Yeah, I know, it’s supposed to taste like chicken, ’cause everything tastes like chicken.  But why?  If everything tastes like chicken, how do we know what chicken really tastes like?  Maybe it’s chicken that tastes like braised frog legs or fried emu or grilled tarantula?  Don’t ask.  Just random musings on a Tuesday when I am way, way overtired.

The Ambassador busted his hand today in a graceful move during PE class.  He did, however, make the obviously intelligent choice of a red cast, because, duh, that’s the color of his soccer kit, and the season officially starts in less than two weeks.  (Insert eyeroll here)  I’ve got a design sketch done for a lightly padded wrap for it, because the ref won’t let him on the pitch without it.  He can pick out fabric from my stash when we get home and I’ll work on it tonight and tomorrow.

The Scientist was supposed to be gone this weekend but the mid-Atlantic blizzard trashed those plans.  It’s the first time in a few years he’s been around on Valentine’s Day wknd.  I’m not into Valentine’s Day myself, so it doesn’t matter to me either way, but it does mean that he and the Ambassador can go to the pro soccer game together on Saturday night.  I’d planned to take him, but the Scientist and he need some more bonding opportunities, so this will be a good one.  And, as much as I hate admitting it, my knee has been in some seriously bad shape for a week or so.  Between the walking I did in NOLA and slipping on the ice, it’s been swollen with lots of fluid up the back of the joint, the kneecap’s been floating, and it’s been crunching when I walk.  You know what I mean…like when you spill Rice Krispies on the floor and then step on them trying to clean them up?  Yeah.  Like that.  In sound and feel.  Gritty, crunchy, ew.  Aaanyhow, it is supposed to be 22 degrees on Saturday night, so sitting out in that for 3hrs would not be a wise move on my knee, I’m sure.

The Professor’s transcripts and applications are finally into her choices for university.  Grr.  She is brilliant, but man, she can piss me off about not getting stuff done on time.  But they are in, and now we wait for results.  I cannot imagine that she wouldn’t get in, between her gpa/President’s List at the community college and ACT scores, but I guess you never know.   It’ll be interesting to see what she decides to do with dorms, her choice of school, and such.  It’s part of the cool thing about being a parent is seeing how your kids turn out.  You look at them when they’re young and wonder what they’ll be like in ten years.  Now it’s ten years later, and it’s wild to see the changes.

The Artist hit a little bit of a depressive skid, but nothing huge.  She needs to get her head out of her ass on a few things, and it’s hard for me to keep patience sometimes.  It’s kinda like…someone asks you for advice, you give the advice, you know damn well you’re right because you’ve been there and done that, and then the person ignores the advice and wonders why the situation doesn’t change.  *facepalm*  Drives me absofreakinlutely nuts sometimes.

But ya know, teenagers in general are impossible.  Dealing with teens is like nailing Jell-O to a tree.

Can I get an “Amen!” from my fellow parents?

I’ve never thought of myself as an overly complicated person.  People who claim to be so always seemed pretentious and narcissistic to me; almost like they were issuing a challenge to the outside world to try, just try, I dare you!, to attempt to figure them out.  Eh.  Maybe I’m just too lazy to be complicated.

But last weekend did stumble upon an interesting paradox within myself; one that I knew existed, but didn’t quite realize the depth until Kh and I talked about it.   A lot of it resides in the persona that I crafted over the years to show people what they needed to see.  After all, a Feis/softball/soccer mom with three kids has to be open and friendly and accessible, right?  Right?  I’ve been told that I have a great smile, very open and welcoming and friendly.  So when I use it, people just tend to start talking to me.  I wind up hearing way more about their life stories than I ever wanted to hear because of it.

The  truth is that I do not, as a rule, like people.  I am, by nature, very mistrustful, having been taught time and again over the years that people are not to be trusted.  I used to believe in the inherent goodness of humanity, but as I age, that gets harder and harder to find.  The Scientist has observed on more than one occasion that I have become much more jaded and cynical over the years.  He’s wrong.  I have always been like this; I just no longer bust my ass to hide it.

