Tuesday, June 22, 2010

2010 Camp break number one.

Dinner with Sara and Brian. Was awesome, but I don't think I have ever been hit on so hardcore by a hibachi chef. Possibly by anyone. And I am serious here--it was borderline sexual harassment, complete with sex and blowjob innuendos. Sara said she was just glad it wasn't her, and I get that. Anyway, she payed for dinner, so I guess I could take one for the team.

Now I'm trying to figure out what new phone to get from Verizon, and I'm looking for one w/o a data pack because I am cheap/broke. Razzle? Cosmos? Convoy? Exilim? I have been at this for hours. Razzle is probably out due to its size and some negative reviews. Probably. Cosmos seems pretty good. I like the convoy and exilim for several reasons--first, they're both flip phones, and both built to military specs. Both are really rugged and durable, and the exilim is waterproof, which is awesome. Unfortunately, they're both bulky--convoy is really thick, exilim is v. long. Convoy has excellent battery life, I hear, but costs $70. Exilim is, as I said, waterproof, but takes blurry pictures if you aren't careful and has less-than-stellar battery life. That one is $20.


So. Though I hate to say it, I guess the convoy is out due to its cost, and also the fact that it's markedly thicker than a deck of cards. I am a front-pocket phone carrier, and I don't think I can be having that, even if I had an extra $70 lying around right now. Anyway, if I had a lot of extra money, then I'd be getting a Droid*.  Not that I'm bitter.

This leaves the LG Cosmos and the Casio Exilim. Cosmos is far prettier, and far less waterproof. Cosmos size is better. Cosmos has fewer megapixels, but doesn't seem to have the blurring problem present in the exilim. Cosmos has a qwerty keyboard. Cosmos also, if my memory serves me correctly** has more reported glitches than the Exilim.

Cosmos--pretty, qwerty, nice size.
Exilim--military specs, waterproof, 5.1 megapixels.

Did I ever mention that I hate making decisions?

I need to go to bed.

*Did you know that they have a truly incredible night sky star-and-planet-identifying free app on that thing? No, seriously. You hold it up against the night sky, and point it at the star or planet or constellation you want to identify, and it can tell where you're pointing, show you the sky that you'd be seeing as if the phone itself were a window, and labels the stars/planets/constellations you're looking at.

**Which, to be honest, is fairly unlikely at 2 am and after a couple of weeks of insufficient sleep

Monday, June 21, 2010

Staff Training 2010: an incomplete account.

And after the library, I organized Beth's file cabinet, Beth's office closet, and some bits of the equipment room. I found sunscreen from 1989, and an old-timey snorkel mask. DIBS.

Living on the same plot of land as David is not easy, but is (usually) not as unbearable as I had feared it might be. Although I did write some depressing poetry the other night while he played Ninja Burger with some of the other staff. //emo emo, yes. But I manned up, thanks to lovelybeautifulwonderful Victoria, and Alkulana Challenged--the smallest ever, with just the two of us and Kelly, but also my first time sans cheating/bathing suit--and then did puzzles in the dining hall and acted nonchalant when questioned by incredulous new staff.

"Did you streak into the water?"
"You don't streak in the water, you skinnydip."

The water at night is so beautiful, so lovely and just warm enough. The smell is so clean and summery and delicate. The fireflies are magical. There really are few things I love more than night swimming in the creek. I need to do that a lot more often.

Last night Emily and I lay in our bunks and talked after turning the lights off--she is so sweet and always asks me how I'm doing when I fake like I'm fine--and at one point she told me, "Don't worry. You'll find your Jesse."

It was another of those nearly-crying moments. Way to worm your way in and punch the (poorly) hidden button, Em. For reference, Jesse is Victoria's super awesome, perfectly matched, high school sweetheart boyfriend. The only reason they aren't married is that they haven't graduated from college yet. They've picked their wedding colors and kid's names. It's sort of crazy, and anyone can tell you that I'm not a big fan of marrying young, but with them, I trust it. So yes. Emily assures me that I will someday find my Jesse, and I look forward to that, but for now I'm still pasting my tattered heart back together. Construction is, I suppose, progressing roughly on schedule. I really miss David's family though, sometimes. I saw a picture of his nephew today on his sister-in-law's blog, and I just want to hug that little boy so badly.

