It's A Movie

This week my photography project group was assigned It's A Movie for our theme.  I'll admit, at first I may have thrown up a little in my mouth.  I'm not a big fan of images that I have to set up and create.
Look at what's going on around you and shoot like crazy is what I always say.

Surprisingly, I had an immediately fabulous idea for my movie picture.  I told Prince Charming we needed to fly to Nevada, rent a car and then drive really slowly out of town so I could photograph us Leaving Las Vegas.

He said no.

Fine.  Really, I told him, all I needed him to do was stand outside so I could take a picture of him.

"It's pouring down rain....and there's lightening!  Did you just see that!?"

"I know.  You can be Rain Man."

He said no.

So, I asked my son to put on his sister's cowboy boots and hat and be Urban Cowboy.

He said, "No.  That hat is pink."

I told him I would probably do the picture in black and white so no one would know anyway.

He said, "Nooooooooo-wah."

I asked my daughter, my go to model of choice, if she'd put on her 147 articles of pink clothing and look at me all gorgeous like and be Pretty In Pink.

She said, "And what do I get?"

I said no.

I thought about making a Manhattan so it could be....well...Manhattan.
But food photography makes me gag.
(as does a Manhattan)

I figured that I would be able to find something movie-ish at my kid's football game, so while we waited in the stands for kick-off I started looking around.  Prince Charming said that I should wait until the lights came on, then take a full field shot and it could be Friday Night Lights.
Which, I told him, was stupid was because it was Saturday and Friday Night Lights was a TV show.
He got all highfalutin' and stuff and said,

"It won't matter what day it is in the picture.  No one will know that....and it was a movie before it was a TV show."

Oh, okay.  Mr. Moviefone.

"What?"

Whatever.

I did find a few movie worthy shots:

Field of Dreams

The Shining

Face-Off

or alternatively, The Grid Iron Gang

(but this game is still pissing me off so I refuse to have anything more to do with it)

Twilight

Here's a few others that I've shot recently that would totally make it if I didn't always feel so guilty about going in and manually changing the date they were taken
(the project group moderator is sticky about dates and only submitting new work taken that week)
(expand yourself and grow as a photographer)
(blah blah blah):

Swingers

Splendor In The Grass

Along Came A Spider

(I used this one last week, though, and everyone wigged 'cause it was a spider)

In the end, I promised my daughter a triple scoop ice cream sundae and a full hour of Fancy Nancy if she would let me drape her in tulle and walk her across the street to stand in the trees so I could get my friggin' movie picture. 

Prince Charming took one look at it and said,

"Pfft....Kinda' obvious, isn't it?"

"Only if you know what it is."

"Ghost."

Dang, I hate it when he gets it right.

Project 52 2K13~ Week 33 {Anticipation}

I have no idea how this happened.
I was in no way prepared for this to happen.
I only went in to Target for yoga pants and toilet cleaner.

Then she asked if we get her backpack while we were there.
I told her we could look at them. 
Then she says, "Do you think we could get my school supplies?"
And I. Said.  Yes.

Before I realized what was happening, we were in the school supply aisle grabbing two boxes of crayons, and six white glue sticks, and 3 pocket folders with pictures of Minnie Mouse on them, and a glitter watercolor set
(because, why not?)
and 24 Ticonderogas....in a neon rainbow assortment. 
They were so pretty.  They were all so pretty.
So new and sharp and unblemished by time in a plastic box crammed into the back of a desk behind 47 crumpled pieces of paper, a stale, half-eaten package of fruit snacks, and the 2" poetry binder the teacher insisted we needed but stopped using after 5 weeks.
 
I was charmed. 
I was beguiled.
I was hypnotized with the beauty of it all.  
A set of fine-tip white board markers that perfectly match all the varying shades on the color wheel?  It doesn't get much more beautimous than that.
That's right.  I said beautimous.

Let me tell you something. 
As I sank deeper and deeper into that school supply abyss, adding 3 boxes of pre-sharpened colored pencils and a tape dispenser shaped like a hot pink high-heeled shoe that I would never in real life wear to our cart, I was not alone.
First she saw it, and then she grabbed it.  The backpack she'd be waiting all summer for, and didn't even know she wanted.  When she put that backpack on, felt that gray and pink padded nylon settle onto her shoulders, pulled out the matching lunchbox from the lunchbox-pocket built into the front, she knew. 
She knew the way you know about a good melon.
And she.  Did not.  Take.  It.  Off.
She wore it through the whole store for the entire rest of the time we were shopping.  The checker had to lean over the counter with her scan gun and paw through all the paper stuffed inside to find the price tag so she could ring it up.
She brought it home, filled it up, and kept right on wearin' it. 
Watched TV wearing it.
Ate dinner wearing it.
Played Monkey In The Middle after football wearing it.
She would have slept in it if I hadn't been able to convince her that she'd break the crayons if she rolled over on it in the middle of the night.