I’ve talked before about the toxic environment in which I work; and to cope with it, I have headphones on quite literally all day.  My coworkers all know that if they want me, they just have to tag me on the shoulder to get my attention.  Even my psychotic department head has bitched and whined about the fact that I do not answer my phone; but despite the bitching, will call my friend in the next cubicle and tell her to get my attention.  There are very few people in my office with whom I care to socialize, and even that is on a restricted level for me.

The Ambassador has a new soccer team this year, and as usual, I shoot all of the team shots at the games.  This serves two purposes.  One, it sharpens my sports action skills, and two, it alleviates the need for me to interact with the other parents.  I don’t know them, and really don’t care to get to know them.   There’s one parent that we knew from years ago, and I do kinda like her, but on a surface level.  I don’t want to socialize with her outside of soccer or anything.  So on the field, I am off behind the goal, or down the sideline, alone with Alejandro.  He and I spend the game together, and that’s the extent of my socialization there.

When at the grocery store, or Target (etc), same goes.  The headphones isolate me so well; people tend not to address me because they can see that I won’t hear them.  I remove them when I check out because I know that some minimal conversation generally needs to happen, and that’s fine.  But until that time, I am blissfully insulated from screaming children demanding candy or toys, pseudo-important people talking loudly on their cellphones, the sorority girls and frat boys discussing their latest conquests (I live very close to a University), or rambling people who ask my advice on what hemorrhoid cream to purchase.  (Yes, it’s happened.)

In times when I travel, I print boarding passes at home.  As soon as I park my car in the lot, my headphones are firmly set into my ears, a play-list is chosen and on shuffle, and I am off.  I speak to no one unless I need to.  If I happen to meet eyes with someone by mistake, I do smile, and if spoken to, I will absolutely remove the headphones to respond.  I’m by no means rude.  I’m just never the initiator.   On the plane, same thing.  As soon as clear the no-electronics range, the headphones go back in until the descent begins.  I do not engage my seatmate in conversation, but again, I will respond pleasantly if addressed.

So with all of those examples, I find myself at odds with myself in certain circumstances.  When in a foreign country, I love to talk to the people who live there, to learn from them. Shopkeepers, people on the street who engage me, little kids, doesn’t matter.  And it isn’t just other countries.  When we were in NOLA, Kh and I found ourselves in conversations with various shopkeepers, people who stood with us at parades, wait staff at restaurants, the front desk clerk and security guard at the hotel, and even just people on the street.  There was something about it that just invited the camaraderie.

I know it probably sounds insane.  Kh understood exactly what I meant when I said that I don’t like people, but I love People.  But I do realize how weird that comes out when I say it or write it.   It isn’t really something that I seek to “fix” or even to “change” because, quite frankly, I don’t see it as a problem.  Just one of those random musings that came out of my head.

Kh and I are both disciples of Jimmy Buffett, and were discussing some of the books he had written while we played around in the Margaritaville store on Monday.  She asked if I had read on in particular, and when I said I hadn’t, she took it off the shelf and flipped through it.  There was a poem, she said, by Don Blanding, that he had put in the book that described both of us perfectly.  She handed me the book with a knowing smile, and I read the words pasted below.  As they sank into the recesses of my brain, I was stunned at how accurate they were.  The only difference I found was that my “Other One” is anchored at home by necessity and responsibility and not by a longing to be there.  But regardless of reasoning, I have lived this for as long as I can remember, and will continue to do so for a few more years.  So I thank you, Mr. Blanding, for putting into words, the way I feel every day, as I lead my own “Double Life.”

The Double Life

How very simple life would be
If only there were two of me
A Restless Me to drift and roam
A Quiet Me to stay at home.
A Searching One to find his fill
Of varied skies and newfound thrill
While sane and homely things are done
By the domestic Other One.

