda, Junebug, Sambo - but somehow I have a feeling Sockeye's the one that's going to officially stick. The rest will be relegated to affectionate names, just as Ock is Snapper Jaw and Monkeyhead, and Motorhead is the Globehead and frequently Kit-ty (pronounced with very definitely clipped, curt syllables).

I was being very careful, the first week, not to bond with her too too much, in case it didn't work out and she was shipped off to some other home. I didn't want to deal with litterboxes right now. I'm scared about my collection of Polish glass ornaments this Christmas. She's starting to grow on me, though, despite her tiny little needle-prick claws digging into my calf in the middle of the night, Motorhead's disgruntled behaviour, and total animal feeding station chaos. I will, however, be glad when she slows down a little.

2005-09-19T09:48:00.000-04:00

Tomatoes During A Full Moon, 2005

2005-09-19T09:47:00.000-04:00

Green Tomatoes, 2005

Blame it on the Full Moon

2005-09-19T09:26:00.000-04:00

If you work as a police officer, social worker, or in a hospital emergency room, you know that the full moon really does bring out the nuttiest of the nuts. Friends and relations I have in these professions, and others, all have interesting tales to tell about encounters with the general public during full moons, from a grandmother who decided to dance naked on her balcony after devouring a tray of hash brownies she accidentally stumbled across in her daughter's freezer, to a tremendously embarrassed man admitted into the E.R. in great pain, and with a foot-long hot dog lodged in his rectum.

It is in this spirit that I note that the world was turned on its lunar head last night when William Shatner received an Emmy award - apparently, for his acting. I was disappointed, but not surprised, to hear that Emmy voters put on their little P.C. family values hats and voted "Everybody Loves Raymond" as best comedy series...in these days of post-Katrina strife and affliction, "Desperate Housewives" is just too edgy and dangerous for your Average Joe to admit loving. For the record, however - Emmy voters, are you listening? - everybody does NOT love Raymond. In fact, some of us are so glad that series has finally decided to hang it up that we're considering throwing a party in our woods, having the cast and company dress as deer, and inviting some confused hunters from Wisconsin to come on by.

But William Shatner? Getting an acting award? How fucked up is that?

I admit it, I've never seen an episode of "Boston Legal". Until I heard the Emmy results on the radio this morning, I had no idea he was being paid to do anything on T.V. except pitch budget travel websites. I'm certain, however, I detected a hint of mirth in that announcer's voice as she noted Shatner's win.

The only reason I can come up with is that the Emmy voters felt some kind of uneasy obligation to recognize the many decades of Shatner's presence in our living rooms, and the many years of suffering he has inflicted upon us, in the hopes that he would cease and desist. Just drift off, Bill. Go marlin fishing somewhere. Rest on your laurels. Really, we don't mind. You've earned it, bub.

Given the fact, however, that Emmy awards seem to universally go to the most banal, unchallenging, wonder bread, lets-not-risk-angering-the-advertisers shows...I have to believe that giving William Shatner an Emmy seemed like a peachy way to make it look like they're really cool and in touch with retro star appeal. And for anyone who might have had a moment's sanity during voting, there was the destiny of that big fat full moon on awards night to push them over the edge.

Carbonation Consternation

2005-09-14T16:05:00.000-04:00

I'm at a complete loss to understand any fundamental difference between Diet Coke and the new Coke Zero. I had thought Coke had settled its identity crisis issues after the New Coke / Coke Classic debacle of the early 90s. Apparently this is not the case.

Their ingredients and nutrition labels are the same. Neither has any carbs or calories. Both have 30 mg of sodium. Both appear to be sweetened with aspartame, according to their labels, although the Coke website claims Diet Coke is sweetened with Splenda.

Do they taste different? No.

This, so far, is all I can see which is different. Diet Coke appears to be marketed towards older, and for the most part, female, customers. The marketing lingo is full of words like 'sass' and 'style'. It says, 'so flirt, laugh, dance, giggle, sparkle!' Coke Zero, on the other hand, has marketing language written in FULL CAPS, with lots of use of words like 'CHILLIN' and phrases like 'YOUR MIND IS YOUR CRIB'. Apparently Coke Zero is for skateboarding adolescents.

Can anyone enlighten me otherwise?

2005-09-13T09:36:00.001-04:00

Kim, 2005

2005-09-13T09:36:00.000-04:00

Yep. That's Her Tattoo.

My Sister's Tattoo

2005-09-13T09:02:00.000-04:00

How we see each other. How we see ourselves. Who we are when we're alone, and when we're with others. Even a photo isn't reliable - it only tells one side of the story. As a photographer, however, it's my prerogative to tell the story I want, but I also cannot ignore the stories other pictures tell.

This past weekend my sister emailed me some photos of her getting her first tattoo. She had described what she planned to get while she was visiting the other week. I am certain I didn't provide anything amounting to encouragement but her mind was plainly made up.

I am not anti-tattoo. I've toyed with the idea myself over the years but never came up with anything I would want to live with for the rest of my life. I've actually had a lot of fun with temporary tattoos. I once had some lovely Arabic script emblazoning my left wrist, until an Egyptian classmate advised me that I was sporting a bastardized version of the first laws of Islam, and it was something that probably wouldn't go over very well amongst more fervent Muslims. Since then I've stuck with stuff a little more in my territory. A large celtic knot around my navel (dammit if anyone thinks my belly should be hid just because it isn't a washboard). Barbed wire around my upper arms, for a Hallowe'en costume. I actually wouldn't mind a west coast Native style salmon if it could be made delicately enough and placed on the small of my back.

What I object to in tattoos are twofold: tasteless illustrations and lots of colour. I don't think much needs to be said in the first case. It's a personal aesthetic I feel no need to defend. Some things are just downright tacky. Colour is another aesthetic issue...partly because few tattoo artists are capable of using colour deftly, but mostly because over time, the colours always become muddy and indiscernible. If you're going to do it, do it in black ink only, and make it something interesting and personal.

Which brings me to my sister's tattoo. It's right up there above all this. As is plainly visible, it's some tarty chiquita in a cowboy hat with mardi gras beads around her neck (no, this has nothing to do with Hurricane Katrina), leaning seductively over a stool. With enough colour to make a parrot blush. I can hear my grandmother Baba now. Oy yoy yoy! What the hell were you thinking?

I suppose I should ask her what it was about this particular image that she decided she wanted to put on her leg, taking up no less than twenty square inches of her calf. My guess is this is a manifestation of the ongoing spirit of rebellion she harbours, a kind of in-your-face 'yeah, I know it's crude and nasty and I'm the only one who likes it, THAT'S why I did it' thing. I can see her standing with her hands on her hips, chin jutting out, saying screw you. There's also a sad part too, that fears to acknowledge how much she wants to be noticed, but will go to dramatic lengths to get that notice. Something about living under a shadow and wishing she didn't.

This was part of the reason that when I photographed her myself, I put her in the dark, emerging from shadow. I think she's starting to come into her own as a person, finally. Starting to assert herself in ways that are actually going to make a positive, rather than a negative, impact on her life. Well, excepting the tattoo, but some aspects of character aren't really likely to change, nor do they need to.

She still drives me nuts, by the way. This was a good visit, though, at a time in both of our lives when we needed to find some connection with each other.

2005-09-07T10:23:00.000-04:00

I guess this is fun for SOMEONE.

The Bear Necessities

2005-09-06T15:27:00.000-04:00

Yes, my sister is back on the west coast now. No one got killed or maimed on the way, either. I did, however, have to endure her request to be taken to a local outlet of the 'Build-A-Bear Workshop' to pick up - get this - back to school outfits for her childrens' stuffed toys.

She first mentioned that she wanted to do this long before she arrived. I had to look it up on the internet - I had no idea what it was. I am not yet a parent, so there are many things of which I am ignorant. For those of you who would like to witness the horror first-hand, go here.

I talked to my friend Donna about it on IM (she's also back in B.C.). Her comments: 'sounds like a place where 300-lb. 30 year old women who have a freakily unhealthy fantasy life work'. I'd have to say she was right on the money.

First of all, it's in a mall. A mall, on a gorgeous Friday afternoon. I'm in a fucking mall. You walk in this joint and it's all painted in bright primary colours. I was greeted by the screech of a dozen five-year olds in the middle of creating their own personal bears, some in princess clothing, some in gaily-patterned pajamas, and some in allegedly sexy clothing that created the effect of Britney Spears in serious need of an all over body wax job.

