I'm a Big Old Cry Baby

{taken after watching "Jennifer Hudson: Behind the Music."  I cried from the second it started.}

I've always been a Cry Baby.  I came into this world with colic.  What a frustrating thing for a mother to deal with.  I know this because Cooper came into this world as a Cry Baby.  I doubt it was colic because the colic "medicine" didn't do a damn thing.  Our Ped said, "He's just not ready for this world yet."  Umm, thanks doc, but he's here.  But my crying never stopped.  At family meetings, I was the one that cried.  My parents weren't rude or extremely strict.  I just ended the meetings by crying.  I've never used my crying to manipulate, so I'm assuming that I cried because I wasn't being heard.  I'm sure that's what my adolescence self thought.  As an adult, I realize that's ridiculous.  I'm loud & passionate.  Therefore, I'm always heard.  I just didn't get my way.  Enter crying.

And still as an adult, I'm a crier.  I cry when things are sweet & happy.  Show me a scene that ends with someone finding long lost love, I'm crying.  Show me a scene with a baby running towards its Mama, I'm bawling.  Last night, I cried in the airport 3 times.  Time one, I finished "The Gift of the Ordinary Day"  Her oldest son went to college.  Cried.  Time two, a pilot was talking with his daughter about getting home to see her swim.  Cried.  Time three, I watched families greet incoming families.  Cried.  All but Cry One probably wasn't even noticed.  Cry One had to be noticed, but I don't care.  When I got to the last chapter, I almost decided to read it in a bathroom stall.  But I don't want to read a good book with people pooping.   I'm a cry baby & I embrace it. 

There's no good reason for my crying.  Just about anything will do it.  Pearl Jam's cover of "Last Kiss" got me every time I heard it while in college.  I've learned that there are certain movies I will never be able to watch.  "Saving Private Ryan" opened on a flag waving in the wind.  I started bawling.  Mark had to run out of the theater & steal a toilet paper roll for me.  I almost walked out of that movie.  When I was in my 20's, I tried to watch "E.T." a second time.  With salty tears & too much snot, I begged Mark to turn it off.  He did.  When they flash the baby pictures on "Intervention," I start sobbing.  Those pictures were taken when the parents were full of hope.  They couldn't see the darkness of addiction that would eventually rain down on those babies.  I cry.  I cry for the good & I cry for the bad.

You'd think after 30 some years of crying, I'd get good at it.  I know the emotion is coming, so I should be able to wrap it a pretty package of pity.  Nope.  I look so bad when I'm crying.  The emotion bubbles up & contorts my face into an emotional ball of grossness.  Years ago, I watched the  Britney Spears comeback interview.  She was asked some question & I saw it.  I saw her emotion creep up from her hands & then it made her beautiful face crack.  She's an ugly crier too.  Poor thing.  I guess if you could make it pretty, it wouldn't be true emotion.  But man I wish I could.  It might help ease the pain of crying in public.  It isn't a common thing & you'd think your body would take pity on you.  Nope.  I'm an ugly crier.  It's obvious.  It's almost like a vacuum is sucking up all the emotion in the room with a deafening sound.  Something happens on TV & Mark "hears".  He'll look over & say, "Oh shit."  I usually respond with a laugh & then more ugly crying.  I can't help it. 

You name something & I'll cry from it.  Go on.  Try.  Oscar acceptance speeches?  Cry.  Olympic gold medal ceremonies?  Cry.  "American Idol" montages?  Cry.  "Three Little Birds" song.  Cry.  The birth of my sons? 

Here's a strange one...  Not a tear.  Not one single tear.  See?  Deep down I'm a cold-hearted bitch.

Erika.

"It's Friday & I'm in Love" Comfest Time!

{I still have a token from last year.  I'm hoping they don't change colors}

From the time I moved to Columbus, I had weekend plans.  I'm not the In-Girl.  I don't know a ton of people, but I had good friends in a band.  Weekends were for watching them play.  I've been to more shows than I can remember.  I've felt the bass slap against my chest & it hurt.  I've left more bars with ringing ears than one girl should.  Yes, the music was good.  You talked up until the boys took the stage & then you swayed to the song.  Who was that one about?  What memory was that one written for?  OMG I can't believe she showed up?!  Those are a sampling of questions that ran through your mind.  No use asking your friends because they couldn't hear you.  The band stopped playing & you went back to your friends.    Every now & then a famous band was in the bar.  I'm pretty sure I was a saucy to this band & this singer.  I'm not name dropping because of a number of reasons.  One, my memory might be fuzzy.  Two, not everyone is as smitten/familiar with those names.  Three, my memory might be fuzzy.  But I'm 100% certain with one name.  And I'd have to text confirmation for the other.  Right or wrong, that's pretty much how I spent my weekends.