And that’s just where the trouble lies;
There is a Restless Me that cries
For chancy risks and changing scene,
For arctic blue and tropic green,
For deserts with their mystic spell,
For lusty fun and raising Hell,

But shackled to that Restless Me
My Other Self rebelliously
Resists the frantic urge to move.
It seeks the old familiar groove
That habits make. It finds content
With hearth and home — dear prisonment,
With candlelight and well-loved books
And treasured loot in dusty nooks,

With puttering and garden things
And dreaming while a cricket sings
And all the while the Restless One
Insists on more exciting fun,
It wants to go with every tide,
No matter where…just for the ride.
Like yowling cats the two selves brawl
Until I have no peace at all.

One eye turns to the forward track,
The other eye looks sadly back.
I’m getting wall-eyed from the strain,
(It’s tough to have an idle brain)
But One says “Stay” and One says “Go”
And One says “Yes,” and One says “No,”
And One Self wants a home and wife
And One Self craves the drifter’s life.

The Restless Fellow always wins
I wish my folks had made me twins.

Here are links to the pics from this weekend, should you care to peruse:

The majority of them are here:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/killian77/sets/72157623350120076/

There are 3 other sets not included in there if you’re interested, but they are more subject specific:

Various masks of Mardi Gras:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/killian77/sets/72157623214498339/

The Buddy D parade in honor of the Saints going to the Super Bowl for the first time:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/killian77/sets/72157623217376533/

This last one is of the Krewe Du Vieux parade.  There are a few in here that could be potentially offensive if you’re sensitive, but the parade itself was hilariously funny as well as creatively done:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/killian77/sets/72157623342119122/

Loooong post ahead; grab a cup of coffee, put your feet up, and enjoy!

Oh man, what an amazing weekend.  (And yes, as a matter of fact, I am completely plowed in that picture!)

I’d never been to New Orleans, but had always wanted to go.  Now, to be fair, I have a list about half a mile long of places I’d love to go.  But New Orleans was on a special subset, a bucket list of destinations, if you will.  There was something there that enticed me on so many levels, and every time The Scientist had to go there for business (three times!), I would be so bummed because I couldn’t go.

So when Kh and I decided to take NOLA by storm, we planned to go down the weekend before Mardi Gras for a few reasons.  One, we’d heard that Krewe Du Vieux’s parade is phenomenal, as well as hilariously funny and X-rated.  Two, if (and it turned out to be “when”) the Saints made it to the Super Bowl, the city was going to riot that night.  Three, the crowds during the bigger parades are such that even with people trying to be nice, it would be really dangerous for me.  I just do not have the stability to not hit the ground when knocked by some drunken soul staggering by, and standing for the length of time necessary to see anything would kill me.  So serendipity swooped in with a cheap flight, and Marriott points from Kh’s husband, Flake (smooches to Flake!!), so off we went.

As luck would have it, Delta and Northwest merged this weekend, which horked our flights all to hell.  Then the snow storm hit, and they got double horked.  But we managed to get there only about an hour later than scheduled, and hopped a cab to the hotel, which was right in the French Quarter.  Neither of us had slept more than about 2-3hrs the night before, had been up by 4am, and hadn’t eaten more than a granola bar or cookie.  By the time we checked in, the headaches had set in and we were light headed.

Enter Serios.  If you’ve ever watched Throwdown With Bobby Flay, this place was the scene of the Muffaletta Throwdown.  I don’t like them because I don’t like olives, but man, we had a Mickey Po’Boy that gave us mouthgasms throughout the meal.  Phenomenal.  We met the owner, Mike, who had beaten Bobby, and chatted with him for a bit.  What a great guy.  So, fed and blissful, we popped back to the hotel to pick up Alejandro and Lucille, and set out on our merry way.

We found a little shop with a woman running it who was from the Philippines.  We liked her so decided to come back and do some of our shopping there when the time came.  We wandered into the Quarter in a light mist, just enjoying people watching and seeing what we saw.  Our meanderings took us to Decatur Street where we decided to have dinner at the Crescent City Brewhouse. One wonderful thing that I discovered is that Kh is as disdainful of chain restaurants as I am, especially when traveling.  Chik-Fil-A is fine when you’re late for soccer practice, but there was no way in hell I was going into a culinary mecca like New Orleans and eating at some crappy fast food place.  We never ate at the ritzy places, but both of us did insist on local cuisine with only one exception (details later).  I had the gumbo (omg, delicious) and a seafood cheesecake, and Kh had calamari and a burger that covered a dinner plate.  Despite being in a famous brewhouse, we were both kinda dehydrated, so we stuck with water.  We just needed to get our system back together, and it worked well.