Forgive me, Summer, for I have sinned.
We bought school supplies.
And she is sooooooooooooooooooooooo excited for second grade.
(That's right.  I used 23 'o's.)
(She's THAT excited.)

A Watched Chicken Never Lays

I know what you're thinking.

That.  Is.  Not the Expression.

Which clearly indicates that you have never been to the Congo, because that is a Congolese proverb from way way back.
(Trust me.  I know.)
(Except that I didn't.  I had to look it up.)
(It's a true proverb.  I didn't just invent that.)

You can always tell when a chicken is getting ready to lay an egg.  It finds itself a nice little nesting spot in the coop, and then starts to buawk and squawk in decibels that rival that of a Guns & Roses concert,
(it's like having a baby, that way)
(except chickens do it EVERY DANG DAY)
which makes you run around the house closing all the doors and windows to shut out the racket, burying your head in the sand to the noise that is surely sending your neighbors into a tizzy, because this isn't a farm, you know.  There's an Applebee's right around the corner which would totally not be there if this was a farm.

Afterward, though, you're certain that you've got yourself a nice fresh dozen sitting out there.  So you send the kids out to collect them and they come right back in and say,

"No eggs yet, Mom."

You know why?  Because a watched chicken never lays.

A few mornings ago, Prince Farming walked into the kitchen carrying two white eggs, and said,

"I just watched the chickens lay these eggs."

I was immediately skeptical because he was lying.

"Yeah, I was just standing there watching and they started to lay, and then these eggs just popped out.  Right in front of me.  Right there."

He motioned with his flat hand outstretched in front of him to emphasize the 'right there' part.
Because, you know, he was lying.
Like a rug.

The idea of actually watching a chicken lay an egg is kind of...I don't know....revolting?  Not to be gross, but do you know where those eggs come out?  It's the same place that horses use to drop a steaming load on the sand, endlessly entertaining my children as to the bodily functions of the equine.

I feel like egg laying should be private.  No one really needs to see that.  Let the poor chickens lay their lot in peace. 

But.....There's always that moment when no one is around and curiosity gets the better of you.  One of the birds starts to squawk, and you think to yourself,

"I wonder....."

So, you slowly open the door, and tip toe ever so softly to the side of the coop, and stand as quiet as a little church mouse for a sweet forever, your feet freezing in the wet, morning grass, hoping to see something that will probably make you never want to eat eggs again.

And nothing happens.
That chicken just keeps buawking and squawking with its tail full of egg until its eyes pop out of its head and all its feathers explode like dynamite of its body.
That bird is not going to lay that egg.  Not while you're standing there, it's not.

You know why?

Because a watched chicken never lays.
That's all I'm sayin'.

Project 52 ~ Wk. 28 {With More Time}

 Time.

 

Time is a funny thing.
Especially when it walks into a glass door and falls down.
Although, I may be thinking of last week's theme.

What I mean to say is that time is one of those things I always think I have enough of, but just when I feel like I could really use more, I'm out.
Like toilet paper.
On the other hand, that might really take this conversation in a direction that none of us is prepared to go.

How about this-

Time is like wine.
You can savor it slowly and enjoy the experience that it's bringing.
You can rush through it, not paying much attention because all you're really after is more of it.
(I mean, come on.  Who are we kidding?)
You can just keep pouring glass after glass after glass until the entire bottle is gone and you find yourself doing a Woo-Hoo cheer for the Class of 2014 and calling everyone Babylove.
Or as I like to call it, the 4th of July.
(wait.  what?)
(never mind)

My point is that I don't need more time.
I have plenty of time.  Pah-lenty.
I have a whole 24 hours every single day to accomplish everything that I need.
I read once that you should never complain about not having enough time because we have the same number of hours in the day that were given to Helen Keller, Louie Pasteur, Michelangelo, Mother Teresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein.

But what did they all have that I don't?
(besides scientific genius and artistic vision)
(thanks for that, though)
(nice)

They had a desk without a computer.
They had a kitchen without a computer.
They had a phone without a computer.
(if we're being honest, though, I have a flip-phone with no internet service, so that may not really count)
(2003 rules!)

