Gnumoon's Stuff

Getting closer ...

OK, I reshot a bunch of photos last night- we audibled on the outfit, and came up with this little velvety red number (it even includes a festive hat). So the baby cooperated, but my studio still leaves much to be desired. I think it's time to invest in some slave flashes to take the place of my hot lights ("hot lights" = "lamps with the shades removed"). Because there is just no reason that this shot isn't perfect...there is no need for it to be so soft around the edges and oddly lit. I hate that I screwed it up.

ps- There is also a very cute series of "naked baby in santa hat" shots from last night. Alas, with the state of the world these days, I'd probably get arrested if I posted them. Hell, I'll probably get arrested for taking them. *eye roll*

March of the (Pissed off) Penguin

Here's a test shot from last night's misadventures in photography. Turned out much better than the "real" ones.

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When I was only a few months pregnant, right after Christmas of last year, I wandered into a baby store and saw (on sale!) an adorable little penguin suit. Aha! I thought...this will be perfect for a Christmas card photo. So I purchased the fuzzy garment and carried it home, hanging it in the soon-to-be-nursery closet. It hung all by itself in that dark cubby, patiently waiting for a baby to ensconce in snuggly penguinosity and warmth.

At long last, the time came for The Christmas Card Photo Shoot. A fake (and admittedly half-assed) studio was erected, test shots were taken, and a photo of cute baby penguins on an iceberg waited on the computer for the adorable Pookie Penguin shot to be digitally inserted.

Then, disaster. Oh, the humanity.

The penguin suit did not meet stringent and highly specific "Pookie code of clothing comfort" requirements. Snuffling protests turned into screams of unrest that turned into wails of
indignant fury.

Add to that dad the handler clocking his head on the low ceiling and almost biting through his tongue, Max the curious dog trying to eat the penguin suit (without the baby in it), and mom's questionable studio lighting rigs burning all our eyes while still managing not to throw enough light onto the howling bird of a subject, and it all equals no Christmas card shot and a not-so-enjoyable evening:

I must regroup and try again. (Sans puffy penguin suit)

Mariah's Christmas chunder: the antidote

Because I hate problems with no solutions, may I offer this, a Christmas album worth your time and aural attention. It isn't about a state, but it is ambitiously indie, with a haze of nostalgia...in a good way.

Also, since I'm complaining about music right now, I'll add this (even if it isn't Christmas related): is Soulja Boy really the best that the performers these days can come up with? Really? Because it basically represents everything bad, ever. Al Gore told me it is the #3 cause of global warming, after cow farts and Texas.

Last Christmas I gave you a knuckle sammich

Disclaimer about this post: I love Christmas music. I love hymns and carols and singing with my family as we decorate the tree at my grandparents' house. But I do not love:

Christmas radio.  Bah humbug.

Halloween tummyaches weren’t even settled before the local station changed its format from “Vomit-inducing soft rock with Delilah” to “Vomit-inducing Christmas tunes with Delilah.” (Her name is another post in and of itself. I cannot believe that parents would actually name a child that. That would be like including the “One ring to rule them all” passage from LOTR in wedding vows- proof that you pulled something out of context to make it look like you’d read the source material without doing so in the slightest.)

All day, every day now you can hear the same 20 or so holiday "pop classic" tunes in a loop. I imagine there are a few soccer moms who have already jubilantly plucked their festive, bedazzled sweaters from the cozy recesses of their cedar-lined closets and are thrilled about this onslaught of cheer. (In my mind these women are also portly, peppy, and impossibly big-haired, but that could be because I have a specific woman in mind. If you went to high school with me you can probably guess the identity; your clue is “bedazzled.”)

Now I am not that thrilled about it, but I’m making an effort for the kiddo to not be such a cynical bitch all the time. Also, I’m a sucker for the sleighbell-fest that is the instrumental version of “Sleigh Ride”. I know how to make a trumpet sound just like the bobtail nag like in that song, and I am damn proud of that fact. So as I scan through the stations, I sometimes linger through a few holiday tunes. But it always ends badly…

As a high schooler I worked a few holidays at an uppity outlet store that had exactly one CD of approved music. It had 10 songs. 10. Three of these songs got so monotonous, so annoying, so incredibly infuriating to hear over and over that shoppers were damn lucky I never choked one of them with whatever overpriced angora sweater I happened to be folding. These songs are in heavy rotation on the local station, and they still fill me with venomous rage. They are:

Last Christmas, by Wham! - This song is more embarrassing to George Michael than getting busted for having sex in a public loo could ever be.