Three people seemed to be working - none of them less than 300 lbs. Maybe you have to LOOK like a stuffed bear to work there? One was ringing up purchases, another was dealing with the birthday party, and another was at the 'stuffing machine'.

My sister, Kim, made a beeline for the things she wanted. Some little denim outfit with faux leopard trim for my niece Alyssa's unicorn (a unicorn is a bear?), and a football outfit for my nephew's creature - whatever the heck it was. I started looking around the store. There are about two dozen different bears you can choose from, all priced around $20. But that's just for the bear, and, I assume, the stuffing. Many of the bears aren't bears at all. Some are dogs or cats or giraffes or - get it now, before it's retired - a pink flamingo.

So, you pick out your animal carcass, then you take it to the stuffing machine. If you're older, I think they let you stuff it sort of yourself. If not, then someone stuffs it for you. You get to decide when it has reached its optimum squishiness.

No responsible bear owner could leave with a naked bear, so there are literally hundreds of different ensembles to choose from. Clothing, costumes, shoes and accessories. Even licensed Harley-Davidson leather. Wigs, seriously. You can give your bear Cher hair. And you guessed it, there's no way your bear gets dressed for under $30.

I'm dazed, but then snapped right out of it by cheers from the birthday party, followed by the sight and sound of a dozen small children in their party best, hugging their newly stuffed and dressed bears. Then the freaky shit happens. The party leader has them all raise their right hands and take the bear vow. I kid you not. It goes something like this:

"This is my bear. I chose it. I stuffed it. I made it myself. Best friends are forever, so I promise to always take care of my new best friend." Twelve tiny automatons, with twelve furry, glassy-eyed dopplegangers, repeated the words blankly, at top volume. This, apparently, was the cosmic intersection of Orwell's 1984 with Pee-Wee's Playhouse.

Kim's at the register, and I notice that she has the New England Patriots' football uniform for Adam's bear, but no football shoes. And it seems so wrong. I go to the display and choose a pair of striped, Adidas-style cleats. They're $7.00 plus tax. And I'm handing them to my sister, and fishing out the money for them, and mumbling something about spoiling nephews being the privilege of being an auntie.

After which, I walked very briskly out of the store before I was put on a Build-A-Bear Workshop diet of doughnuts and ice cream and was sucked further into its evil vortex. Clearly this was not a safe place.

Sister, Sister

2005-09-01T09:10:00.000-04:00

The last week has been rather dizzying, what with my sister arriving, major projects looming in photography class, and the busiest week of my work year all coinciding like an interstellar catastrophe...and of course watching peoples' lives float away down on the gulf coast, watching gas prices soaring hourly, and watching the Red Sox claw their way back yet again from another multi-run deficit doesn't make the stress level any less.

First, my sister. I announced on my last post that she was arriving last Thursday morning, August 25th. Craig and I were up at 5 am and drove bleary-eyed through Boston commuter traffic to Logan, only to discover she was not on the plane. After an hour of searching, having her paged, and finally getting through security to the gate, I learned that she was actually arriving on FRIDAY, the 26th. As she was taking a red-eye, she LEFT on the 25th, but didn't arrive until the 26th. The fault lays partly with me, who plainly didn't read closely enough between the lines on her itinerary, but I must say her repeated mention of 'the 25th' did little to make me think that I was supposed to be at the airport any other day.

Yes, I was livid. I don't think Craig - who inexplicably found this immediately hilarious - much liked what he saw. Then again, he hasn't spent 36 years of his life in a sibling relationship where an incident such as this hammers home, with astounding clarity, how very little between my sister and me is on the same page. He kept saying I would find this funny soon. I glowered back at him.

So, the following morning, we repeated the procedure, and this time we found her. We had plans to be down at the cape the entire weekend so we immediately piled back into the Vanagon and headed out of the airport...only to be stymied by the toll booth operator at the head of the tunnel back into Boston. We were refused passage because we have a propane tank on board. No matter, apparently, that it is empty and broken, and no use trying to explain that fully-loaded semi-trailers barrelling through the tunnel pose a far greater explosive hazard than an empty propane tank. Rules will be rules, and after soaking us for $4.50 for the toll anyway, unearned, forced us to endure a police escort to the opposite side of the highway and pushed us northward towards Revere, instead of south towards the cape.

We decided to have breakfast before proceeding further, and give us an opportunity to consult a map and figure out how the heck to get out of Revere during the last dregs of the morning rush hour, without going through the city. We pulled over at the 'Three Yolks' diner off route 1 and sat down to a breakfast of such American proportions it would have choked a pig. 'Three Yolks' refers to EVERYTHING on the menu. Nothing seemed to come with less than three eggs. Kim and I each ordered orange juice. They came in 20 oz. soda glasses. I should have skipped the glass and asked for an I.V. drip.

We wound our way afterwards around Boston and finally made it onto a major route south that wasn't going to result in our being suspected of terrorism via an empty and broken propane tank on an '86 Vanagon with a somewhat testy idle (see posts from March for tales from the South Carolina Vanagon rescue adventure). A weekend of warm beach weather on the cape was a welcome relief.

As for things with my sister...she's still here, and I'm surprisingly calm. My feelings about it all are still kind of mixed up and uncertain. I realize it's definitely me, and not her, and that's troubling. I guess I haven't got it sorted out enough in my head to commit it to words yet, and I suspect that when I do, the statements will be sometimes sad, sometimes hopeful, harsh, loving, and contradictory.

All of which, for now, sums up the whole thing rather nicely.

Take care.

2005-08-24T10:22:00.000-04:00

The Family That Plays Together, Stays Together

More Alike Than Not

2005-08-24T09:31:00.000-04:00

My sister is coming to visit tomorrow. She lives back on Vancouver Island, with all the rest of my family, a good 4000 miles from here. This will be the furthest trip she has ever taken. Last year we flew my mother out to visit - she'd never even been on a plane. The rest of my family has yet to visit. My dad stopped in once a few years ago for an overnighter but that didn't really count. Most visits from my dad don't.

I have all these mixed feelings about my sister, and my family in general. We are none of us close (even when I lived closer to them), and we don't speak to one another as much as it seems a lot of families do. It's not that we hate each other, but for some reason that desire for one another's company was just never adequately fostered.

I've spoken to several people, professionals and non-professionals, over the years, and family relationships is frequently at the core of my concerns - whether I realize it or not. The kinds of relationships I pursue now - with women and men, work relationships, friendships, etc. - all are coloured by the difficult, and frequently distant, associations I had growing up with my family.

Dad rarely spent time with us - even when we were actually physically with him. This continues today. Even when we visit one another, he goes off and does something else in another part of the house, or spends most of his time on the phone to others (in front of us), or when he does talk, talks about the other people he spends time with, rather than us. It's very complicated. And we haven't even talked about how he ran off and married our babysitter.

Mom has spent most of her life in denial, unable to emotionally connect to much around her, probably because she doesn't imagine it will last or she will get to keep it. She's a real mystery. I think inside she is in a lot of pain, but years of having her heart trampled by one man or another, and being the only child of a psychologically aloof mother, have made her play her cards very close to her chest. She is not particularly forthcoming about anything.

Older brother and younger brother: neither places much importance on relationships with their own families. Contact is intermittent.

And then there's my sister...who's pretty much everything I'm not. Maternally oriented, unambitious except where her material comfort is concerned, has never read a book that didn't have a lavender and gilt paperback cover, and whose interest in world events starts and ends with People Magazine...we have very little in common other than our dubious genetic heritage.

I've always felt that not only were they emotionally unconnected and intellectually uninspiring, but that they went to no lengths to get to know me or to have any kind of real relationship with me. My most effective therapist, however, highlighted all too well how my contempt of their values and lifestyles has made me as much a culprit for the distance between us all. That therapist sits in the back of my head like a little mouse making a nest from all my neglected brain matter, a constant and unshakeable voice. I'm the one pushing them away. I've been the one pushing them away since I was a child, because I could think of no worse fate that to be one of them.

Damn. You mean that's it?

Well, I guess it's true.

And what does that say about me? That I think I'm so much better than them all? That my life is more interesting and worthwhile? That they should try to be more like me if they want my notice?

I guess it does.