See, I don't need more time.  What I need are fewer distractions.
Fewer dings.
Fewer 'like's.
Fewer clicks and virtual connections.
I don't need to be constantly checking in to see who commented,
or replied,
or sent something,
or posted something,
or thought something,
or broke something,
or checked in,
or checked out,
or had a Diet Coke,
or saw a movie,
or partied,
or slept,
or rode a motorcycle,
or blew a bubble,
or went rollerblading
in a place I've never been to,
with people I don't know.
And I don't need to stop what I'm doing every 15 minutes so I can use the bathroom.
(16 oz. of water before everything you eat about kills me)
(curse that Bob Harper and his skinny rules)

I don't need more time.
I need to stop wasting so much of it.
And maybe a nice bottle of wine.  That never hurts.
(*hiccup*)

As always, I'm lovin' you.

Project 52 2K13 ~ Wk. 27 {Comedy}

Comedy is fun. And funny. It can be something you totally saw coming, or it can be something completely unexpected.

The great thing about comedy is that it can mean so many different things to different people.

For example, my son thinks all great comedy begins with the word naked. And underwear. And wee-wee. All of the bathroom words, really. In fact, if you want to make him laugh, ask him to say naked underwear wee-wee fanny without laughing.

He can't do it.

For my beloved, it's all about a pie in the face or a guy getting hit in the crotch. Although, I don't understand why a man would think that another man getting cracked in the junk is funny. I certainly would never think that a woman getting her boobs smashed in was hilarious. We just call that a mammogram.
(and there's nothing funny about it)
(and there's nothing sexy about the gynecologist either)
(that doesn't have anything to do with comedy, I just want to make that clear, because It always seems to come up)
("The stirrups. Yeeeahh, baby."......No.)

I'm getting away from my point. My point is that comedy is funny.

Here are a few things that I think are funny:

1. People falling down.

2. People walking into glass doors.

3. People falling down after walking into a glass door.

4. Anything on America's Funniest Home Videos that's not about dogs or guys getting kicked in the crotch.

5. The audio book of Ellen Degeneres' Seriously...I'm Kidding.
(I laughed so hard the other day on the way to the grocery store I almost drove off the road)

6. Vince Vaughn.

7. Nora Ephron.

8. Jenna McCarthy.
(Not Jenny. Jenna. Jenna makes me belly-laugh so hard it actually tones my stomach muscles in a way that never doing sit-ups has not. Jenny makes me point and laugh in a mocking, horrified way.)

9. My son asking to be home schooled so he doesn't have to get his 6th grade booster shot.

10. Every line in Annie Hall,
Bull Durham, and
When Harry Met Sally (see #7)

I hope you find something to laugh at today. I hope you laugh so hard you cry, and your sides hurt and you get a headache. But in a good way.

I hope you know how much I love ya'.

Seriously.

 

10 Ways I Know That Summer Is Here...{Or, Project 52 ~ Water}

1.  My children are always wet.
All the time.  Sometimes it's the pool.  Sometimes it's the rain.  Sometimes it's the garden hose.  Sometimes I'm not sure why and it unsettles me so.

2.  There's basil growing on my deck.
Which is not so much a sign of summer as it is a testament to my unfailing optimism that I can grow herbs.
(no matter what anyone says)
(and by 'anyone', I mean the herbs)
(which, I'm not sure, but I think laugh and point whenever I walk by them)

3.  We've stopped eating at the table.
And the preparation of every meal begins with
"Paper plates tonight?"

4.  We built a fire pit in the backyard.
To bring that wonderful, beachy campfire experience home so we can roast marshmallows and eat S'mores all summer long.

5.  We have a fire pit in our backyard that we haven't yet built a fire in.
Because we're flopped on the couch at 7:00 with our paper plates, Wheel of Fortune, and Netflix streaming.
(Hello?  House of Cards?)
(It's like West Wing)
(on steroids)

6.  Bedtime is no longer about sight words and glasses of water and CD stories and negotiations and 14 times up and down the bunk bed ladder culminating in a process that takes longer than they'll actually be asleep.
It's more of me lifting my head off the couch, calling to them that it's time to turn off whatever Good Luck Charlie episode they're watching and hit the sheets.
(and don't look at the TV when you walk by 'cause we're watching our show and it's not for kids)

7.  My house is a complete mess.
I've decided not to care because children are here which means no matter how fast I clean, it'll be a pit sty again in 5 minutes so what's the point?
If you need me, I'll be on my basil-smelling deck with some wine and Dan Brown.
(and an umbrella)
(I mean, we are in the northwest)

8.  I feel absolutely ZERO sense of urgency to get anything done.
I no longer have a limited amount of time to work in peace and quiet before the children get home
(I won't know peace and quiet for another two months and four days)
(unless Good Luck Charlie is on)
so I don't have to rush around getting things done and I can Facebook all day.
(there's just a whole lot a' nothin' goin' on there, you know?)