We’d been told that THE place to get a Hurricane was Pat O’Brien’s, and after the clusterfuck we had with our flights, we both knew we wanted one.  Plus, how can you not?  We found the bar and the line was out the door.  We shrugged and said, “Ok, whatever,” and got a place.  Then we were told that the line was only for the piano bar/sit down area, and if you just wanted to get a hurricane and walk out with it, you could go right in!  Woohoo!  Helloooo Hurricane!  We were in and out in a few minutes after sipping them and watching a few drunk people belt out “Livin’ On A Prayer” along with Bon Jovi.

Exhaustion took its toll, so we decided to be smart and retire at a decent hour, as we knew we’d be out late the following night.  So back to the hotel we went, updated our FB status, chatted briefly with our families, and then passed out cold.

Saturday was supposed to be sunny and 51 degrees.  Uhhh…no.  Not quite.  I doubt it got above 40, and the wind was brutal.  We layered up to go shooting, and I wound up buying a thin but padded/lined coat.  I got a men’s large which was big on me, but worked over the layers, and I knew I could then hand it to The Ambassador when I was done.  We also got matching stocking caps with pirates on them (can be seen in the pic)!  Dang, we looked cute.  Anyhow, back to our morning.  We wandered our way to Café Du Monde where we blissed out on beignets and hot cocoa.  Alejandro and Lucille got a work out as we went along, of course, and then we hit one of the highlights of the trip for me.

I have a “thing” for Mardi Gras masks.  I find the artistry and extravagance in them just beautiful.  The rich colors, the feathers and velvets, the exquisite designs, all of it appeals.  I’m so not girly, but man, I could so easily blow a chunk of change on those things and have them up on my wall.  We found two high end mask stores that do the one-of-a-kind ones, the made to order, the expensive ones.  Now, in any of the stores, photography is forbidden.  They don’t want people trying on the masks, taking a pic, and then tossing them back.  It risks damaging the merchandise.  Now, that applies not just to the mass produced ones, but also the one of a kinds as well.  But in the latter, you also have to maintain artistic integrity.  No one wants their designs copied!  So in we go to Serendipitous Masks. Our jaws dropped as we walked into the tiny shop at the amazing opulence of what we saw.  Not just masks, but dolls, Fabrege style eggs, tiaras, all sorts of stuff like that.  I complimented the store owner and chuckled, mentioning that it was killing both of us not to photograph in there.  She looked at us for a second and said, “I’ll let you take pictures if you want, if that’s all you’re doing.”  We were elated!  We thanked her profusely, and both made sure to make a purchase as a sign of gratitude.  I bought a hand carved wooden zebra Pegasus ornament that had caught my eye, and Kh bought herself a tiara.  Yes, you read right, a tiara.  Because she is a Princess!    It was hilarious to help her choose and then see her wear it.  But man, we got some amazing shots in there.  So, so cool.

We had a similar experience at Maskerade. Renette Brazil was a fascinating woman with a shop full of the most amazing, colorful masks I’ve ever seen.  Such a mint of creativity!  I was drooling.  Again, more photos, more fun conversation, and then we kept on.  The Voodoo Shop was next, where we had fun poking around and reading some historical stuff.  We also saw Madame Laveau’s House of Voodoo later that night, but unfortunately, not her grave, as we’d planned.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, that we spoke to all said, “Do NOT go there just the two of you, especially with your cameras.  You must go in a group or with a tour.”  It is just not safe.  So we agreed to leave that for next year.

