Gnumoon's Stuff

Red eyes and regrets

I feel that DJ and I may have, as my grandfather would say, “shit in our hat,” which is a colorful (and fragrant) way to say “messed up royally”. If you remember our problems getting Pookie into daycare in the first place, then consider this “Chapter 2”. Back in October we finally got her into one of the 5-star (read: best) places in town. We loved it there, despite the fact that my instructions to have Pooks doing mandatory tummy time daily to help her learn to crawl and be independent apparently fell on deaf ears, because every time I went in she was happily perched on a teacher’s knee. The teachers were wonderful and Pookie was happy.

Then we discovered that she would be moving up to the next infant room. Sadness for us, because we loved her teachers. That very same day, we got the call from the reputed crème de la crème of daycares, right here on campus. After over a year of being wait-listed there, we were in! Pooks could start in 2 weeks, and only have to be in the next infant room up (with the unfamiliar teachers) for one week. Yay! The best daycare, and right there near work! What could be better?

Except that in that week, we grew pretty close to her new teachers, and found out that they’d been going into the infant room for weeks beforehand, playing with Pookie and getting very excited for her arrival. The final day (last Friday), we all cried. We exchanged email addresses, I baked cookies and gave them photos of them playing with Pooks, and they gave me a journal they’d written in every day she’d been there. It was very sad. (And I’m sure very silly to read about, if you’ve never been through it.)

Monday was her first day at the new school. We got there early, and were instructed to wash our hands and all her things, and to give them a feeding/sleeping schedule that they promised to adhere to. Looking around the gleaming facility, I hoped we had made the right choice. Monday seemed to go okay.

Today Pook’s allergies were acting up, and her little eyes were watery, rimmed in red circles. It looks sad, but it’s actually common for her and clears up on its own. We dropped her off at 7:45, and told them about her allergies. At 8:45 I received a call and was instructed to come pick up my “infected” child, who obviously had pinkeye and was hellbent on passing it to the others. (OK, I added that last part, but it was implied)

When I arrived, the student aide in the classroom practically shoved my baby into my arms and rushed past in her hurry to get to the sink and lather her hands and slough off any offending germs that my petri dish child might have so rudely (and purposefully) transferred to her. As I clutched my infant, I suppressed the urge to say, “Look, Miss Sorority-Letter-Shirt-that-is-too-tight-totally-on-purpose, my child MIGHT have pinkeye, probably just has allergies, but she certainly does not have Marburg or Ebola or anything that would constitute immediate sterilization of your hands without even saying hello to me!” 

I was told that until my baby has a doctor’s all-clear (in note form, and even with that, there is to be no tearing of the eyes), she is not to return. Not “we hope she feels better soon,” or “poor little girl, that must be uncomfortable”. Nope. Basically just a “don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out because your ass is likely crawling with dastardly pinkeye germs that might get on our precious door”.  Granted, if another child there was suspected to have an illness, I would want them sent home until they were well, but it was the rudeness on the part of the staff that really irritated me.

So I hauled Pookie to the doctor, where she got some eye drops for the irritation (pinkeye/conjunctivitis was never even mentioned by the doc). She can’t go back to school until at least Thursday, and maybe not until next week. I'm not sure how that "no eye tearing" rule will work- her eyes (and mine) are always watery because of allergies. I don’t know that I even want her to go back at all.

I feel like a middle school kid who ditches her tried-and-true friends when the popular kids suddenly want to hang out with her, only to discover that the cool kids just aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

And ps, Pookie’s old daycare called me at work today to check on her and say how much they missed her. I feel like a total shithead.

I wish I were that flexible

It was a very busy weekend, as usual. I shot 2 basketball games and a performance art show, plus got to hang out with the family some and play with the Pookie. The show provided the more interesting photos than the games...this is my friend/my bro's girlfriend "Bendy Lindsay" performing her contortion/aerial silks routine. (Normally I don't use people's real names on here, but as an entertainer, I don't think Lindsay would mind the publicity. If you have a need for an aerial silks show, give her a call. It's an amazing act.)