I have no idea if my family thinks this is how I am, and if that's why they react to me as they do. I suspect that is only a small part of it, given that they treat everyone else the same way as well. But I can't change the way they are or how they behave. I'll admit to some culpability here, now, but I also know that as much as I would like THEIR notice, I'm unlikely to get it any more than I have. And that's because they're all damaged in their own ways too. We're all these little people in our pods, occasionally bouncing up next to one another but never breaking through. In that respect, we're more alike than I care to admit.

I look at other families that enjoy tight relationships and I am envious. I sometimes worry that my own psychological baggage will make it difficult for me to foster that kind of atmosphere with the family I hope to create. Awareness of all of it helps, and my husband's family at the very least presents an alternative model, but will I be the weak link in the chain?

A Not-So-Silent Night

2005-08-19T13:21:00.000-04:00

I came home late last night after a long day of shooting photographs. Frequently the studio and classroom areas were quite noisy and boisterous. Someone made a crack about me heading back to the peace and quiet of my home in the country. If they only knew...

As soon as I parked the car in the driveway the bullfrogs were in full chorus, the croaking so deep and penetrating it almost sounded like a pack of geese in the swamp. Crickets and other bugs provided a continuous hum, monotone, like the drone of a generator or an old fridge.

The cat and dog were comparatively quiet. Ock had already sacked out for the night, and as she's now mostly deaf, she didn't even hear me head up the stairs. Motorhead was nowhere to be found, for the moment. Probably still out hunting.

Craig was already in bed but heard me head into the bathroom. "[insert private term of endearment here]?" he called. "I'll be right there." Much swishing of water and brushing of teeth, splashing my face, various pill bottles shaking, drawers opening and shut, toilet flushing, combing out of hair, then into the bedroom. Undress, quickly, and toss on a little cotton shift hanging off the bedpost. Begin to pull back the covers on my side when Motorhead suddenly appears under my arm, about to assume her current ritual of parking next to me on the bed and taking up more and more space as the night progresses. It's amazing how much bedspace a ten pound cat needs.

I've been fighting a cold these past few days and haven't slept very well. I'm not a particularly deep sleeper to begin with, but when I'm congested it doesn't seem like I get more than an hour or so at a stretch before I'm woken by the slightest noise or my lack of breath. I snuggle into Craig, kitty snuggles into me, a dozen limbs akimbo, make that a baker's dozen with her tail. We talk for awhile about the day's shoots, his workday, endless little details. Motorhead is purring in the way that makes you understand how she got her name. Her purr is the engine of a lawnmower, steady staccato, decidedly unfeminine. We like to joke about her lack of delicacy.

Sleep comes, briefly. I wake around two o'clock, get up to find some water. Stumbling back into bed, Craig's arm wraps back around me as we hear coyotes howling in the distance. Motorhead bolts upright; that wild noise has more power over her than any warm bed. She leans towards the window, back arched, then jumps off the bed and runs down the stairs to investigate.

Three o'clock. Ock is barking at the door. This happens sometimes with her, I'm never sure if it's part of the doggie dementia she has ('canine cognitive disfunction syndrome'), or just not being able to hold her water as long through the night. I suspect it's the former; she manages quite well through the day when we're at work. Craig gets up to let her out. We both know she'll be barking again in ten minutes to be let back in. Craig gets back up again when that happens.

Four o'clock. I'm woken by a strange sound coming from downstairs. It sounds like a scuffle between furry creatures. The Interloper, the roaming tom from the junkyard, has been around again lately. I wonder if Motorhead and he have had an encounter. Craig gets up to check, but comes back with nothing to report.

He gets back into position. Somewhere outside it sounds like an owl is calling, and another one calling back, much further away. It's like trying to listen to a conversation taking place between two moons. Craig and I make a few brief remarks about it. He says he woke up Ock during his last trip downstairs and expects she'll be at the door again shortly. He's right.

He comes back to bed, spooning behind me with his rough chin on my shoulder. I actually like the feeling of his chin-scratches. I feel his body shift and settle, hear his breathing change. Kitty rejoins us; after a few head-butts she slips into the crook of my elbow and starts her engine again. Craig's drifted off, and probably doesn't hear the mosquito that's circling ever closer to us. I don't even try to swat at it. The prospect of being bitten is a small price compared to one of us finally being able to get some sleep.

The sky begins to glow through the window when I remember Ock's still outside. This time she just scratches at the door, not enough to wake Craig. I carefully slip out of bed, as noiselessly as possible, and head downstairs to let her in, quietly. I open the door just as the birds are waking, and within minutes their chatter drowns out the silence of the night.

Raving Whack-Jobs on a Campus Near You

2005-08-16T16:06:00.000-04:00

Universities tend to attract more than their fair share of nutjobs. Back in Canada, we had the guy in the trench coat exposing himself in the library stacks (we would point and laugh if so accosted), the ex-prof in an advanced stage of dementia raging if anyone took the books for her 'important research' off of the little desk she referred to as her office (call the home, Betty's gotten out again), and Peter the Troll, an eccentric homeless-by-choice person, reportedly from a wealthy American family, amazingly well-read, who would hide large rolls of bills in the archives section and then take the bus back to the drugstore where he'd sleep, shoeless, in a dumpster.

Every now and then we get a certifiable case here at the university I now work at. This week, it's a guy I'll just call Philip.

Philip calls last week, and I end up picking up the phone. Turns out he's got this FANTASTIC idea that he pitched to our VP of IT, who suggested he run it by us, and he wants to meet with our dean. I take the message - or I try to. Philip is cell-phone-phobic, and doesn't have an office, but he can be reached until 6 pm at the Bean Counter coffee shop two blocks away. He adds that his secretary is a high school girl who is also a waitress there.

My eyebrows rise on my end of the phone. 'I'll be sure to tell him you called,' I say.

I give the message, with all its colour, to my dean. End of story, or so I think.

Today the campus cops show up here, wanting to know who's been in touch with this guy. Apparently he was down in our computer helpdesk area, raving about someone there stealing his 'big idea', and he was now suicidal and was going to blow his head off and take out the network with him. This is what the campus cowboys call a 'section 12' - call the police immediately, stay away, let them escort him off campus and give him STRONG warnings about ever setting foot in the place again.

I hear Philip thinks he has an appointment with our dean next Monday. I'm trying to decide if I should call in sick, or if my curiosity is such that I need to see how this all goes down. Either way, the campus police will be here to greet him if he decides to show up.

Radio Free Worcester

2005-08-12T11:36:00.000-04:00

I rely a lot on radio. I spend a lot of time, sadly, in my car, but having the radio makes it more or less bearable. Usually I'm listening to one of the NPR stations, although sometimes in the evening if I'm making the long drive home from class, I'll have the baseball game on. The jury's out on how that choice affects my safety behind the wheel.

The other morning when I got into the car to head to work, I realized I'd left the radio tuned to the AM station that had carried the game the night before. I was about to change it back to NPR when the conversation between the announcers piqued my interest. Apparently, it was 'National Underwear Day', which inspired much junior-high school jocularity about who was wearing (or not wearing) what. From there we launched into a far-too detailed description of the announcer's 'hybrid' model - he wasn't even aware that what he was wearing was called 'boxer-briefs', and it was all too apparent he was giddy with the anticipation of callers flooding the phones to tell him about their own underwear and comment on his choice.

First phone call: a shaky elderly voice on the line. I can smell lavender rinse.

"I'm...not...int-er-est-ed...in...your...un-der-wear...", she wavered, one careful syllable at a time."When...is...the...next...ci-ty...coun-cil...meet-ing...on...TV?"

The announcer, caught off guard and chafing at the lost opportunity to expound on the splendour of his skivvies, mumbles something sarcastic about how wonderful it is that people are interested in the televised city council meetings and that the mayor will be happy to know how high his ratings are. Somebody off-mic finds the meeting time, tells her the date and that it starts at 5 pm, since it's summer.

More locker-room ribbing in the announcement booth. Someone suggests that another announcer at their sister station wears a thong. Har har har. Someone else suggests that he stole it from a female announcer there. Har har har. George is running around in Jackie's thong, wait till Jackie finds out. Wait till George's wife finds out. Har har har.

Another caller! The announcer picks up the phone, chomping at the bit to bring all of Worcester into the glory that is National Underwear Day.

"The city council meeting is at 4 o'clock, not 5," says the elderly male voice on the phone.

The disappointment in the radio booth is palpable and pathetic. "Uh, OK, boy, the mayor's one popular guy. Thanks for the update!" You can tell that these guys would really prefer to be working for a 'cool' radio station, which would have thousands of listeners chortling in their cars on I-290 over an undies discussion. A station where, as Craig would say, you'd hear sound effects like toilets flushing in the background during the morning commute.