All I Want for Christmas is You, by Mariah Carey - I can't stand her in general, but this glistening puddle of tinsel-and-peppermint-flecked regurgitation is the specific example I give when asked, "Gnumoon, why can't you stand Mariah Carey?"

Wonderful Christmastime, by Paul McCartney – I hate this song so much. I want to beat Sir Paul with Heather Mills’ fake leg whenever I hear it.

If you are ever around me, and one of these tunes begins to tinkle through the P.A. of whatever store we happen to be in, it would probably behoove you to find a bunker (or at least a display of tri-colored popcorn tins) to hide behind. Consider yourself warned.

Certainly I can't be the only person who has aversions to these or other holiday pop "classics". Anyone have any to add?

Appalachian vs. James Madison

Warning: This post is about football. If you’re my grandmother, and you’re here looking for pics of the baby, I promise to put up some later.

ASU won a game Saturday against a very good JMU team that we had absolutely NO business winning. They outplayed, outgunned, and generally out-balled us at every turn. In everything but the score...but at the end of the day that's the only indicator that matters, eh?

I rarely ever feel bad to see a losing team’s fans exit the stadium, but I honestly felt terrible for the streamer-toting, purple-loving hoard as they filed out of The Rock, heads hanging low as their National Championship dreams were dashed again. Play for play, position for position, playing these guys was like looking in a mirror for our team...same spread offense, same no-huddle (even up to looking like the offense is taking the snap, then pulling off the line to audible...it's very annoying to try to shoot), same everything. We just happened to be on the winning end of it this time, but we also play up there early next season. It may not be pretty at all.

I talked to several of them on the way to the car and wished them a safe journey home, if for no other reason than to let them know that not all of our fans are classless, taunting buttholes. I don’t know why, but it seems like the better our team gets, the larger the “hooligan” section of our fanbase pie grows. Note to the student section: downing a fifth of bourbon before throwing the finger and hurling obscenities at other school’s fans, cheerleaders, and band is vulgar and unrefined. If you want Appalachian to take GSU’s place as being the venue visiting fans avoid like the plague, brav-o. You’re getting there.

Back to the game: It was a good day for me, work-wise, because we kicked at noon, and as most photogs will tell you, lighting is what makes or breaks outdoor sporting events (indoor too, but at least it’s steady in there). It was cold as balls, truly, but I’ll take that over a game that is overtaken by shadows and darkness by the second quarter.

JMU had the sweetest fake field goal for a touchdown that I have ever witnessed, and was in the process of really taking the Apps out behind the woodshed when they got a litttttle too cocky. With about 2 minutes left in the game, and as I was considering leaving to beat traffic and get home to feed my baby (I was in considerable discomfort by this time, and didn’t think that CSS would want the grim visual on their broadcast of a woman’s breasts exploding on the sideline), they assed up. Bigtime. As in, all the photographers looked at each other, slack-jawed, asking “Did they REALLY just do that? Ho-Lee-Shit!”

With 2 minutes left, and them up 27-22, it was 4th and 1 on their 27 yard line. Because they’d been manhandling our defense all day, they decided to ice the game then and there, and went for the first down instead of punting. No dice. Turnover. On the freaking 27. Given that momentum, our Johnny Badass QB made a couple of great plays with the short field to work with, and scored to make it a 28-27 game. Driving for the win, JMU fumbled the ball away, it was recovered by the Mountaineers, and bye-bye, Dukes. All because of a play call that was both gutsy and idiotic. Unbelievable.

Luckily for me personally, this assures us of home field advantage throughout the rest of the playoffs, which means 1) DJ doesn’t have to travel, and 2) I get paid to shoot this and basketball.