Apologies for the crappy photo. I was very psyched to shoot this, but there was basically one light on her in an otherwise pitch-black (and teeny) theater. At one point I even pushed the camera to 3200 ISO in an attempt to freeze some of the action in those conditions. Light and motion...simultaneously my nemeses and my bread & butter.

In other news, do you ever wake up at night with just the weirdest thoughts in your head, like you catch the tail end of whatever your mind was doing while you weren't paying any attention to it? I woke up last night and opened my eyes in the dark, suddenly very concerned that I couldn't recall the rules governing the use of the subjunctive mood. I almost got out of bed to consult Google, but ended up drifting off again. I wonder what other inane grammatical questions my unsupervised brain pondered in those silent predawn hours...

A loss that hits close to home

I didn't know Keri, although I probably met her since we were in school at the same time with the same major, but this really makes me so sad. And it reminds me to be thankful for everything I have- Keri's daughter Kellyn and Maren are almost the same age. I can't even fathom how hard it must have been for her to know that she wouldn't get to see her child grow up, to know that her own daughter wouldn't know her except from photos and the stories of others. It rips my heart out just to think of it.
I don't even know what else to say. Hug someone you love today.

Gerber, Beechnut, and Mom's special

The other day I told someone I was making my own baby food (she had asked if I was a Gerber or a Beechnut mom), and I was met with an eyeroll and a "Jeez, you are such a damn hippie."
I guess I am, but Pookie seems to love it, and I know exactly what she's eating... and styling her hair with:

So far that includes avocados (the favorite!), bananas, acorn squash, sweet potatoes, and green beans. (My first attempt at making peas was a colossal failure. Ick. And husk-y!)

Making the food isn't hard at all, in fact it's a lot of fun (and quite cost-effective). The process involves a steamer, a hand mixer, some (organic!) veggies and fruits, and some baggies and ice cube trays (to freeze for later).

My favorite thing about making her food myself, besides the health benefits, is that the finished products are so vibrantly colored and smell amazingly fresh...I'd never noticed how dull and lifeless jarred food is. This stuff really keeps her interest.

ps - Rice cereal was a huge bust- it's about the blandest thing ever, and she wasn't having it. Bleh.

pss - How can you call someone out for being a hippie if you live in this town? Besides Asheville, this is probably the most liberal, natural-living, pro-attachment-parenting city in this state.

psss - You know you want to see the super close-up of this roughagy carnage. Mmm, aren't you hungry now?  (Click on the picture for almost-lifesized greenbeansquashsmoosh goodness):

Welcome to the Barnyard

Warning for the faint of heart/easily disgusted/hopelessly immature: this post is all about boobs. I know the last one was too, but this one is about the mechanics of using boobs to feed other people.

Ol’ McGnumoon had a barn, M-E-D-E-L-A.
“The barn” is how I refer to the room in the back of my office where I spend 30-40 minutes of my day pumping. I’m in here right now, even as I write. I multi-task in here. I reply to emails, I edit photos, I occasionally blog. Sometimes my lovely co-worker brings me InStyle magazines to read. If you call me on my cell around 10am or 3:30pm, I'm probably in there.

It’s a whole routine I have down to a science. 10:00 a.m., get up from my desk and head to the barn. Remove two (2) collection bottles from the insulated bag, attach them to sterilized suction cups. Attach cups to tubing, which attaches to the pump. Check vacuum. Attach cups to self, being very careful to not twist the tubing around itself. Getting the tubes mixed up is like crossing the streams, which is bad. Thanks for the safety tip, Egon.