9.  I have big plans...
...to read the 27 books I have on my nightstand
...to make fresh lemonade every week
...to go swimming and to the park and to the zoo and on picnics and out and about so we don't just sit around all summer Facebooking
...to paint my bedroom
...to paint my food pantry
...to grow sunflowers
...to make raspberry jam
...to take my daughter to Girl Scout Wilderness Camp

10.  I will not be staying at Girl Scout Wilderness Camp.
Because that would kill me.

Wherever you are, I hope you have a great summer!

Project 52 2K13 ~ Wk. 24 {From The Kitchen}

 Every day, for the past two weeks, my son has sauntered in the kitchen after school and said,

"Hey, Mom, guess what?  No homework."

When he says this in October, February, and late April, I dismiss it as nothing more than the lunatic ramblings of an internet-addicted pre-teen, and I immediately ask to to see his homework folder.  At which point he throws his head back, balls his fists over his eyes and wails, "MOOOOOOM-uh!  Why can't you ever just trust me?"  And then I laugh and laugh.

When he says this in June, I shrug my shoulders, say, "Cool," and pour myself a margarita.  Clearly, my work here is done.

I spent a good portion of yesterday at Home Goods, awash in the need to own a lime green mini-colander and a set of bright orange, ceramic measuring cups shaped like baskets
(that are extremely breakable)
(and non-stacking)
and was clearly off my game, because when he came in with his usual no-homework thing, I looked at him, titled my head a bit and said,

"Really?  No homework?"
(Home Goods)
(It makes me feel domestic)
(Like I should maybe I should stop super-gluing his shoe back together and finish the year on a high note)

"Well, we have a states and capitals test on Thursday, but that's it.  And I already know them all anyway.  I'm going to go play on the computer."

As he walked away down the hall to his cave of Battlefield Heroes oblivion, I turned to look for my glass, and was struck by a vague sense of responsibility.  I mean, technically, school isn't over yet.

I called him back out to the kitchen.

"Okaaay....Ummmm....Maybe we should.....Can...I....Um, let me see your homework folder."

He brought it to me from his backpack and flipped open his planner to this week.  In his lopsided handwriting, right there on the Thursday square it said:
Written test
on states and capitals

Evidently, his teacher didn't get the directive we drafted back in September.  The one that says

No tests on material that we haven't ever discussed
and that can be found on Google in a nano-second
shall be administered during the final 4 days of 5th grade.
(The End.)

"It's okay, Mom.  We worked on them at school.  I already know them."

I picked up his study sheet with its neatly typed columns of states and their corresponding capitals and said,

"South Carolina?"

"No, you have to start at the top."

"Vermont?"

"No.  Mom.  I know them if you start at the top and go down."

So I started with Alabama and we got all the way down to the 12th state before he crapped out. 

"I-daho, Idaho, Eye-da-hoe...I know this one."

It was all I could do to keep from responding with, "No, you da' ho."

We skipped that one.  And Illinois.  And Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana and Maine.
(I'm the Main-e Mom and my birthday is in August...Augusta)
(little word association trick)

"Maryland?"

"Lansing."

"No.  Massachusetts?"

"Lansing?"

"No.  Michigan?"

"Lansing!  See I told you.  I already know them."

We went through the entire list and I highlighted every one he didn't know.  Then I made him write them out in pairs on a separate sheet of paper.  Then he tried to beat his dad in round of Who Knows More?  He would have won, too, except that just as I said,

"Pennsylvania?..........................Harrisbur-"

Prince Charming blurted out, "Harrisburg!  I was just gonna' say that."

You know how many times you can play that game in one night?
I do.

You know how many times you can ask for South Carolina and get Pierre as an answer?
I do.
("Not to be confused with the capital of Ohio which iiiiizzz.....?")
(word association saves all)

When I went in this morning to wake him up, I nuzzled his ear and whispered,

"South Carolina?"

He turned his sleepy head over to look at me.  Then he smiled and said,

"Columbia."

We might just make it.  4 days and counting.

Project 52 ~ Week 23 {Fashion}

Here's what men don't understand about women's fashion. 
It's not about them.
In any way.
Shape.  Or form.

And I say this with a terrific amount of certainty after a recent conversation with my beloved, who was under the mistaken impression that all of the primping and plucking and hoisting up meant otherwise.

"What's goin' on here?" he says, circling a finger in the air around my freshly bronze powdered face.  "Is this because Matt's coming over?"