I talked to my dad tonight about Chris Duncan, and how Nick and I have been talking about him a little. I don't really know what to say I guess, except that I wish I could do more for Nick, and for Chris's mom Rhonda, than just ask how things are and talk about memories and how many ass-kickings Chris is going to get once we all die and join him up there in the clouds. That's really how the conversations go, so far. Today Beth (the boss) had us write promises to God, things we might be able to hold each other accountable to this summer, and share them if we were willing at the worship service we held this morning before heading home. Nick's was to be more honest about how hard it is for him to be without Chris, and when we prayed for everyone up there, he cried. I cried too. I couldn't even say anything--I just leaned my head against his back and cried. I asked him after the service how he was doing, and he said, "That punk keeps making me cry. It's making me all stuffy." And then we both said at the same time, "He's really racking 'em up"--'them' being, of course, ass kickings, as I stated earlier.
And I don't know, it's just so weird for me, though weird is utterly the wrong word. Chris and I were buddies when he was little, but we hadn't been close in years. Mostly I just remember his little-boy goofy smile, huge ears, huge teeth. Even now I sometimes hope it's all just a horrible dream, even though he's been gone for nine months. Chris was Rhonda's firstborn. Paul and Philip's star big brother. Nick's best friend. I can't even imagine what it's like for him. I can't even bring myself to try to imagine what Rhonda is like now, on the inside. Sometimes I wonder whether there could even be anything left of her, after all this. She's hardly slept since he died. She's only cried maybe a handful of times. She's been stuck in PTSD mode since she found him, and only in the last few weeks has she been able to begin to actually grieve. She'll be at Camp tomorrow or Tuesday.

I'm sorry for all the downers! Things really have not been all bad. It has been so great to get to hang out with Emily, with Ellen and Dan, with Victoria and Jesse, Nick, and with so many new and returning staff. To get to know Shane better. To go camping and actually sleep. To spend whole afternoons organizing, or to facilitate the staff group on The Wall element of the Challenge Course. Let me tell you, it is a whole new experience being senior staff. Suddenly there is no one around, with the exceptions of the cooking staff, who has been at Alkulana longer than I have. Suddenly I am the expert. People have honestly told me that I "seem wise," and that there is "no un-knowledgeable bone" in my body. In the cave, Steven kept saying that I had "crazy leg muscles" whenever I lead them through a section where we had to crouch down and maneuver. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's awesome to be complimented and (usually) appreciated. It is just really, really strange to walk into Camp this summer and suddenly be the wise one.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Jenny suggested that I become a librarian.

I finished organizing the Camp library this afternoon around 3:15, checked the time, and realized that I'd been working on it for about six straight hours--beginning around 9:15 and working through lunch. I love books. I don't like to stop working on projects before I'm finished. Honestly, I don't really see how people can do that, once they've got momentum going. For me, the momentum and the focus are so vital to any "get this shit done" project, especially one having to do with organization. Once they're lost, there's no way that stuff is getting put back.

Anyway, the categories are now as follows, from left to right across the dining hall wall. Categorical titles are quotes, unless otherwise noted.

Section one: empty. (Possibly a space for books to be reshelved by me. Zomg, I would so love for "librarian" to be my morning job.)

Section two,
Top shelf:
Fantasy Series(es)*.
Second shelf: Misc. Fantasy:
Magical People**,
Innocent Bystanders Affected By Magic**,
Third shelf:
Misc. Sci-Fi.

Section three,
Top shelf: Animal Stories:
People With Animal Friends,
Stories Starring Animals.
Second shelf:
Story Books. (Both needed a really tall shelf.)
Third shelf:
Historical Fiction.

Section four,
Top shelf:
The World Around Us: Science!
Animals, Weather, Geology, etc.
Also, Space.
Second shelf:
Third shelf:
Short Stories,
Biblical Stories/Resources.

