Gnumoon's Stuff

the First Weekend Away

Sorry for the no posting - there is a lot going on here that is keeping me from having the time or  the motivation to post. Some of it is bad, some of it is blah.

BUT, in happier news: this is the weekend of bachelorette party debauchery at the beach! This is both good and bad, because while I am looking very forward to a break from life, it is also the first time l will ever be away from my Pookie. It isn't like I'm boarding her at the vet, of course; her dad is taking her to his parents' house for a weekend with the family, and I'm sure that everything will be fine.

It's just that I will miss her so much. For almost a year I haven't slept without her right there beside me, and she has never known a night where she couldn't just roll over and snuggle with mommy. I know she can snuggle with daddy and that he will be there with a bottle of milk and a paci and a rocking chair when she cries, I'm just sad I won't be there for her.
I've told the other girls on this trip that they have to keep me busy and keep my mind off how much I miss her. They seem to be up to the challenge.

Speed-up rules, Plan "C"

I'm not good at being on time for things that happen early in the morning. This isn't a problem except for, oh, five days a week or so. It's not that I mean to be tardy, it's just difficult to get me ready, Pookie ready, and out the door by the time necessary to roll in here at 8am. So I'd been late some (ok, ok ... a lot) and while I didn't get called on it, I got warned by a co-worker that they were watching disapprovingly. So DJ and I examined our morning routine and devised ways to save time and get my arse to work on time, because of all the things one could get in trouble for, being late is a stupid one.

So it's been working well, until this week, when DJ is out of town. The well-oiled morning machine came grinding to a halt due to many factors, and this morning the ultra-speed-up rules (Plan C) were enacted for the first time. Let me 'splain:

When Miss Saigon was on broadway, there was a scene where a helicopter landed on the stage. It was known as the toughest stage maneuver going anywhere, ever. It was cool as shit, I'll be honest. They had wind and everything. But apparently sometimes it didn't work right - the propellers would get caught or one of a million other little things that had to happen in sequence would go wrong, and they would have to abort the landing scene. But there was an audience who had paid good money to see the show, so it wasn't like they could cut the scene completely, so the actors all knew the back-up plan. And if the chopper wasn't gonna land that night, the company would seamlessly transition into the Plan B, and the play would continue with the audience none the wiser that a glitch had occurred.

So we have a similar system. Plan A: I get up at 6ish, shower, prepare for work, pack bags, etc., then at 7 I get Pookie up. We have some family time while she gets changed and prepared for the day, then we're all out the door and on time. It's lovely when it happens. Here is a little photo essay of a day like that. A day that I feel I have all my shit together and all is right with the world.

But sometimes Pookie wakes up early and will not go back to sleep. And then Plan B must be executed. 
Shower is skipped, makeup is minimal or nonexistent, everything that can be lost in the routine is jettisoned. And, the On-time gods willing, we still get out the door in time.

Today, though, disaster.

I didn't get to sleep until late because I was working on a project, and it had already taken an hour and a half to get Pooks to sleep. I woke up on the couch, computer in lap, around 2:30 am to the dog going bonkers because some raccoons had taken up residence on the deck. This of course woke up the baby. I finally got everyone settled back down around 3:30. Then at 5:30 Pookie popped awake, MAD as a wet hen. From that time until 7, if she was not nursing she was crying. I finally had to put her in the playard to grab a shower (I needed it today because of some working out...disheveled is acceptable at my work, stinky isn't). She screamed the entire time, and continued to scream until we were in the car. It was enough to drive a mother bonkers. I am sitting here pumping, half-asleep and half-jittery from the coffee, with no makeup whatsoever, and hair that looks a fright. Plan C is one to be avoided at all costs, even if next time I just call in sick.

And, for the first time in 2 weeks, I was late for work. The day of my performance evaluation. *insert curse words*

More youth sports photography

So I didn't really follow up on shooting the high school basketball deal. I got some orders, but nothing of the "I should quit my job and give this a go!" variety. That's the kind of clarity I need in decision-making.