A third caller. "You're wearing boxer-briefs," he says.

Exultations of delight from the announcers! Much burbling and gurgling about the sense of the name, boxer-briefs, and how marvelously comfortable they are. "And what are you wearing?" they ask.

Click. Silence on the other end. Could it be, you know they are wondering, that there are only three people listening to this radio station, and none of them think it is good fun to talk about their underwear?

Well, there were at least four people listening that morning, but not for long. I thought the callers were much more entertaining than they were, and when the last one had hung up, I changed the station. Sorry, guys. Obviously you were meant for a radio world much bigger than mine.

Geeking Out with Godzilla

2005-08-09T12:51:00.000-04:00

I don't often turn down opportunities for uber-cheesy entertainment, so when the call came to join friends at a screening of Godzilla: Final Wars, the latest (and supposedly the last) Godzilla project, I figured the movie alone would be worth going to, never mind an evening with folks who are good company and have a predilection for decadent post-cinema desserts.

I am no Godzilla afficionado. Godfather, I know. Back to front, I and II, even Godfather III. Godzilla, what is it, a big Japanese model of a T-Rex that shoots flames out of its mouth and obliterates everything in its path. It's pissed off, for some reason. Don't ask me to name every adversary or, heavens forfend, try and keep track of the plotlines. A quick search of Godzilla on IMDB brings up entries such as 'Son of Bambi Meets Godzilla', and the like. I really don't think I have time to sort it all out. But hey, I like a good laugh, and how could this disappoint?

The pleasures begin well before we are in the theatre. Waiting out in the warm evening sunshine in Cambridge, I note that Marion and I are, for the moment, the only women in line (with our respective beaux). Most of the other guys queuing up look as though they would have brought Godzilla action figures to be signed for their collections if only the big scaly one were capable of an autograph. Actually, it was like being immersed in a collection of great nerdy characters of literature and cinema. One greasy, crumb-covered guy with a froth of fine slobber over his lower lip instantly took me back to the character Toby in American Splendor. Steve Buscemi's Seymour from Ghost World was lurking near the stairs. I kept expecting Ignatius Reilly from A Confederacy of Dunces to show up, and perhaps he did, but I didn't spend much time at the popcorn counter and the audience was noisy enough that I wouldn't have heard him.

The movie itself - pure camp, bad in every respect, sometimes horribly so, that my sides ached at one point from laughing. Was it intentional? Was it homage to the tradition of Godzilla movies? Was it strictly low-budget? What I saw was a send-up montage of clips from Star Trek (William Shatner on the bridge while the Enterprise is under attack), Star Wars, The Matrix, any Bruce Willis movie, and oh yeah, there were big nasty monsters, eventually. Comic relief was provided both knowingly (some little baby Godzilla creature that looked like Barney's little buddy and was never fully explained to we uninitiated) and, I'm hoping, unwittingly (the character of Captain Gordon, lone white guy on the Go-ten force, who storms around and gets in lots of bon mots - 'insert American slang here'). Unlike your typical Hollywood action movie, there was hardly any blood or gore, but I'm reminded that the Japanese have a very different idea of what constitutes obscene material. [I've been told that it's OK in Japanese manga (comic books) to depict all kinds of nasty sex, but you can't show pubic hair.] The plot - was there one? - was threadbare and laughable, the acting was overwrought, and the whole thing was sewn together as crudely as the ass of the first Thanksgiving turkey I cooked at age 9. In short, it was brilliant.

There were probably a lot of details that were lost on me, but if there are intricacies in characters such as Mothra - a giant winged hairy bug, suspended by rather visible means, buzzing drunkenly through the landscape - I think knowing them might have spoiled the fun.

Thanks to Marion for suggesting the movie and the dessert joint, and apologies to Kai for eating all his popcorn. ;)

2005-08-09T06:14:00.000-04:00

Fishing Boats, Peggy's Cove

2005-08-08T16:37:00.000-04:00

Reclining Nude, 2005

Crimes In the Name of Fashion

2005-08-08T15:42:00.000-04:00

I don't subscribe to Vogue. I don't read Glamour, or Cosmopolitan, or Elle. I don't even know if those are still 'the' magazines to read, if you're into fashion. Honestly, I don't care.

I don't think there's anything wrong with a wardrobe carved out of Goodwill castoffs. I think stripes and plaids can be mixed if you do it right - and if you have enough chutzpah to pull it off.

I realize that for some people, getting out of the house with a pair of matching socks is an accomplishment. The comments I'm about to make do not apply to them. This is for the people I saw today who actually TRIED to make a fashion statement.

1. To the lady in the line at the coffee stand: when you have a violent sunburn, do not wear white pantyhose. In fact, unless you are a nurse, or in the chorus of Swan Lake, you probably shouldn't ever wear white pantyhose.

2. To the guy in the Saab convertible yakking on the cell phone while changing lanes without signaling: with its current lack of adhesive, that rug on your head is strictly a top-up accessory.

3. To the guy with no sense of personal space in the shampoo aisle of the drugstore: wearing jeans your mother bought you in eighth grade gives us a far too detailed illustration of how you position your genitalia when you dress in the morning. Please find a new pair of jeans that fit you.

Have you been assaulted by someone's sense of fashion today? Let's hear it.

Why Lawyers Exist

2005-08-05T11:43:00.000-04:00

This is why lawyers exist.

The time had come for me to apply for my green card. In preparation, Craig and I downloaded piles of documents from the INS website, gathered together every original document to prove our individual existences and our state of matrimony, and made an appointment at the regional office in Boston. What they don't tell you includes, but is not limited to, the following:

Your 'appointment' is an appointment with the numbered ticket machine, not with a person. It means you are allowed in at a certain time to take a number, and then wait. When we got our ticket yesterday, our estimated waiting time, as printed on the ticket, was 3 hours and 7 minutes.
It is illegal for a person to carry a blade over 2.5 inches in length on their person. Apparently this makes Craig a dangerous criminal. The security person kindly allowed us to stow his Leatherman tool in my purse. Apparently it is OK for it to be in my leather handbag, but not in his jeans pocket.
Take a good book if you don't want to watch CNN. They won't change the channel, not even for an afternoon Red Sox game.
INS personnel are not required to demonstrate any customer service skills bordering on patience, pleasantness, or helpfulness. In fact, I think such behaviour is strongly discouraged. After all, would any hopeful immigrant dare complain?

For the record, one is not automatically granted citizenship upon marriage to an American. You aren't even granted permanent residency (aka a green card, which is not the same as being a citizen). There are a lot of forms, and a lot of waiting. Frankly, I don't know how anyone who doesn't speak English manages this on their own, if two reasonably intelligent native English speakers cannot even be certain that they are filling them out and submitting them properly. I guess they hire lawyers. After yesterday, I was tempted to get a business card from any of the cheaply-suited guys with bulging file folders sitting next to families from halfway around the earth.

Issue number one for yours truly: I need to change my name. My name on all my current documentation is my ex-husband's name. I've returned to my maiden name now. It seems that trying to do this while trying to apply for the green card is far too complicated for the INS. The impression we got from the person we spoke to was that he couldn't be bothered to give us any useful or accurate information because we were just standing between him and the end of his shift. Worst of all, he told us that once I handed over my current work visa and applied for a green card, that I would not be eligible to work until I had that green card - around 2 months, minimum. This was pretty much the exact opposite of everything I had read at their online site, which suggested that once I had filed that application, I was authorized to work. I'm sure now that the truth is somewhat greyer, and that the goalposts are changing hourly.

We left the office with few answers and less direction. While walking to the nearest pub, we determined that the best thing to do would be to handle all my name change documentation first, since any confusion about my name on my green card forms was bound to cause delays and possibly worse.

This morning I spent an hour on the phone with a few other INS folks, who seemed surprised by what we were told yesterday, and told me NOT to file in person in Boston - as the instructions on our sheet say - but to mail everything in instead. Registered mail - and be sure to keep a good copy of everything you send - and do NOT send in any originals.

I tried to keep notes of all this, but for me to explain them to anyone right now just makes me sound like I'm spouting gibberish negating more gibberish. I'm confused, frustrated, and a little disheartened, but I have this much going for me - I know it will all get done, it's just going to take a lot more time.