Section five,
Top shelf:
Sports Stories, Fiction & Nonfiction.
Second shelf:
Mystery Series(es)*
Third shelf:
Scary Stories,
Misc. Mystery.

Section six,
Top shelf:
Joke Books,
Activity books,
Books from/about Movies & TV. (Tragically small categories, you see.)
Second shelf:
Comics, Manga, Graphic Novels. (Tragically large category.)
Third shelf:
Books On Being A Kid. (Aka Captain Underpants. This section is also secretly known as "shit.")

Section seven, Top shelf:
Award-Winning Books & Authors,
Classic Stories. (I.e., Dahl's books, Journey to the Center of the Earth, etc.)
Second and third shelves:
Books On Growing Up. (Also mostly secretly and affectionately known as "shit*.")

Section eight: Staff Book Exchange.

I am a beast.

*(es) is not actually written on masking tape and stuck to the bookshelves.

**These are placed next to each other and listed under "magic." To label them separately would have taken too much space, aka more space than the actual respective groups of books.

***Please note that this is not at all to say that all coming-of-age literature is worthless. However, most coming-of-age lit is worthless, or at least, most of what we have here can be thus described.

Sunday, June 13, 2010


There have been about a hundred (or ten or fifteen, whatever) things I've been meaning to write about, but there's never time, I'm never alone with the computer (even now), etc.

Things include:
emotions (of course)
new staff
old staff whom I love
information from training with Paul
     about drugs
     about disorders
     about relationships
     about working with kids
     about working with coworkers

Also, information I read about meant to write before I even came here:
I'm sure I won't communicate it as well as it was communicated to me, but there's a woman somewhere and I don't remember her name, but she lives in the present, and it makes her free, and she uses it to help make other people free. So much (possibly all) of our stress is caused not by what's actually going on, but by worry. So she says,

make a list of the things that are bothering you.

Read the first item. Ask yourself,
"Is it true?"
"Can I be absolutely certain that it's true?"
"How does believing that this is true make me feel?"

My delivery isn't the best. But the article was rather powerful. I'll see if I can find it, or find what I wrote down.

Tonight, I walked into the swim hole with my cell phone in my pocket, and was in for about ten minutes before I realized what had happened. I have six years of phone numbers on that phone, and three years of pictures and (carefully culled) text messages. And we don't even have any rice! Or at least, I can't find any, so my phone is in a bag of oatmeal and noodles right now. Awesome. I don't have money for a new one, either. I'm pretty upset about this.

Friday, June 11, 2010

Oh dear.

And Robert and Kyle and Stone and I, and Jess and I, have started up our own small workshop groups--poetry and poetry-fiction, respectively. And for both I am so excited, but for the first I also feel so utterly outshone. I wrote tonight for my weekly submission this little thing about, I suppose, love and trust and betrayal. That isn't meant to be pointed at anything, by the way. I was thinking of drowning, that one time, that day in June when I was seventeen.

Learning To Swim

I tell them that there is a secret about water--
that when it's calm, it can be trusted. No secrets.
That when you trust it, it will buoy you up.
I don't tell them about the rage and speed,
about the reckless rush which destroys
without pause or mercy,
without a thought for trust, or lack.
A bad drunk. I don't tell them. I only say,
lean back. Relax.
I won't let you sink.

Stone's is about love and is full of all of these beautiful, somewhat disorienting images and metaphors, and although I think it can still use some work, it leaves you dazzled and disoriented and full of the wonder of the world.

Robert's is wonderfully dark, dank, industrial, comparing the North to the South and industry to nature in fascinating and tangled and disturbing ways.

Kyle's is about shame, I think, in the progression of American patriotism--how far we've come from Western expansion to drinking beer and watching football on Thanksgiving. And I don't even know what to say about his use of language, colloquialisms and stunning imagery. I had utterly forgotten what an amazing writer he is. I knew all three were very, very good. But I had forgotten how quickly I can be floored by Kyle's poetry.

Dear college acquaintances, I know you are kind. I also know you are brilliant. Please be gentle, and if you must eviscerate me, please leave my bowels connected, so that I can stuff them back into place later.