A break at the hotel was next, as we needed to rest a little and layer up before heading to the Krewe Du Vieux parade.  So what do I mean by “layer up” you ask?  Heh.  I had a long sleeved thermal shirt, a tshirt, 2 heavy zip-front hoodie sweatshirts, and that jacket I bought.  I had the stocking cap on my head with both hoods up, and fuzzy socks over my regular socks.  Nothing under the jeans though.  I tried to wear gloves, but of course, no dice with the cane.  It just does not work.  We got to the corner of Royal and Toulouse and set up right at the edge of the street.  Perfect place.  As the crowd grew, people were packed in like sardines.  Next to us was a crew of 4 women in their late 50s, early 60s, with their 83 yr old mother, whom they called “Boomah.”  ALL of them were just obliterated, and hilarious.  Boomah had a walker with the seat on it, so she was sitting.  During the parade, she was queen of the court; she got the best swag, all the beads, kisses from the Krewe, all of it.  It was fantastic.  We loved it.  We also hung out with this gay couple behind us; they were so sweet and funny, and they caught me, preventing me from hitting the ground, when some drunk asshole decided to shove through the crowd.  We adored them!  The parade itself defies words.  The pics really can’t be posted in public places without warnings, as they are obscene and profane, as well as hilarious.  We had the best time.  Kh’s favorite beads were the ones she received from a dancing sperm, and mine were the ones I received from a nice big marijuana plant.  Way too much fun.  Afterwards, we crossed the street and were in a little alcove putting our cameras away and Kh was calling her Mom (Hi Juanie!).  Out of the blue, another parade of some smaller krewes came around the corner!  So we popped over to the street again to watch that one.  Nice little dessert.

We wandered over to Bourbon Street and decided to eat.  The name of the place we chose escapes me, but it was quite good.  I had a shrimp Po’Boy and Kh had Caribbean glazed ribs.  Yum.  She carried out a big cup of ice and Bourbon St. KoolAid and off we went.  I took a few sips of the Kool Aid and it was really good.  We caught beads from people in the balconies, and when we said, “Thank you!” they tossed more!  Politeness works!  A few groups of guys demanded, “Show us your tits!” but no freakin’ way.  We had bought cute bras and if it was warmer, would’ve shown those.  But all the way down?  Nope.  Just not my style.  A few women did it, and more power to them, but it just isn’t my thing.  We wandered into Café Beignet and hear a neat jazz/blues trio play.  We shot some pics of them, tossed a dollar in the bucket and wandered on.  We saw a few women with trays of test tube shots and they beckoned us over.  Kh chose a Kamikaze and the woman put the closed end in her mouth and the open end to Kh’s lips and ducked her head.  When we had asked what kind of shots she had, one of the ones she mentioned was a “Red Headed Slut” and I laughed and said, “Hey, I know one of those!”  I chose one called “Fuck Me Up” which was 151 (rum), Peach Schnapps, and Triple Sec.  But instead of putting the test tube in her mouth, she tucked it into her cleavage!  I cracked up, but did the shot, no-handed as is customary!  Kh got a good shot of that one, and I can’t wait to see it.  What happened next was illegal, and so I will not post it here, but it was kinda funny.

Onward we went, in and out of shops, people watching, getting more beads.  We saw one domestic go by us, but we just backed up and let them pass.  It was the only sign of violence or asshattery we saw all weekend, really.  Everyone else was fun and friendly.

At one point, a very drunk guy came up to me, grabbed my shoulder (lightly, not threatening) and said, “WAIT!”  I stopped, smiled and him, and he said, “You are fucking AWESOME.  I have to give you this!” and he took off a huge strand of big, white beads.  He draped them over me, and I told him that my friend was awesome too.  He looked at Kh and said, “YES!  She is awesome too!” and took off a strand for her as well.  We both kissed him on the cheek, and he said, “Fucking AWESOME!” and went on his way.  We cracked up so hard at that.  Gotta love Bourbon Street on a Saturday with a full moon, right?