Check suction and placement. Make quick bet with self about how much I’ll get.  (I was going for 5 oz this morning) Like master driller Harry Stamper, I have never failed to hit my mark. If I say I’ll get 11 oz in a day, then by God I will do it. The take for each session seriously affects my mood – if I intend to get 5 oz and I scarcely collect that much, I will worry about my supply. I will obsess about being able to feed my baby. However, if I’m going for 5 and I get 7, then, Oh Happy Day! I am the queen of the bovines!

After the actual pumping, there is a delicate procedure involved to detach the apparatuses and then carefully unscrew the cups and replace the caps on the bottles. It’s part steady hand, part alchemy, and part art form to execute this move without losing even a drop of precious fluid. Then all the parts are washed and put away, ready for the next session. And the baggy of milk goes into the communal fridge, where it no doubt horrifies all the male student interns in the office. (I consider it a “think it over, guys” form of birth control. It’s a public service, really.)

You're damn skippy I just compared breastpumping and Bruce WIllis.

Committment to breastfeeding

Staying motivated to feed, pump, freeze,and handle all the trials of breastfeeding can be trying at times. I have pumped and fed in some bizarre places over the past 7 months, but it is nothing at all compared to the resolve of this woman:

Long Journey for Mother's Milk

Amazing and inspiring. (Although I think it's awful that the family has to pay for shipping. Come on, Uncle Sam. You can do better than that.)

I've actually been meaning to post this bfing-related story, and even though it doesn't hold a candle to that one, here it is:
At the National Championship game, I had to show up early to shoot tailgating, the pep rally, and all sorts of other "crowd/fan" stuff. (The baby was at the hotel with my parents and several bottles of expressed milk) The game started at 7:00, and at 6:05, after the pep rally, I hoofed it over to my vehicle and chucked my jacket, gloves, and hat in the back. Then I got in the middle seat and pulled out my trusty Medela Pump In Style (with battery pack!).

As I watched the stadium clock countdown (55 minutes to kickoff when I started, 42 minutes when I finished) I pumped and edited the photos I'd already taken. At one point a security guard got curious and started walking over, but thankfully my windows are nice and tinted. He couldn't see what I imagine was the completely ridiculous-looking position I was in: sitting cross-legged, balancing the collection bottles on my knees while hunching over an LED camera screen. It's called multi-tasking, Mr. Policeman.

After I was finished I retrieved all my gear and headed into the stadium. Another photographer asked why I'd been MIA for the past 30 minutes or so, so I told him. You'd have though I confessed that I was in the locker-room injecting the QB with HGH. That's how shocked the guy looked- he said, "You have GOT to be kidding me. Why would you do something like that?!"  I just shrugged and said, "Hey, my baby has to eat!" and turned my attention to adjusting my equipment. I'm not sure if he was saying it with respect for my resolve, or if (I suspect) he was appalled that I would do something so hippy-dippy and granola at a Sporting Event. Either way, my baby had to eat.

Uncle Sam wants you to exercise your right to free speech

I love free speech, because it means that people who are stupid can say stupid things.
And then I can laugh at them and talk about how stupid it all is.
That's freedom, baby. Read on:

I was driving today and was passed by a red Ford with a rather large, hirsute woman behind the wheel. In her back window, proudly displayed, was one of the most idiotic bumper stickers I have ever seen (with the exception of the “3” with angel wings and a halo).
It proclaimed:

Uncle Sam wants YOU to speak English!

Really? He does? I think he might want you to grow a brain, hairy lady.
Let’s look at the reasoning behind that. I am going to ASSUME (and yes, I know what happens when one assumes) that her sticker was referring to Latinos who come illegally to ‘Merica, then continue to speak their native tongue. (I am assuming also that she isn’t referring to the deaf, who defiantly use ASL to communicate instead of speaking English. Assholes.)

Based on that assumption, these are people who refuse to speak English. So if they don’t speak it, then maybe they don’t know it, and if they don’t know it, then I seriously doubt they can READ IT on your condescending bumper sticker. For all they know, it could be a sticker advertising do-it-yourself waxing kits that don’t work, or perhaps it’s the contact information for a Fordfull of female Elvis impersonators (The Vegas Years!).