"No.  It's because he's bringing his girlfriend."
(clearly)
(The End)

"What?  Why?"
(again, clearly)

"Because women don't get dressed for men, honey.  We get dressed for other women."
That's like...Chiquitas 101.
(Maybe 105.)
(101 might be that whole "Go ahead" really means "Don't you freakin' dare." thing)
And any woman who says differently is lying. 
Or full of crap.
Or trying to make you think she's better than you because that's what you do which makes you feel like crap.
All of which circles back around to the fact that any woman's biggest challenge in her appearance is another woman.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes.  All women do."

"All women do?"

"Of course.  It's an adversarial thing." 
I simply need to know that I look better than any other woman in the room when I arrive.
Or than any other woman who shows up while I'm there.
Or makes the scene after I leave.

"I don't get it."

Evidently.

"Look.  Women size each other up.  Hair.  Make-up.  Shoes.  Jewelry.  Cleavage.  Bra straps.  Back fat.  Nail polish.  All of it.  All the time.  It's exhausting, but it's what we do to make sure that we're always the winner."

"You do that?"

"Yes...and so does any woman in her right mind.  Women are very competitive."
(even Ingrid Bergrman)
(which is why she gets on the plane at the end. Of the. Movie.)
"It's like men pissing on trees."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Sure it does.  You're my tree.  And this lipstick is my....It's....how....It's just what we do.  Okay?  Adapt and accept."

"Whatever.  Women are freaky."

I've never said otherwise.

Project 52 ~ Wk. 18 {Spring Has Sprung}

Every year I beg Prince Charming to take me up to the tulip fields so I can photograph the gorgeous, glowing, electric, color-filled blossoms.. And every year he says,  

"Why would you want to drive two hours just to pull off the side of the road for five minutes and take pictures of flowers you could buy in the grocery store, then drive two hours back. What a waste."

So, I end up going with my mother.
(because what does he know?)
(nothing about electric colored tulips, that's what.)

I got a ton of pictures, and I've pulled them all up on my computer and I'm dying to get to them, but I have a laundry list of other things to do that includes but is not limited to the following:

1. Wash last night's dishes

2. Make the beds

3. Return the cool sneakers I bought for my son that he instantly hated
(evidently boys don't care for incandescent green shoelaces)
(what is it with guys and color?)
(why does everything have to be dark blue?)
(or black)
(come on...you look like a bruise)

4. Return the DVD to the library that my daughter left out of the case
 (the one time I don't double check)

5. Pressure wash the garden shed so Prince Charming and his buddy can start turning it into our new chicken coop

6. Do internet research on the kinds of dogs that are bred to hunt vermin
 (freakin' chickens)

 7. Gag that we need a dog that's bred to hunt vermin
(suburban farming is a glamorous business, my friends)
(don't let anyone tell you any different)

8. Figure out something to have for dinner that we haven't had recently,
that I have all the ingredients for,
that everyone likes
 and that only takes 5 minutes to make.

9. Force feed my daughter her spelling words because Daddy didn't make her do them yesterday while I was off gallivanting through the tulip fields.
("Hey...she didn't tell me she had spelling words.")
(I'm stunned.)
(No. Really. It's a total shock.)
(Said no one ever)

10. Uninstall the 75GB of airplane games that my son put on my computer while I was off cavorting in the flowers.
("Hey...he didn't tell me he wasn't supposed to do that.")
(Quelle surprise.)

So, as much as I would love to tell you more about how this image came to be

I've got to get to work.

Project 52 ~ Wk. 17 {Something Old}

I went down to Prince Charming's office to pick up the weed eater so I could edge the lawn at our house.  I took my camera along to see if I could get something for this week's theme.  He has a ton of old crap down there.

He followed me out in to the yard.

"Hey...What are you doing?"

"I need to get a picture of something old," I told him, turning over my shoulder.  "Wait!  Stand still!"

"No."

He never lets me have any fun.

So we wandered back to where all the flatbeds are and he grabbed up a rusty chain and laid it across the boards on the truck. 

"How about that?"

Then he took the chain and draped it down over the side of the truck.

"What about that?"

Then he walked over to another truck and came back with a hook, which he dangled in place of the chain.

"That's cool, huh?"

Then he grabbed a longer chain and hung it over the hook so it stretched down and pooled on the ground.

"Yeah, that's good, right?"

I took every picture. 

(Sometimes three times)
(Because I forgot I had it set to seven shots a second)

Then he huffed, all exasperated, and said,

"Look, I gotta' get going.  I don't have time to play around out here with this."