We decided to meander our way back to the hotel; I was tipsy and Kh was drunk, but not totally trashed.  We were pretty close when Kh saw more test tube shots and decided to do another.  She chose a Sex On The Beach and we walked back out of the bar, only to be met by a woman with a tray of shots.  She took 2 of the Fuck Me Up tubes, put the end in her mouth, grabbed Kh before she realized what was happening, and dumped them in her mouth.  Well, 3 shots inside of 2 min?  Kh was plastered real fast.  I laughed myself silly because she looked so stunned.  And it was funny!  Right up until the girl grabbed 2 Jester shots (Everclear 190, 151 rum, and Strawberry Schnapps) and then grabbed me and did the same thing!  Hoooooly cow.  The Jester is known as the world’s strongest drink and I had just done a double shot of them.  I’m a lightweight when it comes to alcohol anyhow, but that blew me away.  I was so plowed.  We laughed and staggered back to the hotel, the uneven sidewalk proving to be more difficult than usual for me!  I didn’t fall, but came close a few times.  Damn, we were hammered.

My darling daughters had demanded drunk texts and got them.  We updated FB and crashed for the night, knowing we didn’t have to be anywhere the next morning til noon.  (Thank Marie for that!)

Sunday morning was a little warmer, sunny, with less wind.  I was thrilled.  We only had to walk a block and a half to set up our spot for the Saints’ parade to honor Buddy D.  He was an announcer for the Saints who always said that if they ever made it to the Super Bowl, he would walk through the streets of the French Quarter in a dress.  He died in 2005, but they decided to honor him in the theme of this parade.  Any man who wanted to march in it was welcome.  All he had to do was show up at the Superdome by noon, and be wearing a dress.  Hooboy.  I’ve never seen that many men in drag before, but the pictures are flippin’ hilarious.  (I’ll update with links later when I get everything edited and uploaded.)  We met these 2 couples who were getting on a cruise ship the next day who were amazed that you can walk around with open containers of alcohol, and that stuff like Captain Morgan and Absolut could be purchased at the CVS behind where we were standing.  The one girl cracked open a bottle of Captain and got started.  At the end of the parade, we saw her lean into a cop car (and there were beads hanging on the rear view mirror!!), chat with the cop, get the beads, and kissed the cop on the cheek!  Kh and I just howled.  We’d never seen anything like this parade; the entire city was supporting the Saints, and most of them were out on the streets doing it.  Unbelievable experience!

We grabbed some pizza and onion rings at a little dive bar, and then chilled for a while.  We headed back out to do some night photography and wow, Alejandro and Lucille had fun.  We got some amazing shots of the St Louis Cathedral, and the streets of the French Quarter.  Just beautiful.  Now, I mentioned that there is one exception to the “no chain restaurants” rule.  Kh and I worship the Holy Trinity of Island music in God the Father (Jimmy Buffett), the Son (Kenny Chesney), and the Holy Spirit (Bob Marley), and so we needed to go to church.  (See the lyrics for the song Coastal Confessions for further explanation.)  We walked down to Margaritaville (waaaaay down in the French market!) and had dinner and a drink.  Definitely our kind of place.  When we walked back, we noticed that the area in which we were was verrrry quiet and dark and deserted.  We weren’t nervous so much as just wary.  We decided to cut over to Bourbon Street for the trek back to the hotel, as even if it was quieter than the night before, there were still people around.  Strip clubs are open 7 days a week, y’all.  Getting back to the hotel early was a wise move.  We soaked in the hot tub and talked for a while and it loosened up some of the soreness.  Then we packed all of our stuff to give us the most free time on Monday.

Monday morning, we showered, packed the last minute stuff, and headed out.  Kh had some shopping to do and I wanted to pick up a few more things.  We hit Café Du monde for beignets again (oh my god, so, so good!), and then hit the French market and worked our way back.  The taxi picked us up at 3, and we had a great conversation with the driver on the way to LANOIA.  Our flights were fine, and we both arrived safely, along with our luggage.  The fragile gifties I’d brought back were intact, so I was thrilled.

We’ve decided without a doubt that Krewe Du Vieux will be an annual event, so if you’d like to join us, mark your calendars for February 17^th next year!