Much love,

Jess sent me a story which was very strange and very interesting, and which I think I could work with. I sent some comments which I hope are helpful. I sent her my 'Leaky Faucet' poem, to which she responded positively and with comments which I haven't tried to use yet, but which I think will be helpful. Working on writing, and reading the writing of my fellow UMW English majors again, feels so good.

Healing, or attempts toward such.

I had a really good talk with Anna tonight, and brief too, now that I come to think of it. I suddenly realized and mentioned to her that I don't trust our Camp Director, who is a friend of mine--don't trust her to respect me, to like me, to trust my judgment; don't trust her judgment and impartiality. I said that this year (which, admittedly, has only lasted two days so far) and last, I don't have the willing and joyful heart that I have always had at Camp before. Last year I attributed that to just having come from R-MA, exhausted and completely worn out. This year I don't have that excuse.

Anna, who is truly an angel and an instrument of God, pointed out to me that sometimes it takes longer than we realize to recover from the kind of situation I was in--the kind where people don't respect or trust one another, the kind where people don't listen to reason or make sense, the kind where people are untrustworthy and unsupportive of one another. I wouldn't have thought of that, or thought it such a big deal, but when she said it I almost fell apart. The feeling of validation was so strong and so needed that I nearly started crying right there in the middle of the dining hall after dinner, in broad daylight.

On the way home Kelly and I listened to Matchbox Twenty, because there are not that many bands which we agree on, and I took up again my unfortunate (but not, I think, unusual) habit of applying song lyrics to my life. I always get annoyed with people when they post song lyrics on their blogs or whatever, but I figure you guys can deal, and skip it if you want. In the words of Rob Thomas,

I've got a disease
deep inside me, makes me
feel uneasy baby.
I can't live without you tell me
what am I supposed to do about it?
Keep your distance from me,
don't pay no attention to me--
I've got a disease. Oh well I think that I'm sick,
but leave me be while my world is coming down on me.
You taste like honey, honey. Tell me, can I be your honey?
Be, be strong. Keep telling myself that it won't take long till
I'm free of my disease.

This disease, of course, is swallowed down and lies dormant sometimes and stirs and wakes and bumps me in the shins at unexpected moments. I'm still running around looking for distractions and, when I let myself, getting confused about what I want and what is okay for me to want, what's honest, what's a bad idea, and so on. Oh my gosh, it is just so much fun.

I really need to cut back on the cold, cutting cynicism. It's such a strong habit in me, and I love sarcasm sometimes, but not when it's so cold and mean. It just makes everything feel so much worse as soon as I type it.

I know this will eventually be okay, and that we'll patch it up or move on to other things, and though I'm not sure how I would ever be able to handle it I hope that someday we can be friends, really friends again, even if we aren't "together." Still, I wonder whether it's even okay for me to think about giving another relationship a chance when not so far underneath the surface I am even now, months later, such a mess, and with no end yet in sight. As I said, I know that there will be an end, but right now I can't see it. Sometimes I think it would be unfair to pursue anything with anyone else when so much of my heart is still gasping for air. And when I say air, I'm pretty sure I mean David.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

More on our origins--

From an article called "Birth And The Origins of Violence:

"...Psychologist Andrew Feldmar encountered four adolescents who were repeatedly attempting suicide at the same time each year. When he had put all the facts together, he learned from their mothers that their suicidal compulsion was occurring each year around the time their mothers had tried to abort them - something the adolescent children had never consciously known. [Bold font mine.]
The same fetal sensitivity shown by these self-destructive youth is put to positive use in programs of prenatal stimulation. In every program which has been empirically tested, the efforts of parents to communicate love and welcome to their babies in the womb has been crowned with success. A prominent benefit has been the creation of strong mutual maternal infant bonding.
Security and peace are the natural products of communication and love."

I wonder how many times my mind can take being blown before I completely flip out.

The harbinger of death

It occurred to me that if the Grim Reaper keeps up to date, he's probably using a weed whacker these days instead of a scythe. Anyway, he would unless he's decided that we're all idiots and he doesn't want to bother with extension cords or gasoline and whatnot.
I guess that's a little morbid--thinking of being cut down at the end of one's life by a weed whacker.