Now, scroll back up to the top of this story and read the part again where I pretty please begged him to forget about all that nasty work shmork and come out and help me with my picture.  I'll wait right here.

.......

.......

Couldn't find it, could ya'?  You know why?  Because I didn't ask him to come out and help me!

"Okay....See ya' later," I said, kind of thinking that I might wander a bit more and see what else I could find.

You know....like...don't mind me.
If you need to get back to work or something.
Don't let the gate hit ya'...
(where the good Lord split ya')
(Sorry.)
(Paula Deen said that.)
(I thought it was hilarious)

"Okay.  C'mon.  Let's go." Then he put his hand on my back and ushered me out of the yard.

So...evidently....this is my shot for the week from Prince Charming's office yard. 

Hope ya' like it because he took a lot of time out of his extremely busy schedule to help me get it just right.

Project 52 ~ Wk. 16 {Sweet}...Except it really wasn't

Okay.  (y'all)  Really.  Can I just....say. 

This.  About.  Killed me.

It started with us trying to define exactly what Sweet might entail.  Having spent a semi-memorable decade with Molly Ringwald, high bangs, and Miami Vice, I was leaning more toward the totally awesome in a tubular kind of way and she was more of the pink, sparkly, shiny princess sugar drops thing. 

"Why does it have to be something to eat?"  I asked her.

"Because.  That's what's sweet."

Oh.  Well alright then.

I showed her a really wonderful image that I got of her running through the beach grass with her kite.  It was vintage and simple and lovely.

She took one look at it and said, "No, that's not sweet.  I can't eat that."

She keeps me honest.  You have to love that.
(you do have to love that, right?)

"I want to try doing something with S'mores," I told her after school the other day.

I was envisioning something dripping and sticky and chocolate clouds of wonderful.  She came out in her turquoise, chartreuse and purple, one-shoulder, salsa summer dress

(thank you, grandma)

and announced that she was ready to pose for the picture.

"Uhhhh....what are you wearing?"

"My dress."

"No.  That's not going to work.  Just put on what you wore to school."

"I'm not changing.  I want.  To. Wear.  This."

Seriously? 

"Well, you can't wear that in my picture."

"MOM!"

"Fine.  I'll just ask your brother to pose for it.  He'll be fine."

Ugh!!!!  You're making me crazy!!!!  I want to wear my dress."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"Go change."

"I'm.  Not.  Changing."
 
I was fairly certain I knew how to break this little spirit and move on already.

"If you don't change, there's no S'more for you,"

and then I crossed my arms and raised one eyebrow.  Take that, punk.

"Fine.  I'll just have cheese crackers, then," and she climbed up on the counter in her electric green salsa dress and grabbed the cracker jar out of the cabinet.  She opened the jar, pulled out a cracker, turned to me and popped it in her mouth.  Then she said, "Bite me."

No.  That's a lie.

What I know she meant to say was "Take your picture and shove it, Mamasita.  If you want me, these are my terms.  Salsa dress or nothing."

At which point I had to sit down and put my head between my knees, and for the briefest of moments was certain I could hear my mother cackling,  "That's what you get!" which I've never understood because I don't have any recollection of being that kind of odious and unpleasant.

I turned on my heel,  and walked

(stomped)
(stormed)

calmly

(seethingly)

into her room

(I am the parent.  I am the parent.  I am the parent.)

and pulled out one of my favorite dresses that she owns.  It's so cute and rustic and for the last three closet clean-outs I've categorically refused to even think about getting rid of it.  It's more of a tunic now than a dress, so I grabbed some pink legging shorts to put on under it.

By some twist of magic unicorn fluff, we were finally able to agree that this would be an acceptable outfit,

(Bridgit Mendler CD in the car for the next five rides)

and she finally started in on the S'more.  I had this idea in my head that the chocolate and marshmallow would combine into this wonderful, oozy, ooey mess that would drip from her face to her hands to the plate and be the embodiment of sweet and art.

I pointed the camera at her and waited. 

She bit into the graham crackers and stopped mid-chomp, looking at me. 

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'nn wuting hor you do dake da hicture."

"Well, I'm waiting for you to take the bite."

She put it down and licked her fingers.

"Take the picture and I'll take a bite."

My point, gentle friends, is that this picture was nearly the end of me.  The.  End.

The End.

 

   

Project 52 2K13 ~ Week 14 {Blessings}

This is my son.  He's 11.

Yesterday he was 10.  Last week he was 6 and the week before that he was just a little smoochie bundle whose entire body fit in my arms between my shoulder and my wrist.