If any Boston INS officials are reading (which I seriously doubt since apparently they can't even read the label on a box of corn flakes never mind keep up with their own documentation), consider this a giant, wet raspberry in your general direction. As for the rest of the INS, we'll see if you live up to all that your promised me this morning. I have a feeling we're going to be in touch again very soon.

Flight Lessons

2005-08-02T15:42:00.000-04:00

I like to joke that I have a 'corner office' - but really what it is is a broom-closet sized space within a larger office that happens to be in a corner and has a pair of corner windows. It's no joke, however, that I have one of the best views on campus through brick-framed windows thickly lined with ivy. The vines and the berries that grow on them, along with the landscaping below, provide the perfect habitat for an endless National Geographic nature series.

Last year, mourning doves nested on one of the sills, and I watched as the parents took turns sitting on the pair of eggs. I got as excited as a kindergartner when I saw the first evidence of the babies having been born, and continued to watch them as they got so big the parents could barely contain them under their own bodies. Eventually, my own curiosity got the better of me and I thought I could try opening the window and getting a close-up photo of them while the parents were out foraging. Unfortunately, I scared one of the babies so badly when I did this that it took a very impromptu first flight lesson and I never saw it again. I have no idea how it fared.

This afternoon we could all hear chirping outside my windows. Through the ivy I eventually spied a baby cardinal sitting on a leaf stem. The parents were flying up and down in front of the baby like they were suspended on yo-yos. I wasn't sure at first what was going on, but it soon became apparent that this was the cardinal equivalent of teaching your kid how to drive.

Next to my office is the copy room, and the window in that overlooks my windows. I went in there to get a better vantage point, and the baby saw me, shot out off the leaf, and flew straight towards me, into the window beak first. It fell to the sill and I swear it shook its head as though dazed and seeing stars. The parents went ballistic and started flapping closer, but backing off once they saw the audience through the window.

The baby got back on its feet and kept trying to fly. It would get lift-off, rise a few inches, then land back on the sill. The mother and the father flanked the baby left and right, squawking encouragement. I even thought I detected a note of frustration as the baby refused to turn itself out towards the air, and kept trying to fly through the window!

Other staff and some faculty showed up to watch the show, and eventually we all got talking about one thing after another...and before we knew it, we couldn't hear any more chirping. We looked out the window, and the baby and its parents were gone. They weren't on the ground, or in any of the nearby bushes, so I have to assume they managed to get the baby flying at least some little distance.

I am sure, however, that I saw the same expression on the faces of the baby cardinal's parents as I did on my own, as they endured me grinding the gears and popping the clutch of the car.

Lateral Stability

2005-08-01T15:45:00.000-04:00

After 39 years of searching, I've finally found a name for my problem. I have 'diminished lateral stability.'

I like that term. I think it's rather fetching. My mother would probably insist that my mental stability is more of an issue, but she's not covered by my HMO.

I've started seeing a physiotherapist to help sort out why my leg decided to rupture in mid-stride during boot camp in June. Frankly, I didn't know what this treatment might be able to do since I sort of felt like I was well on the mend by the time I started going. Little did I know.

The woman (who bears an uncanny resemblance to my father's second wife, my bitchy babysitter) brought out her little calipers and put me into a few different positions that I suppose come naturally to a Chinese contortionist, but apparently are designed to evaluate my flexibility. And looky there - one leg has a third of the flexibility of the other.

So today we played on machines that I had to push off of, with both legs, with one leg and then the other, and then with elastic bands and then with steps, and damn if it didn't start to feel like I was getting a workout all over again. This shit is hard.

Tonight's homework will be going up stairs and down them, balancing my opposite leg without it touching the stair. Hopefully I don't fall on my ass and then have to have her working out a busted coccyx - an injury I sustained many years ago and wouldn't wish on anyone, not even my dad's second wife...

2005-07-28T11:03:00.000-04:00

Nosy

When a Creative Job Really Isn't

2005-07-28T10:37:00.000-04:00

Sometimes people ask me what I do for a living, and when I tell them I'm a marketing director at a university, they always respond with something like "oh, cool!" This immediately makes me feel like I must burst their bubble, because what seems, on the surface to be a funky and creative gig in a young, energetic environment, is anything but.

People hear 'marketing' and they think I get to wear funky purple shoes, and spend my days designing gorgeous brochures and giving free reign to every spark of ingenuity that runs through my head. What little people know...

I work for the man. I don't get to design things the way I want or the way I think they should be. I frequently have to make things that I despise. I write a lot of copy...saying the same thing a hundred different ways, constantly in search of the magic words that will bring students running to the door...because remember, this is all about the bottom line.

I crunch a lot of numbers - yes, you do that in marketing. I run statistical analyses of campaigns, create and deal with budgets, deal with unruly databases, and write proposals justifying my need for more money.

Budgets and money - there's never enough of either. This means that I have to create crap because I can't afford to do anything really truly cool with enough cash to make a real impact. The idea that you reap what you sow still falls on deaf ears with our administration, which has a great distrust of marketing. As far as they're concerned, people should just flock to the school without any advertising at all. They think this place is hot shit and that everyone feels the same way.

Mostly, I have to sell an idea that I don't believe in. That's the worst of it. I spend 25% of my time dealing with administrative stuff, 50% trying to make silk purses out of sows' ears, and another 25% just buggering off and doing whatever. The sad truth is they think I walk on water but I'm so jaded and uninspired that I'm not inclined to put any real effort into it - especially since I'm not pressed to.

What's good about the job? A stable paycheque, decent benefits...that's pretty much it. I have a great deal of autonomy and I have the best boss I've ever had, who just leaves me alone and trusts me to do my work. And yes, I do get to wear whatever shoes I want. I suppose I should be grateful - a lot of people never get a gig this good. For someone else, this might be a dream job. For me...well...the day can't come fast enough when I can leave it behind and really let my creative juices take reign.

I'm not so naive as to think running my own photography business won't be a hard slog too. I know there'll be sucking up to do, and some photography jobs that get done just for the money, and a heck of a lot of marketing...but I'll get to call all the shots and if things aren't working, I can't blame anyone but myself.

Anyway, the next person who suggests that my job is cool is going to get an invitation to follow me around for a day and see if they can stop themselves from opening a vein before 5:00.

2005-07-27T10:20:00.000-04:00

Tidal Pool, Schoodic Peninsula, Maine

So Whatever Happened to Boot Camp?

2005-07-27T09:48:00.000-04:00

In case you were wondering why all mention of boot camp ceased rather suddenly last month...circumstances unfolded in ways I did not anticipate. On the Friday of the third week of camp, a week before the wedding, I was out for the warm-up run along Salisbury Street when without warning, I heard an unbelievably audible *POP* in my left calf, and simultaneously felt my entire leg seize up in sharp pain. I knew right away this was not good.

I stopped running and leaned against a tree to see if I could stretch it out, but the pain was just greater. I knew without talking to anyone that boot camp had ended for me right there and then.

Sergeant Erica saw me hobbling back up the hill and asked what had happened. When I told her, she just shook her head and knew what I knew. I had to get to a doctor that day and get myself sorted out - quickly - if I was going to be able to walk in a pair of 3" slingbacks along beach rocks a week later for the wedding.

I drove home, pissed at myself, and getting increasingly agitated about the situation. A couple years earlier I had torn both calves playing volleyball, and I didn't walk right for weeks after that. Why had this happened again when I was, I thought, being so careful about stretching and warm-ups?

I won't go into the distress I had dealing with my doctor. Suffice to say I'll be looking for a new one if mine can't fit me in a week before my wedding with an urgent injury, and sends me to the E.R. instead...a half hour drive (yes, I drive a standard, and we are talking about my clutch leg here), limping around the hospital's extensive construction zone, and then waiting to be examined. Diagnosis: rupture of the plantaris tendon, sometimes referred to as 'tennis leg'. E.R. sends me away with my leg wrapped like King Tut and a pair of crutches that were more trouble than they were worth.

I spent the weekend with my leg up and iced, and three or four days later I felt I was walking without any noticeable limp, although it still ached. I had an entirely useless consultation with a sports medicine doctor when I returned from the honeymoon, but today I will be heading to a physical therapist to learn how, if at all, I can prevent this from happening again in the future.

As for boot camp, I will be back as soon as I have the medical all-clear.