So this one time I went and talked about my problems for free, this morning, and it ended up being largely about David, and the guy commented that, wow, this is still pretty strong. Which seems obvious to me. Not thinking about something isn't the same thing as getting over it. Anyway talking about all this and thinking about how we're going to be seeing a lot of each other for a while, starting Sunday, made me feel a little ill. I mean I'm sure it'll work out somehow, but I doubt it'll be much fun.

So after I got home I was walking around the backyard like the freaking harbinger of death, whacking the crap out of those weeds. Now my hands feel odd.

In addition to all of that.

First, there always seems to be one word or phrase that I completely overuse whenever I write here, especially if I write after midnight. (You know, like I usually do.) Most nights I read back over and obsessively edit out all of the redundancy I am awake enough to catch, but tonight I think I shall refrain. This past time the phrase seems to have been "good times." I don't really want that phrase to be stricken from my vocabulary, but looking back I think I've been becoming far too attached to it. What ever shall I do?

Tonight my mom found a letter in the basement that was written by (I think) my grandfather's wife to my mother. It's postmarked "Salinas Ca, 959 28 / PM / 16 Jan, 1988." I was one and a half. She wrote, "...Do mail that letter you wrote, for we are hungry for all news of Mlle Marie. I still enjoy thinking of her attacking our candy jar in Richm[ond], flapping her wings like a chicken as she approached. Quelle charactere!!"

I guess some things never change. I wish I had gotten to know her. What a treasure.

There's really too much to ever write down, so I'll try going by sections.

Saturday: Rehearsal Dinner.

You know, I'm sure that some interesting stuff happened on Saturday morning, but it's not coming to me right now. Maybe later. But we all (most, anyway) met at the Gardens at 3:45ish for the rehearsal, and then waited until about 4:10 for the groom and groomsmen. That was good times. Then we sat inside in the air conditioning until about 4:25 or 4:30. I guess maybe the people in charge felt like they were talking about something important. Mind you, we only had the space to rehearse until 5 pm. I don't want to talk about it. So we ran slapdash through the ceremony and the processions in about 30 minutes, and skedaddled.

I guess I was low on gas and didn't want to drive to the farm, so I left my car at Sara's and rode with her and Brian. On the way we were serendipitously located at the same spot on the road as a very small turtle who seemed determined to have a brush with death. He was truckin along straight onto Patterson, and luckily we figured out what he was in time to pull over and rescue him. I wanted to take a picture, but we were stopped halfway in the road, so I decided against it. Anyway, he was a good sport about the whole thing.

At the dinner, the lights were lovely. The tent was lovely. This guy Tom was trying to fill the citronella lamps I had cleaned with the oil I brought, and when he opened the bottle it sprayed in his face. Good times. Luckily, he managed to avoid catching himself on fire throughout the rest of the night. And let's cut to the chase here--the cake was delicious. (The food was pretty good too.) As soon as I finished my cake, of course, I changed and jumped in the lake. People seemed to be entertained by this, though more people got in later. A few people sat on the dock and asked me to fan some cooler water up to their feet. I did oblige--the ridiculously warm layer was several feet deep, and not nearly as refreshing. Anyway, the lake was good times. The fireflies were amazing, filling the trees and streaking purposefully through the superaqueous air. I can make up words if I want. One of the fireflies evidently tried to mate with his reflection, and was blinking sadly on the surface of the water as Kelly, Chloe and I swam back toward the dock in the fading twilight. I rescued him. He dried on my hand as I swam, and flew away as I reached the dock.

We cleaned up and left around 11, and when I got home I remembered that I'd been invited to Stone's birthday bonfire, which had begun at 8 pm. I called and found out that the bonfire was still in progress, and headed across town to hang out until about 1:30. It was great to see Stone, with whom I have not spent any time since college, and also Robert and Kyle and Mike. I was hoping that Liz would be there, but she couldn't make it. In any case, Robert and Kyle and Stone and I are hoping to start up a weekly poetry writing thing, similar (I think) to what I had hoped Friday Poems with David would be. The difference here is that I didn't twist anybody's arm, and everyone involved has taken and loved poetry workshop classes. David was, I think, just trying to be nice. : )

Some pictures.