He's grown up now.  Well, as grown up as a boy can be and still be reduced to a puddle of hysterical laughter at the words underwear, naked and wee wee.

When he was little he would tell me that he wanted to drive a garbage truck when he grew up.  I would hold his chubby cheeks and kiss his sweet nose and gaze into his charming hazel eyes and say,

"Aim higher."

Then he wanted to be a firefighter,

(mostly for the siren and the hose)

but I told him, "No.  That 's too dangerous.  You can do something safe.  Like walking."

"Walking!?  That's the most boring thing ever besides yoga!"

Now he wants to be a pilot.  He spends hours flying airplanes on his simulator game and every time we fly somewhere we have to stop at the cockpit on the way off so he can discuss the landing with the pilot.

(Did you know that the landing is where the pilot's skills are really shown off?  So if you want to thank the pilot for a nice flight, tell him it was a good landing)
(little bit of airplane trivia...you're welcome)
(that's what I'm here for)

He's growing up way to fast.  I've asked him over and over to stop, but he won't.  I even threatened to ground him.  To take away his screen time.  To never let him go anywhere or do anything and only eat dirt and twigs and bugs forever and ever amen.

And he said,

"Moooommm.  Even when I'm all grown up I'll still be here with you," and he put his hand on my heart.

"You will?"

"Yes.  I'll always be with you.  You know I love you more than I say I do."

And then I cried and sobbed and held him and kissed him and called him my little smoochie.

And he said,

"Mom, stop.  I can't see my game."

But it was okay because I know that if nothing else....I'll get a great rate on airline tickets.

Project 52 2K13 ~ Week 12 {Focus}

Yesterday morning my beloved asked me what my plans were for the day.  I told him that I was going to a kitchen supply store with my mother. 

She wanted to.  And, to be honest, so did I.  I've had flat whisk dreams for a while now.

And he said,  "So, you'll probably want some money, right?"

You know...like we live in 1955.

And I said, "Money is always appreciated."

Because, why fight it if it's workin' for ya'.

So he asked how much I thought I needed.  Which is just a ridiculous question.    I've never been to this store.  I don't know what they have.  I don't know what they're charging.   What I do know is that it's completely embarrassing to be standing at the register and not have enough money....so just give me everything you have and I'll bring you the change.

This is my thinking and my reasoning for responding with,

"Hundred bucks."

He laughed.  Then he rolled his eyes.  Then he looked at me like I was crazy insane.

But I stood strong.  Ask for the moon and all.

So he says,

"Oh yeah right.  Here's $40."

"Fine.  I'll see what I can get with this," and I put it in my wallet, although I really only wanted to satisfy my flat whisk dreams and maybe a few fantasies about a french rolling pin.

Truly, I would have taken $20, but I didn't want to tell him that because then he would say that he would have given me $60 and then I would have had to put on a strapless, red velvet dress and a sparkly diamond necklace and fly off to San Francisco to see the opera and rescue him right back.

And it was too early in the morning and I couldn't get my hair to curl right.

Besides, I've never been much of an opera fan anyway.

When he got home last night he asked me what I bought and we played Kitchen Toy Store Show and Tell. 

"How much did it come to?"

"$37 and change."

(because the first $20 did, in fact, cover the whisk and the rolling pin, but maybe a few things jumped into my basket that I wasn't counting on)
(3 ladles in graduated sizes are always useful)
(one professional spatula beats the crap out of two plastic ones)
(a red, silicone basting brush that stands heat up to 500 degrees?...come on!)

"Well, it's a good thing I gave you forty."

Right.

Project 52 ~ Wk. 10 {All Stacked Up}

If you like taking pictures, you'll want to share them with a project group.
So, you'll look for one online.

When you find one, you'll join right away.
Once you join, you'll start getting weekly themes.

When you start getting weekly themes, you'll look around you for inspiration.
Sometimes it will be hard to find.

When it's hard to find, you'll take your camera someplace new.
You'll decide on school because it's your day to volunteer anyway.

When you arrive at school, the teacher will ask about your camera.
You'll tell her about your project group and the theme for the week.

When you tell her the theme for the week, she'll think that's sounds neat.
She'll run around the classroom while the kids are working and stack things up for you to photograph.

When she's done stacking, you'll take the picture.
It's the nice thing to do and it will make her happy.

When she's happy, she'll start talking more and forget about what she's supposed to be doing.
The children will get bored waiting and start getting a little loud and freaky.

When the children get loud and freaky, the teacher will remember that she is, in fact, a teacher, and start working again.
She'll send you to the office for construction paper.

When she sends you to the office for construction paper, you'll take your camera with you.
Just in case.