So instead of showing others how much better you are than them, you’re really just letting the rest of us English speakers (and readers) in on your stupidity. If you’d wanted to get the point across, perhaps you should have had one made that said “el SAM de tío quisiera que usted hablara ingles”. Ten seconds on Babelfish would have helped you get your message out there to the conductores.

Or are you a coward?

Maybe you know that Spanish-speakers wouldn’t be able to read it. Perhaps you wanted other like-minded English-speakers to see it and applaud you for having the courage to make such a statement. So are you, in effect, preaching to your own choir? Because it’s the equivalent of putting red text on a green sign that says “You suck if you can't read this.” Way to show those color-blind people. You are truly a revolutionary.

Also, even if a person of Latino descent could read the sticker, would the “Uncle Sam wants you…” line even make any sense? Sure, we’re all familiar with the poster and the sentiment, but I don’t know that someone from another country would be. Which gives even more credence to my “pat me on the back for my beliefs” theory.

I’ll pat you on the back, but I’ll actually be sticking a Post-It to your broadness that says “Soy peludo y estúpido”.

ps - I'm not going to turn this into a political blog where I go on and on about issues, especially something as tentacled as immigration. If you know me, you probably know pretty much where I stand. So this post isn't about illegals, it's about home-grown idiocy.

pss - I'm beginning to think that Violent Acres is this site's Tyler Durden. It's all the things I would say if I had any balls and I didn't think anyone from work or my family was reading. I HAVE been overtired lately ... wonder if I'm sleep-blogging over there? And where did all this soap come from?

Photography and Marathons

(Note: When I said what I said about “precious snowflakes” and all up there, I really didn’t mean for it to be snarky. I just reread it and it sounds kind of like “Ooh, parents will pay annnything for shots of their kids”, but that isn’t what I meant. I mean that I happily pay pros for services related to my child, and if I were not a photographer myself, it would include photos. Basically, it’s a niche that some parents knew needed to be filled, and they asked me to fill it. If it benefits everyone, then I couldn’t be happier with the arrangement.)

I shot my first games for what I’ve dubbed “The Experiment” on Friday night in a gym with (I knew it) godawful lighting. It wasn’t as horrible as I’d feared; I got to shoot at ISO1600 at about 1/250-500 (depending on where I was standing. The light was uneven, and I had a rough time synching my Speedlight properly, so I abandoned it.), wide open at 2.8 with my 70-200mm. I got some decent stuff, I got some junk. I got it all edited and posted that same night, which was fantastic, considering that I had an ASU game to shoot on Saturday. So now we wait and see if the parents think I’m good enough to buy from or if they think I’m crap.

I guess shooting in the trenches had me ready to shoot yesterday, too, because I got some really good stuff at the App game. Much more consistently good stuff than I’ve been getting. I think I’m also getting used to the bigger, faster (and heavier) camera, and that the “pro” nature of the new body is starting to show through in my shots. Which is a good thing, because my other one has completely crapped out on me and has to be sent back to Canon for service. ERR99

In not-about-me news, I am so proud of my L., who is at this verrrrry moment (as I write this, not as you read it) pounding the magical pavement down at Disney as she competes in the Disney World marathon. It’s her first full race (26.2 miles, are you kidding me?) and she’s been training for about a year for it. She was hampered back in November by a wonky knee thingy (technical term there) and had to cut back on her running (I think she called it “tapering”, which actually IS the technical term). I know she was (is) concerned about it flaring up during the race, but she went for it anyway, which impresses the hell out of me. According to the race tracker, she has about an hour of running left before she gets to join up with her fellow crazies runners for a celebration. I’d totally then break ranks and hop on Space Mountain, but that’s just me.
(Don’t look for me to start marathon training anytime soon. The most I ever ran at a time was 5 miles, and that was at a like 10-minute-mile pace. If I train for anything, it will be Ninja Warrior.)