Rehearsal dinner setup:

Citronella lamps, out of which I shined the hell. (Before and after.)

King's (Kings?) Dominion:
Kelly and me, of course. See that awesome purple necklace I'm wearing? My mom made it on Wednesday. It fucking fell off my neck at the rehearsal dinner, probably in the lake. FML. I am a rotten kid.
Bendy pirate won at the arcade, guarding the heinously overpriced The Intimidator collector's cup, with free refills wrist band. In the background, bendy frog won at the arcade, guarding a strikingly similar cup.
Rehearsal dinner:
"Groom's" cake. IT WAS DELICIOUS. I really cannot stress this enough.
So, photography wasn't really my focus on Saturday. It happens. More, possibly, tomorrow.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

What passes for a bachelorette party around here (and I mean that affectionately)

Kings Dominion: thumbs up.

The watery bits of Kings Dominion: double thumbs up.

Being a girl who is pretty much incapable of nail painting, makeup application, and hair styling: thumbs undecided.

Rehearsal dinner is tomorrow! Or rather, tonight. Guess I better finish polishing those lamps. And figure out what I'm doing with my hair. And find my shoes. And find someone who is capable of applying a French manicure. And and and.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

I got a little tired of the green.

I'm not totally happy with this template, but I'm no html wizard and blogger isn't overly friendly in that respect to the likes of me. For one, it's too narrow. It'll still cut the edges off every Penny Arcade and A Softer World comic I post. But the "stretch" version is too wide. And when I say that it's too wide, what I really mean is that it doesn't center my "I love you" seashell picture, and it looks dumb. Also it doesn't come in blue. But then, this one cuts the "u" out of the picture. I'm just going with the lesser of two evils, okay?

It's 3:33. Make a wish! (And if you want help thinking of a wish, then wish for less humidity.)

On being more social.

I gave my phone number to a random guy today. (I mean, not completely random, because he was hitting on me, but random in that I'd never seen him before in my life.) First time ever to give out my number instead of shooting strange men down as gently as possible. I have been telling myself that I should be more open minded for a long time, and also pointing out that no one ever meets new people by refusing to talk to strangers, but my brain still sends up a big, slightly panicky DON'T WANT flag every time anyone I don't know tries to talk to me.  Especially if I get checked out more than one time during said horribly awkward attempt at conversation. So this time I acknowledged the DON'T WANT message and then inwardly heaved a massive sigh and gave this guy my phone number, telling him out loud that I'd be leaving town soon and telling him silently that he better freaking not be a stalker because I really don't feel like changing my phone number. So I guess we'll see how it goes. Probably nowhere good, but at least I tried. I guess.

I mean he isn't even my type. I don't really know what my type is, or if I even actually have one, but if I do I think I can reasonably say that he's not it. For instance, "speaks clearly enough to be consistently understood" would be pretty high up on my list of desirable qualities. I'm just saying.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

It should come with a warning label.

I feel that I should caution everyone against buying a container of Bruster's Chocolate Cake Batter ice cream to take home, because if you do, then you will be sorely tempted to eat it. All the time. I myself am sorely tempted right now. Help.

I am looking forward to leaving home and heading to Camp soon. I think I'm beginning to realize the reason I generally dislike living here despite my love for my family, but I can't quite put it into words. And maybe I'm making it up anyway--just picking up reasons like shoes and trying them on one after another until I find one that fits. But I think the reason is (sort of) that I'm not at ease here. I feel like I'm in limbo, and I can never seem to get anything done, like there's a block in front of my wheels that I just can't push past. I wasn't great at burning through to-do lists when I lived elsewhere, but I had my moments. Here I feel like there's literally nothing getting done. I know that's an exaggeration, but still--why?

To recap, don't buy take-home containers of Bruster's ice cream.