When you stack the construction paper, the obsessive/compulsive Virgo in you will force you to put it in color order and make sure all the edges are neat and tidy.
You'll think it looks beautiful.

When you think it looks beautiful, you'll want to take a picture.
You'll be glad you have your camera because you like taking pictures.

And chances are, if you like taking pictures,
You'll want a project group to share them with.

Project 52 ~ Week 9 {Trinkets & Treasures}

Growing up my mother always wanted me to help her in the kitchen, which, I felt, was a gross and disgusting under use of my talents as a sullen teenager.  She would ask me to do things.  Grate this.  Stir that around.  I would run in the other direction as soon as she came to take the spoon from my hand. I still loved eating the food.  I just was colossally uninterested in it's preparation.

Early on in our relationship, Prince Charming he told me that he wanted a wife who did what his mom did.  I told him that I did not go to college for 6 years to cook dinner and drive carpool.  

Funny what love does to you.  Or me, at least.

When he asked me to move in with him, I floated up, did a Thomas flair right into a triple axel salchow and stuck a perfect landing on Gloria Steinem, who very politely, told me to pull it together, be a man, and stop acting like such a freakin' girl. 

Love, man.  It messes with your head.

The first night that his kitchen became mine I was desperate to impress him.  Really show him that he hadn't made a mistake in choosing me.  I wanted him to know that I could create a comforting, delicious meal that warmed his insides and melted him into a gooey pile of little, velvet box.

I made Chicken Tortellini Soup.  It came in a plastic pouch from the deli department at Safeway and was exactly like the soup I'd eaten in the dining hall in college.

"Are you sure you don't want to stir it?" he asked, looking warily over my shoulder.

"No.  It doesn't say that on the package.  It just needs to cook."

That was the night learned that If you can read, you can cook is only meant to sell cookbooks.

Our lovely first meal as a cohabitating couple burned.  So so badly.  

When my son was born I decided that I wanted him to have the same kind of wonderful, home cooked, from scratch type of meals that I grew up eating around my mother's kitchen table.  Food that made our house a home that he would grow up loving.  Food that would make him one day look at his beloved wife and torture her with the same phrase that my beloved tortures me with now:

You know, my mom used to make....

So, I turned to the best chef I've ever known for help, and she was still in the kitchen, spoon in hand, right where I left her.

She's become my mentor, my professor, my master, as I slowly, but ever so surely learn how to craft a pile of ingredients into a meal that my family asks for more of.

If nothing else, she taught me three things:

1. The best ingredients make the best dishes.  If it's not good going in, it won't be good coming out.
2. Having the right tool for the job makes all the difference.
3. Cooking can be a little of this and a little of that, but baking is an exact formula.

And one more that isn't necessarily a rule, but has saved my runny cheese fondue, thickened my marsala, and made all of my sauces divine~

Rue...what it is and how to make it.

The more I cook, and read cookbooks, and watch cooking shows, the more I've come to appreciate the phenomenal effort that my mother made in cooking for us when we were kids.  These old handwritten recipe cards are like a pathway back to my childhood.  Back to my mother's kitchen, when she and her grandmother stood making Christmas bread and pancakes and Thanksgiving turkey.

The loopy penmanship and scrawled ingredient lists are an immediate connection to those we've loved our whole lives and who we know loved us because they cooked for us.    

 

Project 52 ~ Week 8 {Adventure}

Okay....here's the problem.

I love taking the pictures.  And I love writing about the pictures.

But, sometimes there is nothing to write about.  It's just the picture.

Sometimes there is no story.

And now, enough people are telling me that they enjoy reading the stories, that I'm feeling kind of pressured to keep it up.  Even when there is no story. 

So, I'm sorry.  No story on this one.

No.  There isn't one. 

Look...Hate to break it to ya', but not everything....

Fine. 

Once upon a time a little girl put on her bathing suit and went to the pool and her mom made her stop on the steps when she was getting in so she could take a picture of the swirly curls on her shoulder.  The end.

Happy now?....

Well, I'm pretty sure I said there wasn't a story.

This is for my photo group.  We're not a bunch of writers, you know....

Learn to accept what's given to you.  Why do you have to be so demanding all the time?

Just step off, George!

I'm sorry.  You didn't deserve that.  You've always been really sweet to me, and I appreciate that.

I'm just feeling a lot of pressure.  To be funny or something.

And I'm not feeling funny.  My coffee pot leaked all over my counter this morning, so I had to wait an extra 7 minutes to have a cup, and it's kind of gone to my head. 

I love you for understanding.  That's why we're such good friends.