Youth sports photography

For years I've said, "You know where I bet there's some money to be made? In youth sports! I bet parents would pay a bunch for action shots of their precious snowflakes inbounding a ball!" Well, it turns out that my cousin, whose daughter is a basketball phenom, completely agrees with me. (Yes, she's related to me, and yes, we're pretty sure that she somehow inherited all the athletic genes that were allocated for our entire family)

I shot her playing some ball a week or so ago (I was just there and happened to have my cameras), and
gave some prints to her parents. Based on those prints alone, both the teams that were playing want me to come and shoot for them. So tomorrow I am making the trek to a no-doubt terribly lit high school gym to see how far I can push my cameras and equipment. (ISO 3200? Sure! That grain makes it seem more "Hoosiers", you know. Authentic!)

In preparation for the onslaught of parents waving money at me (in my mind, they're all pushing each other out of the way like the townspeople trying to buy Wonka bars from the candyman) I signed up for an internet-based service that collect orders, handles payments, and prints and ships the photos. I just don't have time to do all the processing. I'll be doing well to get the shots edited and turned around in a decent amount of time. Here's the site, if you want to critique...most of the work has been done after 1am the past two nights, so be gentle.
At this point, the photos are placeholders. The Merlefest ones are live, but it was only to test uploading time- I don't plan to actually sell any of those (maybe there's a Bela Fleck stalker out there who will prove me wrong).

In other news, my baby loves to take baths more than she loves to harass the dog. And that is saying something.

In other other news, this news makes me sad to hear. Back in '90 or so, I was in love with him, although I admit to being wooed also by the siren song of Kurt Browning and his quadruple lutz.
Later, skater. I'll think of you fondly whenever I see your half-second stunt double spot in The Lost Boys.

And the "ists" have it

So Hillary took New Hampshire. The only reason I write about this is that during her speech some sexist guy in the audience yelled "Iron my shirt!", and I started thinking about the "ist" nature of this year's elections. Politics aside, many don't like Hillary because they don't think a woman can run the country which makes them sexist. (Side note: it makes me nuts when women don't think a woman should be president. Self-loathing much? Have a little confidence in your gender's ability. Sheesh.)

So based on the "ists", what can we look forward to from mouth-breathing hecklers in the future?
Will someone yell for Obama to shine their shoes? (racist)
For McCain to drink some Ensure and go watch Matlock? (ageist)
For Romney to take another wife and go have some more kids? (anti-Mormonist)
or perhaps for Kucinich to get into the workshop and make them some toys? (elfist)

**Note for the media: You all keep referring to "Obamamania". But may I humbly suggest that "Obamarama" is a much more fun made-up word. It's fun to say, fun to hear, and it's fun for change (another of your buzzwords this election season).

Back to Hillary for a minute: This article by Gloria Steinem examines why a black man will be president before a woman of any race. Which segues into how I've been meaning to post about Gloria Steinem.

She is coming to speak here in a month or so, and I was asked to design the poster/materials for her visit. Sweeeeet, I thought to myself. She is/was such a driving force for feminism, I bet I can do something really cool. I spent a long time thinking about what to do and finally settled on drawing her as Rosie the Riveter, because the title of the talk is "Feminism: Where are We Going?" and I thought that would be a nice nod to the movement in general. Apparently I thought wrong, because I got completely shot down.

My primary color scheme was deemed too "out there", and my drawing was "too wild". The requested redesign included "a softer, more feminine color palate" and "more subtlety". So in essence, the committee that paid to have OUTSPOKEN FEMINIST Gloria Steinem come visit was concerned that my design was too bold and controversial and might somehow be divisive. The customer always being right, I redid it, but I still like mine better, because it isn't safe and boring.
I wonder which version Steinem would have preferred?