I want a bell anklet, so I can wear it and dance barefoot in the dust under the moon and the swaying trees to drum-heavy Native American music, and twist and spin and stomp my feet. That is all.

Conflicting interests

I just found this on a blog which I adore, but which isn't updated regularly. This is much to my dismay, as I still check it regularly in fits of blind hope and devotion. Anyway, found. Her friend sent it to her, and I send it to you (caps hers, or her friend's, or her friend's friend's):


The conflicts of interest come in here. Obviously there are some present in the above fairy tale, but here are more I mean. 
I miss, on every level, feeling close to another human. 
When I look up at the night sky, I think of that one guy from Arkansas. I think this is because his brother told me that this guy, like me, loves to walk in the dark. I see symbolism in stupid shit. 
Of course, that's not to say that I can see a picture of David or think about him for more than about two seconds without starting to, I don't know, get twisted up.
And of course I have always liked being single, in the shallow ways illustrated in the above fairy tale. No one to have to coordinate with? Answer to? Pick up after? Awesome.  The only thing more I could ask would be that all this freedom would be worth it.

That line was so emo, even I want to throw up a little. And I mean it's not like it's not true, but I've always had a little flair for the dramatic I guess. I get it from my dad. And my mom. And my brother and sister. My bad. And I mean the other truth, the less dramatic and whiny truth, is that I love and I have always loved flirting. So that's an upside to being single, though I haven't really had much of a chance lately. Which is really a shame. 

Tonight we all met at the farm--the close-to-Richmond farm that is, not the paradise-of-my-childhood farm--and set up those lights that we could for the rehearsal dinner this weekend. They looked rather lovely, if I do say so myself. And you'll just have to believe me, because I didn't take any pictures. I mean, I did take pictures, but they were of the lake instead of the tent. And just now, because I love you, friends, I got up to fetch my card reader and show you those lovely lake pictures. Unfortunately, it would seem that the last time I uploaded pictures (you know, those ones from Lafayette that I promised I'd post and then didn't), my brain went on a union break and it took that sweet little pink card reader with it. I'd like to think that my brain is back at the point, but my magic plastic usb wand appears to be still on vacation. I'll try not to begrudge her the time off. 

To make up for this lapse, here are some birthday-Festival International-baby baptism-home-houseguests pictures just for you:
Happy birthday to me (These are in reverse order, by the way. Mostly. Whatever.)

Stilt walkers at the Festival International.
Crawfish boil*, ftw. And lest you think that pile small...
Crawfish, pre-boiling. There were rather a lot.
Martin's house. You're actually seeing almost the whole thing. (It used to be markedly larger, until the city decided that they really needed to have a parking lot right over top of most of the house.)**

The offending pole.

The offended leg. There's still a bit of a bruise and a knot there now, over a month later. I was talking to someone behind me, okay?

In the parking lot of the Children's Museum.

French street signs!

Cajuns don't mess around.

A piece of the biggest Live Oak tree, um, ever.

Awesome fountain at night...

awesome fountain in the daytime.

Okay, so I know I promised pictures from the baptism(s) and houseguest time and stuff, but this is taking forever and I really should do something about my not-sleeping-until-3-a.m. habit. It's not a very good habit. It's 12:34 now and, as some of you may know, time after midnight flies like the Concorde. So. Peace out.

*If you wear contacts and you ever attend such a boil, then please, for the love of God, do yourself a favor and wash your hands thoroughly before removing your contacts. Then do it again, at least five more times. Use dish soap. Use lye soap. Use the most intense soap you can find. 
Or, better yet, wear gloves every time you touch your contacts for the next three days. I'm not kidding.
**I really have no idea why some of the font on here is bigger than the rest of it. I was fixing it, but then I saw that there was more, and I really just don't care that much at the moment. I think you'll be okay though, right?

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Making cds becomes a real pain when Itunes decides that one should not be allowed to rearrange the songs in a playlist.

In other news, here is another blogger you should check out, specifically her post on misogyny in the Catholic church. Please know that I am not anti-Catholic--I just happen not to be blindly pro-Catholic policy.