Laissez les bon temps rouler!

P.S.  This post will be updated with a link to the pics on Flickr if you want to see them.  Check back later tonight or tomorrow!

So I was chatting with my friend, chosen sister, photography mentor, Kh, and we were discussing how the market for photographers is so oversaturated right now.  It was a disheartening conversation, but it was also very honest.

But the problem isn’t so much the saturation, but the quality of said saturation.  So many people are calling themselves a “professional” by throwing up a fancy website, offering a few sample galleries, and booking people who rave over the quality.  The problem is, they never take the camera off of Auto.  This morning, I stumbled on a “professional” wedding photographer’s site who has supposedly been in the business for years, has had clients from sea to shining sea, blah blah blah.  I was intrigued, thought maybe I would learn something cool from a photo veteran, so to speak.

Now, to be fair?  Some of the shots I perused out of this one particular wedding shoot were great.  I loved the joyful, playful expressions, the simple beauty of the bride, the love between the two people involved.  But man, I felt such a huge let-down, overall.  And so, because it’s my blog and I can bitch if I want to, I shall.

First, I am so ungodly tired of the artistic camera tilt.  Do I use it?  Yes.  On occasion.  When the other lines of the photograph coincide with the idea.  But this woman had probably 80 – 90% of her shots using that stupid tilt.  It doesn’t make you artistic, it doesn’t improve the look of your subject, and it doesn’t make you edgy or cool either.  It makes your subject look like s/he is defying gravity, and it makes it look like you can’t hold your damn camera straight.  Especially when you use the exact same angle of tilt, and always go in the same direction, too.

Second, there were several shots she had that were blown out.  In one, I could see where she was going.  Using the (of course) artistic camera tilt, she caught the couple together with some plants and such under and around them.  It created almost a pure diagonal division between green and white (blown out sky), with the couple in the middle, bisecting the dividing line.  I liked the concept, but the soulless white chunk just looked wrong.  Now, that shot with a blue sky?  Or maybe even a cityscape behind them?  Stunning.  In this case, though, it just looked like a weirdly cropped, stupidly tilted shot, taken by someone who hasn’t figured out how to adjust white balance or use a polarizer.

Third, I’m not sure what she was going for in her choice of subjects outside of the bride and groom.  Everyone likes to catch the seemingly smaller details sometimes, for their simple beauty.  She had one, for example, of the bride’s glittering hair barrette, sitting on top of an array of make up brushes.  Neat shot!  But then there were two others just of the make-up brushes.  And two or three different shots of her shoes.  There was a shot of the groom from the collar to the knees.  (HUH?)  She had what could’ve been an incredible shot of a little boy in traditional dress, but it was taken from behind someone’s head, so part of him is cut off.  So ok, kids move fast, but this was the only shot of him.  I cannot fathom this: if this child is important enough to be in traditional dress at a Thai wedding, (Vietnamese?  I’m not sure, and don’t want to offend) and in the rooms where the bride is being dressed, would it not stand to reason that more shots be done?   Some good shots of the bridal party, but very few of the parents, who seem to have been involved in the ceremony.

I realize that there is so much for me to learn about my craft.  I have no illusions about the quality of my work, either.  I have some truly phenomenal shots, and I have others that need very serious work.  There are times in which I am dead on with my settings, and others where I think, “Wow.  Um, no.”  But I have done some work for other people, and I do barter or get paid for my services.  It doesn’t make me a pro yet, and I won’t call myself that.  What it makes me is a photographer shoots for the passion, someone who wants to perfect the art of a truly beautiful image, and who wants technical perfection as well as artistic balance.

[A few of my favorite shots enclosed, just ‘cause I can.]

OK, really?  What exactly was your point there?  Seriously…I’m not egotistical enough to think that it was meant as a positive gesture towards me.  And two other people that I trust confirmed that.  Their opinion?  You were baiting me.  And for what reason?  You hate me, remember?  Have we forgotten that little detail?