But then more youth sports stuff started popping up on my radar screen, and I've been doing some and putting off some. Last weekend I spent an abysmal 7 hours shooting teams of screaming spoiled brats while their annoying-ass mothers whined at me over one damn thing or another. It was decidedly not worth the payout at the end of the shoot. Luckily, I was assisting someone else, so when the last shutter clicked, I took my money (again, not enough to justify the time or effort), trudged to my car, and drove away. If I never see that park or any of those kids again it will be okey-dokey fine with me.

But that's good, right? It's important to know what you DON'T want to do. And I DON'T want to take individual and team photos of little leaguers. Photos that are then inserted into godawful templates and sold at an astounding markup. See, that's the thing ... these shots aren't hard to light, hard to shoot, or hard to produce in any way, yet they make the most cash. It's like with every *click* you can feel a part of your cred as a photographer take a hit, like Link losing life points in Legend of Zelda. I'm afraid if I shot this type of thing too often, I'd go onto autopilot and eventually the red screen would flash and signal the RETURN OF GANON. (Too nerdy a comparison? Sorry, it's really late.)

But my husband is coaching a team of tee-ballers, and damn if they aren't the cutest kids. They are 4-5 years old, and they play ball by swarm, meaning that if the ball gets smacked toward second base, well, 12 kids truck over toward second base. It's hilarious. I've been shooting some action stuff of them, mostly just sitting in the grass with Pookie in my lap and the big lens on the camera. Here's one game, and here's another.
So ... I'm giving the team/individual photos thing another shot, hoping that my own cataloging system will make more sense to me than the ones I've seen, and that my templates won't assault the senses the way most I've looked at do.

Also, I've gotten some nasty looks from other photographers on the sideline, like "How DARE you shoot on my field?". You know what, though? I'm very used to being marginalized in industry, so bring it on. Don't think I didn't notice the little "So, photography is a GREAT hobby for a mother! I bet you take nice shots of your baby" jab. I kinda wish I'd had the stones to retort, "Gee, I know! I sure do hope this Mark II is up to the challenges of princess parties and playdates!"
But, no.  I will smile sweetly and be nice when you come up to me at a game with half the equipment and a quarter of the experience and try to strongarm me into leaving your perceived turf.
Turf? Shit, these are LITTLE KIDS, not MLB stars. Leave the attitude to the big boys. You know, the ones on the college and professional sidelines.  

My vegetarian swimsuit body

Ok enough of serious posting. Let’s talk about bathing suits. I went at lunch and braved the dressing rooms with armloads of suits (tankinis, because I don’t think they even make one-pieces any more), in hopes of finding one that would make me not want to bleach the eyes of beachgoers.

Kathy posted and said that she thought I had an okay bathing suit body, but here’s the thing: I NEVER would have let Marie post a photo of me in a bathing suit, or in revealing clothing. So, never would she post a photo of my thighs. Because, dear readers, here is my secret: my upper thighs look like bell peppers. Seriously. Normal knees, normal lower thighs, and then BAM! Stuffed pepper thighs. It’s quite bizarre. And they have always been shaped like that.

I could be shipwrecked on a remote island and finally succumb to starvation, and when my body was discovered, emaciated and gaunt, the traveling doctor of the expedition would stroke his beard and say, “But surely something else killed this woman, her face and thighs are so full and meaty!” (He would be a British Colonial from the 1700s for some reason. I think they were looking for Spanish gold when they found my island.)

In the past I have exercised away my belly, I have starved away my muffin top, but the cheeks and thighs have always remained. When I was young (8 or 9 years old) I dreamed of the day I would become a scientist and devise a serum that, when injected into the thighs just so would grow a new layers of skin from the insides out and eventually allow me to peel off the unsightly chunks flesh from my legs.  I still think of my wonder elixir whenever I prepare chicken breasts, because in my imagination that’s what the hunks of fat looked like.