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In a semi-related story, this is an ill-researched article that makes women look like dipshits who don’t know anything about sports. But hey, it’s the internet, write what you will. But don’t get your panties in a wad when your pointless, bitchy little article gets posted to Fark and you get a bunch of comments that you consider to be “mean”. You called out a website whose mascot is the big-nut squirrel…what exactly did you expect?

Thankful

I'm thankful for so much this year. In the most immediate sense, I'm very thankful for bigass American made barge vehicles, because last night a Ford Crown Victoria protected my grandparents' lives when a bigass American made deer decided to commit suicide by leaping out in front of them. The car and the deer were totaled, the grandparents were unharmed. very thankful.
This year we're thankful for our wonderful friends and family, and of course for our beautiful, healthy Pookie.
Yesterday's thankful:  I'm thankful that my mother-in-law understands my particular brand of "ooh the lighting is good, lets go take pictures" mania that causes me to inadvertently lock myself (and the baby) out of the house and have to call her at work to come let me back in.
More later, as soon as these mimosas get my brain thinking about more things that I'm giving thanks for...

Oh, at the pink. And an eyeroll for digital workflow.

November 2006:
Pregnant Gnumoon: "If the baby is a girl, no way we're going to do the whole "pink" thing. Nope, I don't like it one bit, so no pink on my kiddo."

November 2007:
Gnumoon (observing pile of laundry): *facepalm*
ps- I (grudgingly) chalk up one for windoze. Neither of my cameras mount as a drive in OXS when connected; they bypass the Finder completely and pull up the Import function in iPhoto. Even if I don't WANT to import to iPhoto. But the cameras (both Canons) won't recognize as drives.

If I pull the cards and put them in a reader, voila, no problems in mounting.

This is mostly an issue when I A) want to upload a large number of files to a specific folder (like football games), or B) Only want to grab a few files off the camera. (I do this often with Pooks pics)

Two annoying things to know here: 1. iPhoto 6 will only do a FULL import, so if you use your card to store things, as well as new photos, you're screwed. iPhoto '08 apparently has selected importing, but it pisses me off to have to pay $79 just for that.
2. Canon cameras will not mount as drives on OSX. You have to do a workaround using  ImageCapture, thus adding another step to photo importing.
Come on, Steve, yer killin' me!

whoops! I were making a mistake. I can no have cheezburger.

I can't stand it when people mess up subject-verb agreement. It makes me feel all stabby inside. And yet, if we look at a screenshot of yesterday's post:

mon dieu!
I remember how it happened...I had originally written "I was...", but since Pookie was with me, I changed it to "we", but alas, did not complete the necessary structure alterations.
This, more than anything else, demonstrates how lack of sleep and/or attention to oneself will eventually cause fissures in the bedrock of a person. I must me more alert to such things.
Apologies, especially to my dear grandmother, who may disown me. As she should.

Baby bears and Real-life Raymond

Here's what little bears wear on the first day of winter, when the snow blows sideways and the wind whips and howls. Miss Pookie was completely entranced by the snowflakes falling from the sky. It's really only a matter of time before we get her on a teeeny little snowboard. (OK, so this isn't the most professional photo. gimme a break- I took it at 7:20 a.m. as we was running out of the house to get to work/daycare on time)

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Everybody Loves Raymond is not a funny show until you get married. And then it’s that uncomfortable kind of “oh yeah, that really does happen” funny. It’s an “all-too-familiar” kind of funny that causes single friends to point and laugh at your lameness.  Such as…

At daycare, they had up flyers for “Adopt a teacher” day. I pooh-poohed it to DJ because A) Is our considerable weekly financial backing of the place not enough? and B) I don’t know that you can really be called a “teacher” when your day is mostly cleaning dirty butts and wiping noses. Don’t get me wrong, being a caregiver is very important (indeed, we pay a shitload of hard-earned money for the service; see point “A”), but it isn’t like my 5 month old comes home knowing how to conjugate verbs in French.  So I more or less wrote off the adopt-a-teacher program with an eye roll.  (J'ai roulé mes yeux.)