2005-07-26T14:44:00.000-04:00

Hubbards Harbour, Nova Scotia

Tales from the Honeymoon, Part Four (final)

2005-07-26T14:26:00.000-04:00

Now that Craig and I have (somewhat) reluctantly returned to our old routine at home, I've had some time to think about what I miss most from the honeymoon...

1. Riding around in the sunshine with the top down on the car
2. Eating lobster every other day
3. Indulging every whim and curiosity just by stopping the car and getting out to look
4. Random oddities that greet you around every corner
5. Having days wide open and unscheduled
6. Spending a lot more time with Craig
7. Sand between my toes

I also wish I could have had little fairies stay behind at home to weed the garden and do all the little chores I didn't have time to do before we left. Oh, and maybe strip wallpaper, paint walls, wash windows, install flooring, and refinish the cupboards...I guess the trick is to make all the fun things fit into married life along with the necessary things.

I think I'll pick up some lobster this weekend!

Tales from the Honeymoon, Part Three

2005-07-25T14:43:00.000-04:00

The Cabin From Hell

Craig and I are at odds about this one. He would prefer to pretend it never happened and never think on it again. I, on the other hand, have decided the only way I can deal with the incident is to try and make it amusing enough in retrospect that I can put the horror behind me.

Half-way through our journey in Nova Scotia, we hit the island of Cape Breton late in the evening and promptly started looking for a low-key place to spend the night. A quiet motel or something along those lines would have been just fine. All we needed was a place to crash, then get up in the morning and get on our way.

We had stopped at some beachside cottages just outside of Antigonish, only to discover they were all booked up. The owner said we'd probably have trouble finding anything in the area as there was a very large Highland dance competition on that weekend. We decided then to head right into Cape Breton and away from the no vacancy signs.

After much stumbling about the backroads, and repeatedly asking Craig...so, do you think there are any TOWNS on this road somewhere?...we found ourselves bouncing over 20 miles of dirt road into nowhere, and popping out on the other side in Canada's answer to Brigadoon, circa 1974. A small one-pump gas station with a little corner store attached to someone's home, the blue cathode-tube glow the only indication of life. We thought we'd at least go in and try and find out where the hell we were.

The woman behind the counter was in her 60s or so, in requisite polyester, her grey hair set off by a backdrop collage of hundreds of photos of small children - possibly all the same three kids, I really don't know. Her practised reply to our question - 'why, you're in beautiful River Denys, of course.' Which was about like saying that we should bless the gods that led us to a dungheap in the middle of frickin' nowhere. We asked if there were any motels or cottages nearby...oh, had we simply asked instead for directions to the Trans-Canada highway...

'Why, we have cottages right here!' she was happy to tell us. 'Let me just get my husband.'

She bellowed over the half-door dividing the store from their crocheted-afghan covered living room, rousing a man who plainly would have preferred not to have been disturbed for the rest of the evening. He escorted us to their 'cottages'.

'There's an in-ground pool too, you know!' she said as we were led out back.

After determining that all we really needed was a bed, the man showed us the smallest of the cottages, all of which came with their own kitchenettes, sitting areas, full bath, and abandoned wreck of a car on blocks in 3 feet of tall grass beside them. Going inside, he showed us the breakers to turn on the stove (not necessary, but he turned it on anyway), the cable TV with movie box (not necessary, we won't be watching any TV), made sure there were towels, and then charged us $50. It wasn't pretty, but I figured what the hell. We just need to sleep and get going in the morning.

We dragged our bags in, and then the filthy hell began to reveal itself. There was a fist-sized hole in the panelling right by the door. The handle to the bathroom fell off the moment I tried to close the door behind me. There was a layer of mildew in the fridge that told me everything I needed to know about when this place was last cleaned. The greasy dust on the drapes was an inch thick. There wasn't a magazine earlier than Ben Affleck's first reported flirtation with rehab in 2001. Every towel in the bathroom looked as though it had been brought out of open storage in a leaky basement.

I feared what I might find near the bed. I went upstairs and inspected it, and decided the sheets seemed to be clean, so I didn't insist on bringing the sleeping bags in from the car. Honestly, I really think I was just trying to convince myself that they were.

We played a round of cards and went to bed. Immediate problems became apparent. The bed had a serious list to the port side - my side of the bed - and I felt like I was going to have to hold onto Craig for dear life not to fall on the floor. The pillows had as much oomph as cast iron pans. And the sheets...well...maybe they were clean, maybe not. Lights out, we could hear the mosquitoes buzzing around our heads. I stuck my head under the covers.

And then the dinging began. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding...

Apparently the stove had an oven timer on it. We went downstairs and tried to make it stop.

An hour later: Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding...

Fuck. We got out of bed and headed downstairs again, and spun some other knobs to make it stop.

You can guess what happened an hour later. I couldn't deal with it at this point. Craig got up, went downstairs, and flipped the breaker off. Dinging dealt with. On his way back upstairs he grabbed the bug spray and sprayed my head as I lay there trying to doze.

I barely slept all night. I couldn't relax. When light hit, I started packing up right away and tapped my foot impatiently as Craig attended to his morning constitutional on the john. I was so stressed about the place my bowels refused to budge in it.

Later, when I asked Craig what grossed him out most about it, he said that it was when he went downstairs in his socks, and the toe of his foot slid under the sofa and got stuck in something on the linoleum under it.

When the man had been showing us the cottage, Craig asked him if they got many people like us who just come in off the road. He said that mostly they had return customers, people who came back time and again because they like the place.

I shudder to imagine.

Tales from the Honeymoon, Part Two

2005-07-22T15:55:00.000-04:00

The Dog We Nearly Had To Take Home

On our last day in Nova Scotia, we were driving lazily along the southeast shore towards Yarmouth, scoping out cottages in the gothic style - steeply pointed gables on the second floor, sometimes a single gable and sometimes two or three, and conspiring to find our way inside one to see what the floor plan was like. Craig was especially interested in this as he harbours romantic notions of having such a place one day in Nova Scotia. I wouldn't be disappointed in this, but I'm not sure I'm as convinced yet as he is.

While heading down one minor highway - essentially a glorified backroad with a line painted down the middle, but enough actual pavement to encourage drivers to attack its nicely banked curves and lack of traffic with enough speed and recklessness to qualify for the Nascar circuit - we saw a small dog standing nervously in the middle of the road.

At first, we both thought it was a puppy. The dog wasn't very tall, and seemed to have puppy-like soft white fur, the kind of fuzz new puppies have before they get their adult coats. It seemed oblivious to where it was - something definitely wasn't right. We pulled over to make sure it hadn't been hit, or maybe see if its owner was nearby.

When we got out of the car, we realized quickly it wasn't a puppy, but simply a very small dog. It showed no signs of recognizing that a car had just passed nearby, but as we came nearer and spoke to the dog, it became friendly and excited, and happy to be pet. I felt along its back and hindquarters to make sure it wasn't hurt, and it seemed to be okay. It was only then as I got closer that I noticed its eyes. Nearly obscured by the curling fur around them, I could see that they were a solid, milky green, with crusty green mucus stuck in the fur all around them. My immediate thought was that this dog was blind. A small, blind dog, out here in the middle of the highway.

I picked it up and showed Craig. At first we were both a bit mortified, as though here was a dog who had been terribly neglected. There weren't many houses in the area and we discovered later we had the same fear - that this dog was about to become the third passenger in our already overloaded car. There was no way either one of us could have left it there on the highway.

We went to the nearest house, me cradling the dog, who was quite content to be held, and Craig traipsing through the tall grass to find out if anyone was home. A man came forward and said he didn't know the dog, but that people abandon animals out here all the time. My heart sank.

While they were talking, I could hear a voice calling from the other side of the road. There was a house back there, but it was hard to see past the trees. I hoped it was the dog's owner - and more so, that I wasn't going to have to hand over this unfortunate creature back to someone who was just as likely to set it back out on the road again after we had driven off. Craig and I walked towards the gravel driveway.

A middle-aged woman came towards us. Behind her, what we could see of the place looked neat and well-tended. I asked - 'is this dog yours?' I was so thankful when she said yes. When we got nearer, I asked if the dog could see at all. She said no, she had been blind from birth. They discovered after they got her that the dog had been born without any tear ducts, which was why all the mucus caked up around her eyes. She was surprised to hear where we had found her, and said she never ventured that far away from the house. She seemed very relieved, and invited us in for tea. Craig and I had just had breakfast, however, and we declined the invitation, heading back for our car.