So yeah, bathing suit shopping isn’t high on my list of fun things to do. But I discovered that suits made to conceal the thighs (boyshorts, skirted suits, etc.) actually draw the eye to the problem area, they in effect scream “HOLEE SHIT LOOK AT THESE THIGHS! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT???”, so I’ve moved back to a more normal suit style, in a basic black or olive drab color. I am THAT exciting.

I used to think that if I just exercised enough I could look like Gabrielle Reese in my suit, but it just isn’t meant to be. That’s not to say that now I’ve had a kid I’m going to give up on trying to be in shape, but I think perhaps my standards are more realistic. If I eat right and try to haul my ass to the gym occasionally, I can put on a suit and have fun with my friends/baby/family when I hit the beach instead of worrying about my jigglation. At this point in life, that works for me.

just when you thought it was safe...

So I've been helping plan a bachelorette weekend for a friend. The weekend is nearly upon us, and I have realized with dawning horror it means I have to get into a swimsuit. On the beach. In front of people. Today two of my dear friends decided they were going to order suits from Victoria's Secret and go in together on the order to get free shipping, and told me to pick out the one I wanted and I could get in on the deal too. Lemme tells you something: Vikki's ain't got one thing that would be flattering on me. I'm going to hold out until they reveal their Pink! line of burquas, then maybe I'll whip out the ol credit card. Maybe they'll have the Sweeney Todd Collection soon (see photo).

I wasn't always this averse to swimwear; in fact I was a lifeguard for many a year. I never gave it a thought- I just threw on whichever suit was dry. One-piece, two-piece, tankini, etc. As long as it was dry and didn't have a "pool funk" smell to it. I wore one suit up on the stand that I now consider to be scandalously skimpy, and am somewhat appalled at photographs. Guess that means I'm getting old, eh?

I'm baaaaack

I haven't posted in a week or so. I had to put it on my "to do" list, or it wouldn't have gotten done. I just love marking things off the list. (Sometimes I put stuff on there I have already done, just so I can have things marked off, like accomplishments!)

In the time I've been offline, much has happened. I suppose the biggest thing is that we went to the NSSA awards banquet over the weekend. It was great fun- we got to dress up and people treated us like royalty for three days. Also, my mom came to help with (read: save us) with Pookie. So all the times that DJ was busy with non-wife-invited events, the girls got to hang out and do fun things. Things like shopping, swimming, and going on a safari.

The greatness of the weekend made the return to the real world more than a little bit difficult for us all- instead of gently easing back into reality, toe-first, I was rudely shoved in and had to bear the shock of it all at once. Three days later I seem to be recovering, but only time will tell.

Little notes from along the way:
- Pookie has decided not to sleep at night. Apparently it is for the weak. So we have decided to cut out naptime after noon or so. It's like having my own Mogwai. So, as difficult as it is to deal with a little grouch-muffin when I get home from work, having her conk out around 11pm or so is much preferable to staying up until 3am because she isn't tired enough to shut it down.

-Pookie is also about thisclose to walking. She crawls over to something, yanks herself up, and then waves her arms out so you'll help her walk around. Eventually she'll probably just venture out on her own. I hope so - it will be really awkward to have to go to college with her because she has to have a death grip on my index fingers to ambulate at 18.

-FIVE PEOPLE asked me yesterday when we're having another child. Look at me, people! What about my birdnest hair, raccoon undereye circles, and inability to get to anything on time suggests that it would be a good idea to reproduce again anytime soon? I'll leave it to the Duggars, as they are the pros.

-We just had a going-away lunch for a friend at work who gets to go to New Zealand for a month. For work. As in "is getting paid to go to New Zealand". It's the first time I've been "career jealous" of anyone in a long time.

-I agreed to a photo shoot tomorrow to help out a friend, thinking it would be a 2 or 3-hour thing at the most. I just talked to him... 8 am to 4pm. Sheeyit. What should I ask for, compensation-wise, for giving up an entire Saturday to shoot little league team photos? It's at least in the $20,000 range. ha.