I made such grave errors in judgement, not seeing just how fucked up in the head you really were.  I own my mistakes, and I own the ramifications of them as well.  But I have no desire to play your little games, or indulge your little power trips.  So whatever your motivation, whatever your goal, whatever game you’re considering, don’t bother.

I’m not playing.

I think I’ve just been spoiled.  My kids are so very different than other teenagers on an everyday basis that, when they act like the stereotypical teenaged idiots, I don’t always know what to do with it.

They’ve been in this habit lately of not listening to me when I speak to them, whether it’s by speech or text, and really, it’s starting to piss me off.  I hate hate hate treating them like little kids by micromanaging them, or going back to the system where, for example, their phone/internet is taken away by default and they get it back when they’ve done their chore for the day.  At this age, I just feel like if I had done my job, they would be beyond that.  I dunno.  Maybe my expectations are unreasonable?

The Professor is very close to missing college application deadlines, despite my repeatedly telling her to get them done.  She also does absolutely nothing physical beyond her once a week dance class, and it’s taking its toll.  All she does instead is read these fluffy romance novels every spare minute.  She’s wasting her life and affecting her health, but at just-shy-of-18, should I really need to make her hand over the books until she’s done homework/chores/activity for the day?  Should she not be able to be responsible by now?

The Artist used to get overwhelmed by cleaning her room, and so I solved the issue by creating checklists, thereby “chunking” the assignment (thank you special ed training) into manageable items.  But now she is 16.  And she still drops her clothes and towels (HUGE pet peeve for me!) on the floor.  I do not white-glove test my kids’ rooms, as it’s their space, but quite literally, you cannot open her door all the way or walk in the room without stepping on stuff.  And with me unable to keep my balance on a flat surface sometimes, this is just unacceptable.  Again, at this age, she should be responsible enough to put clothes in the hamper when she takes them off.  She too, talks a good game about training and working out, and is too lazy to do jack shit.  I’m tired of it.

The Ambassador is in a similar boat.  He supposedly cleans his room when I tell him to, but last week, when I asked him if he had anything else to go in a box of hand-me-down clothes for my friend’s son, he said no.  Two days later, he came back around saying he had found a “few more” things because he finally actually cleaned his closet properly instead of blowing me off.  I told him that was fine, to put them on my bed for me to check, and I’d send them on.  Well, the “few more” things that he put on my bed covered more than half of a California King sized bed, and was, no lie, 2ft high off the bed.  I took one look and my haw dropped.  I now have a huge box stuffed tight and need to find a second box to ship it all.  He also has a habit of reading only the parts that he thinks are important in emails that I send.  He does a half ass job on his chores, and thinks it’s “fine.”

I realize that this is all “normal” and “age appropriate” but it is also “irresponsible” and “unacceptable.”  I seriously do not white-glove cleaning stuff unless the in-laws are showing up, but I do have standards.  And they are just not meeting them.

The Scientist and I tend to communicate relatively well, although we have definitely had some glitches.  The other night, for example, I was putting Alejandro’s backpack on, and was not leaning on my cane because I needed both hands.  I was semi-balanced, but not real well as I was on uneven ground.  He asked if I needed help, and I said that I didn’t.  Now, this was not a case of pride or anything else.  I seriously did not need help; I was merely putting on the backpack.  I slid one strap over my right shoulder, and as I started to do the same with the left, he grabbed the strap and pulled it over.  I toppled, but didn’t hit the ground, luckily.  We’d already had a wicked fight earlier, so my nerves were a little frayed.  I snapped at him, and he got pissed off at me, giving the “Fine, I won’t offer help anymore.”  Lord.  I know he didn’t mean it; he was just snapping back.  But all I could think at the time was, “OK, you are angry at me because you didn’t listen.  How exactly does that work?”  I was really frustrated, and again, feeling like I am just not being heard in my family.

So yeah, another post where I’m bitching, whining, and otherwise frustrated.  Deal.

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I really wish I could get out of this place.  But this theme song seems to have settled in for the long haul, as far as I can see.  Love the song…hate the fact that it’s so appropriate right now.