As we walked back along the highway, we caught a better glimpse of the woman's house through the brush. A single-gabled gothic cottage, nicely proportioned, center staircase, appearing to be in the middle of getting a new coat of paint. Before we knew it, we were driving back up the driveway, hoping we could get a peek inside.

The little dog - whose name we now knew to be Alexa - barked excitedly when we knocked on the door, and ran out and lapped our bare legs when the woman opened it. We told her how we had seen the house from the road, and why we were interested, and asked if she would mind if we took a few photos and could see the layout? She was happy to oblige us - and in that way Craig got his wish to get inside one and see how the center staircase opened up to the landing under the gable, and how much more spacious the rooms were than we expected them to be. Alexa stayed at the bottom of the stairs - she knew better than to try them, without sight - and barked at us the whole time we were up there.

Tales from the Honeymoon, Part One

2005-07-20T15:27:00.000-04:00

Two weeks spent tooling about Maine and Nova Scotia in an overloaded convertible (best described in the same manner as the helicopters in the Canadian air force - 2000 pieces of metal flying in close proximity) are bound to give rise to all kinds of stories and vignettes. Here are some of the things we encountered during the road trip:

1. 'Extra weather'. This is when you can see that there is a beautiful blue sky painted with the faintest white brush strokes of cirrus clouds, way, way up there, but a lower layer - the 'extra weather' - of thick dark clouds, mist, fog, and intermittent rain - continues to torment you. Nova Scotia seems to have plenty of this. This led to various hopeful exclamations on Craig's part, such as:

a) "I think it's clearing up!" (appropriate response: spit at him)
b) "I think it's breaking up!" (appropriate response: smack him)
c) "I think it's brightening up!" (appropriate response: pull hat down over his eyes)

2. Hanging a 'just married' sign on the back of one's car makes people quickly forgive you for anything foolish you might do, sometimes benefits you in mysterious and unforeseen ways, and inspires large semi-trailers sandwiching you on the highway to honk vociferously and give you the big thumbs-up. Announcing our newlywed status resulted in one campground owner paying our breakfast bill (behind our backs!) at a local cafe, prompted an elderly Acadian woman to present us with a green ceramic dog statue she just happened to have in the back of her car (more about Vaunda d'Entremont another time), and made customs officials take pity on us and accuse the car of emanating 'a certain glow'. We're just glad they didn't find the plutonium we smuggled back over the border.

3. Don't ever order the 'Big As Your Head Burrito' on your honeymoon. Especially not from a supposedly Mexican restaurant whose only tequila offering is Jose Cuervo. 'Nuff said.

4. Meat Cove. Meat Cove? Yes, Meat Cove. A remote outpost on the northern most tip of Cape Breton, at the end of 8 km of dirt road, where one can camp on cliffs falling at 80 degree angles straight into the ocean. If it weren't so socked in with fog, you could pretend you could see all the way to Newfoundland. A fellow traveller told us that the government stepped in there during the 1950s to stop rampant inbreeding. I have to say I don't doubt it for a moment.

More later...

2005-07-19T13:37:00.000-04:00

Regimental Colours, Halifax

2005-07-19T13:36:00.001-04:00

Regiment, Highland Games, Halifax

2005-07-19T13:36:00.000-04:00

Highland Games Drum, Halifax

2005-07-19T13:35:00.001-04:00

Low Tide, Bay of Fundy

2005-07-19T13:35:00.000-04:00

Wedding Getaway Car

2005-07-19T13:34:00.000-04:00

Boy with Mohawk on the Fourth of July

2005-07-19T13:33:00.001-04:00

Pipers, July 4th, Bar Harbor

2005-07-19T13:33:00.000-04:00

Wedding Bouquet at Isle Au Haut

Quick Images From The Honeymoon

2005-07-19T11:06:00.000-04:00

Above are a few images from the honeymoon...my lovely bouquet (thanks to Sprout, a florist in Worcester) in our wedding night room overlooking the lighthouse at Isle Au Haut...some July 4th festivities in Bar Harbor, Maine...our little TR6, fully loaded like the Grinch's sleigh (we got a lot of honking and thumbs-up for that one!)...fishing boats on the bottom of the harbour in the Bay of Fundy during one of their world's lowest tides...and a few shots from the Highland Games in Halifax, Nova Scotia...

More to come!

Hitched

2005-07-18T13:51:00.000-04:00

It's all official. Craig and I got hitched on July 1st, under a torrent of mist and mosquitoes in southern Maine. Nothing ever goes exactly as you expect it will, but the day was still perfect in my mind, if for no other reason than looking at Craig and dabbing tears out of my eyes while I listened to his vows, and feeling his arm around my waist as I spoke mine. It was an intensely heartfelt moment and a perfect reflection of our relationship.

The day was capped off magnificently with a night spent at Isle Au Haut at The Keeper's House, an inn created out of the lighthouse keeper's home, with a view of the lighthouse blushing through our window all night long and the fog-filled straits beyond. The next day, the sun broke through and we were off for two weeks of touring and being tourists all the way up to Cape Breton.

There will be stories and photos over the next little while. Apologies for having none at hand at the moment. I did want to simply check in here and assure people that we are indeed home, in one piece. The TR6 (our honeymoon getaway vehicle) may have seen its last road trip, but it probably couldn't ride off into the sunset any better than it did.

xoxoxo

2005-06-23T11:30:00.000-04:00

Rusty Girder, 2005

Dress Rehearsals

2005-06-23T09:32:00.000-04:00

I made two practice runs this morning. One was taking a look at the route I'm going to have to run for my timed mile at the end of boot camp next week. Because I won't be there on the last day (that's the wedding day), I'm going to have to run my end-of-camp mile next Wednesday. It will also be a different course because we won't be in the same location. Still a mile, but this one will have a bit of a hill in it.

Sargeant Alexis took us on a half-mile run this morning as part of our regular boot camp activities, which covered part of the route I'm going to have to run next week. I can definitely say I'm noticing a difference in my endurance level. It's still not terrific, but I can run farther and longer than I did a few weeks ago. I just want to beat my time. It'll be harder with the hill involved but I understand better now why runners emphasize the mental challenges of running. I know there are mental obstacles I have to find a way through to make me better able to run the whole mile. I'm not going to beat myself up if I have to walk partway - I expect that'll happen - but I just have to not give into it too early.

This brings us to the second dress rehearsal of the morning. For the last week now I've been trying to find a time to try on my dress for the wedding again and make note of any final adjustments I might have to make. It's tough to get it up myself, partly because of where the zipper's placed. Even with help, I hadn't been able to get the zipper up all the way...yikes! I really didn't want to have to make any alterations if I could help it, though.

This morning I decided to try again, and this time it all came together. I got into the crazy bodyshaper and then into the dress. With a little help from the mirror to figure out where to reach for that zipper, it went all the way to the top. An enormous grin spread across my face when I stood back and saw the dress on me for the first time. It's as beautiful as I imagined. I put on the rest of the stuff to see how it would all look together - shoes, jewellery, everything - and I really did feel like a bride.

When the alarm clock goes off before 5 tomorrow morning, and I'm still in a sleepy daze from the late night beforehand, so sleepy that it wouldn't take much to get me to lay back down again, I'll just have to bring that image to mind. Without boot camp I don't think this would have happened this morning. I can keep it up for another week - impending timed mile and all.

2005-06-22T12:48:00.001-04:00

Hosta Blossoms, 2005

2005-06-22T12:48:00.000-04:00

Hosta Leaf, 2005

Spelling and Grammar Cop

2005-06-22T11:51:00.000-04:00

I've always been finicky about grammar and spelling; it's simply part of my nature. I think paying attention to these things demonstrates some orderliness in the mind, which I admire, and also shows respect for those with whom you are communicating. This is not to say that I don't take liberties with language from time to time, and I do like to be amused when others play with language in ways that better communicate their intention. Sometimes that means spelling like 'Hooked on Phonics', or ebonics, to give flavour to words. That's fine - the point is, language is an art form we all use, and how we use it says a lot about who we are and what's important to us.

Poor spelling vexes me. Before I carry on, I want to say that there is a difference between simple typos and poor spelling. The former is just a mistake often brought on by too much speed; the latter is a chronic condition. Sometimes, particular words just trip up people, and they are always struggling with the correct spelling of that word while, for the most part, their spelling is generally sound. Whether someone's errors are typos, however, or the result of lack of respect for spelling and grammar, quickly become apparent.