But then DJ stepped in. {It’s important to note that he is a “joiner” and I am not. He joins Rotary, I needle him about it and make fun of the fact that he has to sing silly songs and do a secret handshake or whatever. See the difference?}
So he tried to convince me that it was a good idea to sign up for the first event, a “make your adopted teacher a dinner” thing. “It’ll be fun,” he coaxed, “we’ll pick a fun recipe and spend an evening cooking together. I’ll do most of it. I’ll even make cookies.” He makes the best cookies, so I was tempted.
He went on, “It’s good politically. You don’t want to be the family who doesn’t get involved with their kids’ school life, do you? What is the teachers give preferential treatment to the kids whose families DO decide to be a part of it?” He might have a point there.  So I agreed, based on his aforementioned promise of yummy baked goods.

But I still felt put-upon. I like to think of myself as a caring, giving bloke, but I resent being called upon to be. Isn’t it nicer to do something for someone because you WANT to, and not because you’re expected to? I’d much prefer to get roses on any day but Valentine’s Day, you know?

Anyway…the dinner thing is tomorrow. I am to take a dinner for this teacher, and her family of 4, to daycare when I drop off the baby. It has to be an entrée, sides, bread, and a dessert. And it isn’t even for someone I know- not even for my kid’s “teachers”- I’m feeding a total stranger. I got home from the store, kid in tow, in a damn snowstorm, at 6:00, and I’ve been cooking ever since. It is now 8:49 pm.

And my promised cookies and help? Yeah, he’s in another state, calling a basketball tournament. He owes me bigtime for being so frikkin nice.

gDiapers and Cell Phones

NOTE: Yesterday’s post was in no way a condemnation of any mother’s personal practices, it was a condemnation of smug assholishness. If you think you’re better than someone else because of what you choose to let your child shit in, you might need a new hobby. But many cloth diaperers (including everyone I’ve met in my local LLL) are great people and wonderful mothers who have never been condescending about my choices. I will gladly seek more info from them at the next meeting.

This message board thread, however, scares me (and perfectly illustrates the aformentioned smug). And it triggers my rebellion reflex. These women make me want to wear disposable diapers myself, the same way that those godawful “Truth” commercials make me want to puff down a carton of Winston Reds.

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<---Look...more clipart hilarity. I can't imagine an instance where this piece would be called for.

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And now for something completely different:
In the telecommunication age, a simple snafu can cause problems. Problems that result in calls to the E.R.

Yesterday morning, as I was buzzing around the house trying to get all the balls ready to toss in the air for their daily juggling, I got things out of order. For some reason I grabbed my cell phone off the charger before I dressed the baby. Don’t ask me why; my mornings are a flurry of free association chaos in which certain things have to happen, but the order is a fluid target.

Anyway, as I was holding the cell phone I realized that the baby was in need of changing. So I walked to the bathroom, wet child cradled in one arm and mobile phone in the other, set the phone down beside the changing table, and promptly forgot about it.

That afternoon (hours later – an eternity for new parents) my husband could not reach me on my phone or at work. At 4:45 he called the front desk and discovered that everyone in graphics was gone for the day, but he still couldn’t find me. He called daycare, but I hadn’t picked up the baby. He called the E.R. of the local hospital, his concern elevating into a full-fledged freakout when they wouldn’t give him any information.
In his panic, he finally decided that I had been in the back room at work pumping and had passed out, and that none of my co-workers had noticed, and they’d all left for the day.

Meanwhile, I got to daycare and realized that he had the carseat, and only then did I discover that the cell phone was missing. So I attempted to call him from the landline at daycare, only to get more and more annoyed as he didn’t answer (for some reason the call-waiting function on his phone wasn’t working properly. I imagine he was on the line with the hospital at that time.)

The situation was finally resolved when he showed up at daycare, carseat in hand, with equal parts relief and annoyance imprinted on his face. Our reunion went something like this:
Me: Hey! I don’t have my cell phone.
Him: OHMYGOD I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD.
Me: ???

There is no point to this story (which admittedly sounds like the plot of a episode of some lame sitcom about parents with a new baby), except that it’s amazing how dependent we (me, DJ, the world at large) have become on instantaneous communication and technology. When the phones are down (or sitting on the changing table), we lose the ability to function normally.

gDiapers Update: Day 2…still loving these. I’ve not had any of the problems I’d read about on other sites. No leaks, even after a loooong night with no changes. As a bonus, the "natural" colored gPants look like little mawashi on Pooks.