(For the record, I fully expect that certain people will be closely analyzing this particular blog entry for my own mistakes. Let me give you some assistance: I sometimes have trouble with subject-verb agreement in long sentences. Start there.)

Current list of pet peeve words - ones I frequently see misspelled or misused:

Dependant/independant (and all other forms). Why do people always try to shove an 'a' in there? Folks: the word is 'dependent', and there is no 'a' in it or any of its forms.

Disorientated. This is not a word. The noun is disorientation, and one becomes disoriented. You do not become disorientated. This is one of these bizarre situations where people actually make language more complicated, instead of more simple, when they modify language.

Kewl. Frequently seen in cyberspace. Some might argue that this is an artistic interpretation of the word 'cool', meant to give a sense of the person's inflection if they were speaking the word. It is, however, in my humble opinion, utterly moronic. Analogy: 'cool' is Easy Rider, while 'kewl' is the latest Disney remake of a classic movie starring the talentless but highly photogenic teen icons du jour.

Quote as a noun. This one is strictly personal. I grant that even the Oxford English Dictionary has relented on this one, but I simply cannot. Quote is a verb. Quotation is the noun.

You need only remember this: sloppy grammar and spelling equal a sloppy mind.

2005-06-21T15:26:00.000-04:00

Charles River Museum of Industry, 2005

A Haiku Upon Discovering One of Kitty's Gifts

2005-06-21T15:23:00.000-04:00

Small crunchy bird's head;
Once it flew, now it is flat.
My shoe needs cleaning.

2005-06-20T15:42:00.000-04:00

Sisters, 2005

Miss Manners

2005-06-20T15:25:00.000-04:00

Has there truly been a breakdown of common etiquette - or was etiquette ever truly common? Once again my adventures as Super Auntie have been met without even an email from the child's parent acknowledging that a gift arrived in the mail. How did I develop the habit of the thank-you note while my siblings did not, never mind impart that habit to their children?

I don't expect anything in return for gifts, really. I'm definitely not keeping score. My family's on the other side of the continent and I get to see them but rarely. It does sadden me that I will probably never know my nieces and nephews well, but that was something I had to accept when I decided to move so far away - and to be honest, I doubt we would have been particularly close had I remained at home.

Were we taught to do this as children ourselves? I can't say that we were. Perhaps a few times, as a child, I wrote a thank-you note for some nasty itchy sweater, struggling to find more than two words to diplomatically express my thanks without faking enthusiasm (I sure didn't want to encourage more of that kind of gift...). Mostly I just want to be assured the gift actually got there. Trusting in the delivery of a gift slipped into a black hole of a mail box is sometimes a little disconcerting, and I'd at least like to know that one child isn't wondering why their sibling or cousin got a gift three months ago and they didn't.

What should be a simple form of civility has now become a lost art. Perhaps because I'm more inclined to put my thoughts into writing, the act of the thank-you note doesn't seem like such a chore to me. Those who are parents like to scoff and roll their eyes when we who have yet to become parents add yet another thing to our list of things our child will always or will never do, and yet this is one skill I must add to my list. Simple expressions of gratitude and politeness never, I think, go out of style.

2005-06-17T14:39:00.000-04:00

Railway Bridge

How Did I Get Here?

2005-06-17T13:58:00.000-04:00

5:40 am

I'm jogging down Salisbury Street with a dozen other women, panting loudly, willing myself to make it the whole way back this morning without stopping part way. The thought which occurs to me is...how on earth is it that I'm jogging down Salisbury Street right now when I was this close to not even getting out of bed this morning?

5:00 am

Alarm goes off, for what must be the third time. I don't remember the first two times. I sit up straight right away and swing my legs over the end of the bed, but the rest of me doesn't want to get out. I groan and wipe my eyes. Craig asks me if I'm OK. I reply that I'm simply exhausted, since I didn't get to bed until past 11 the night before. It's so hard to get up after having class the night before and having an hour's drive home - this time through a virulent thunderstorm. He says 'you can do it, xxx' (term of endearment concealed here to protect the rest of the public from rolling their eyeballs). Somehow I get up and start getting dressed, but my legs are leaden and my head is in a daze.

5:45 am

Make it around the designated lamp post and head back up Salisbury Street. All the way, no stops.

2005-06-16T14:04:00.001-04:00

Mist on Pond 2

2005-06-16T14:04:00.000-04:00

Mist on Pond 1

Grrrl-illa in the Mist

2005-06-16T13:50:00.000-04:00

I've noticed during the last few mornings, now that the cool weather has returned, that there's a thick and floaty layer of mist through much of the wooded and watery areas on my drive from home to boot camp to work and back. I decided this morning I'd take my camera with me and stop on the way back from boot camp and try a few shots.

Mist is sort of hard in this situation because it's really easy for it to become blended in with the overcast skies. The white balance is also a challenge - and also an opportunity. I noticed afterwards that some of my shots benefitted from cooling down the white balance to give the mist an even more ethereal feel.

I've been concentrating on shooting backgrounds, as well as separately photographing objects from different angles and bodies and body parts to use in masking and compositing experiments in photoshop. I've been exploring the work of the German photographer, Loretta Lux, whose composite photographs I find very attractive. They have a painterly quality that's very old-world, like albumen frescoes, and the longer you stare at them, the more disturbing they become. I think I'd like to try something in that vein, but with a softer feel to it.

2005-06-15T13:29:00.000-04:00

Colouring Boys

Checked Out

2005-06-15T13:15:00.000-04:00

I've officially checked out. My brain is not on the job at all, nor is it likely to be anytime during the 8 1/2 working days left before I take time off for the wedding and honeymoon. It's not like I have a ton of stuff to organize; it's more just wishing the day would hurry up and get here. Craig, who has to determine which of the vehicles in the fleet will ultimately be the least shaky option for this trip, probably has more on his plate than I do. I guess the truth is that it doesn't take much these days to persuade me to avoid work, especially when I can give about 10% of my effort and still get the job done reasonably well.

Boot camp is starting to catch up with me, I think. My legs feel like lead and I just want to nap. I'm still doing quite well. Sargeant Erica had the temerity to suggest today that I might be ready to move to 10 lb weights instead of my 5 lb ones, based on her observation that she's seeing some definition on top of my arms and I don't seem to have trouble lifting the smaller weights. I replied that it's the lack of definition under my arms that is more of a concern, and frankly I didn't think it would be wise to consider such a move until I was actually able to do a push-up from my toes. It's hard enough right now just from the knees. Red Sox catcher Doug Mirabelli put himself on the disabled list for several weeks after trying to swing David 'Big Papi' Ortiz's much heavier bat - what does that tell you? Don't mess with shit you aren't ready for.

2005-06-14T11:01:00.000-04:00

Squint

Better Living Through Chemistry

2005-06-14T10:32:00.000-04:00

UV rays. Bugs. Pollen. Smelly Pits. Frizzy Hair. Plaque. And everything else...

It amazes me how much time I spend swallowing or slathering chemicals designed to protect my body from undesirable states, from sunburn to pregnancy. This is a list of all the chemicals I voluntarily and knowingly use on my body on a daily or near-daily basis, not including food or food-like substances:

Dove soap * Shampoo * Conditioner * Hair De-Frizzer (rather pointless in this humidity, but what the hell) * Hair Straightener (no, they're not the same things) * Hair smoothing balm (stop laughing) * Anti-perspirant/deodorant * Body spray (juniper or grapefruit when I'm feeling fruity) * Oxy zit cream (10% benzoyl peroxide) * Toothpaste * Mouthwash * Claritin-D * Patanol eye drops * Flonase nasal spray * Sunscreen * Bug spray (DEET) * Birth control pills * Lipitor (for cholesterol) * Multi-vitamin ('women's variety') * Mascara * Lipstick * Nail hardener * Hand cream * Facial scrub * Facial moisturizer * Body moisturizer * Baby powder * Vaseline petroleum jelly (for callouses on my heels) * Marshmallow night cream

I'm sure that if my boyfriend were to draw up his list, it would have fewer items than you could count on one hand. Soap, shampoo, pit stick, tootpaste - that'd be about it. Of course, this might explain why my hands are soft and smooth, and Craig spent the weekend coaxing years of grime out of his navel with a Q-tip and rubbing alcohol, but only after repeated coercion.

Still, it's rather bewildering to contemplate just using these things everyday, never mind setting up a system where I can actually find all of them.

2005-06-13T12:34:00.000-04:00

Daddy's Girl