I kept going to shows when I was pregnant.  My friends' band wasn't heavy metal.  Indie rock is tolerable for Mama & the Unborn Child.  I always figured it was much louder inside than out & our OB agreed.  And by that time, it wasn't an every weekend event.  But it was a different Band-Watching experience.  I didn't mind the drunk strangers touching my belly.  I used my belly to navigate a crowd & to jump to the head of the line for the bathroom.  I loved how new mothers would find me & tell me this was their first night out after having their baby.  They'd tell me how much they loved that bundle of joy & motherhood.  Watching a band must erase all the nastiest of newborns.  Because I never heard the truth.  None of those women ever said: I'm exhausted.  I don't know what to do when she cries all night.  I miss this.  Once I took a break from watching, I went to a chicken place for a late night snack.  I've always found that if you're pregnant people want to talk to you.  Two men explained the difference between terrorists & freedom fighters (I'm pretty sure from their explanation that our soldiers weren't considered Freedom Fighters).  They hoped that my baby never had to make that distinction.  That was a weird "blessing," but you only get those when you're pregnant in a college-area bar.  And one night after some genetic testing, a friend came over to tell me, "No matter the outcome, we'll be there to help."  I was confused by this offer because we hadn't told anyone.  Band-watching makes you spill & that's what Mark had done.  I was extremely grateful for his offer & wondered why we had kept the secret in the beginning.  I kept going to shows because I knew these nights were ending.  So I was safe & smart about it.  I continued to watch the Band.

{These never leave the bath tub.  The boys turn them into guns, dunk tanks, coffee cups, etc.}

One morning in April, I pushed out a baby.  When they cleaned off his after-birth, they washed away my Band-Watching abilities too.  It's ok.  By the time, Cooper showed up my band-watching days had drastically dwindled.  Crowds, loud music, cover charges, finding parking, & the sameness was getting old.  But I missed that connection.  I missed knowing what my friends were doing.  I missed knowing a little of the city's gossip.  I missed my friends' new memories written with melodies.  I missed reading drunken scrawl on the bathroom stall.  I missed going out.  I would never say, "I was so happy being a Mom that I didn't miss the nightlife."  That's a lie.  I didn't cry about it, but every once in a while it'd be nice to have that kind of weekend back.  In the past 5 years, we've seen our friends play about 4 times.  The band has long gone separate ways and new ones have formed.  We find a baby-sitter when they reunite and I'm happy with this schedule.  But I'm happy with it because I know Comfest is coming.

{The mugs are well worth the investment}

Once a year, our city puts on Comfest.  An entire weekend devoted to community & arts.  This has always been the one weekend to look forward to all summer.  Even more so when you have kids.  It's outdoors.  There's a ton of food.  There's art & awareness.  There's band after band playing.  There's a park.  And there's beer tents.  Beer tents with huge mugs of beer.  And our friends.  Friends you saw last weekend & the friends you haven't seen since the last Comfest.  It's always a busy place, but for the past couple years we've been meeting at the same place.  I don't think it's ever planned, we just go towards the stage at the end of the food line.  We spot one friend & then hear another is coming.  There's shade & enough adults to keep an eye on the kids.  Strangers are happy (Mark did break up a fight between two women last year.  It was at the end of the night though & nowhere near our spot).  Dogs are everywhere so the kids are happy.  Women walk around with their breasts painted, so the adults are happy.  It's a long period of time where you can just hang out again.  Our kids' regular bedtimes are ignored because you can always catch up on Sunday.  There are lightning bugs to catch.  One night won't kill 'em.  Sunblock is slathered & then bug repellent is sprayed.  Last year, we were shocked by how many of us now have kids.  There was a stroller traffic jam at one point.  It's nice to remember the days that have always been fuzzy.  We were young & couldn't see the future.  Now we all share the same crystal ball.  We talk about how our kids are not allowed to go to Comfest until they're 18 & don't live at home.  Comfest is a favorite thing this Friday because it's a natural fit.  It makes sense.  Just like the hours we'll spend talking about nothing & drinking from a big plastic mug.

Cheers Comfest.

Day Late, Dollar Short . . . Technically Two

So Erika's birthday was on Tuesday. You can motor over to her Flickr page to see how she celebrated (I'll wait . . . queue the Jeopardy music). There's not a lot about my sister that I could "reveal," considering I've said it all before, but here goes.

 

This is still my favorite photo of Erika (plus I loved that chair behind her)

• I didn't really like having siblings growing up. When you are  7, 8, and 12 years older than your younger sisters and brother, you get used to doing things your own way . . . and Erika was the first to upset that happy balance. 
• She was a willing participant in most of my schemes, including but not limited to: dressing up and posing for pictures, stupid games that put her safety in peril, stupid games that involved her being quiet, getting things for my lazy ass, eating food that clearly never should have been made. 
• She has a way of bringing out the best in people and encouraging them to try new things. Dave will often wonder what new item I will bring home or give up from my annual summer trip to Ohio. So far, we're at a teapot, no more diet soda (which ironically I gave up before her . . . go figure), no more artificial sweetener, no more French fries (that didn't last longer than three days). 
• Erika has a bizarre amount of phobias and dislikes: gum and gum wrappers, toothpaste, vanilla, hair clumps, other people's hair. 
• But she has an equal number of likes and loves: the song "Fancy," Brittney Spears, Cops, SVU, Brangalina, Toni Braxton (I honestly don't get this one).
• She's one of the best "boy" moms I know and one helluva mentor/aunt for the girls. I know Jordan is talking to her on the phone when I hear her laugh and then nothing for a minute or so because she's lost her breath from laughing. 
• She's my sister . . . that pretty much sums it up. 

Happy birthday (two days late)! You are officially out of Target's demographic range, unless they realize that they are missing out on your opinions.

Jill

When Compassionate Kids Make Life Harder (But Are Right)

I meant to put up a post on Father's Day extolling the virtues of our dad and our husbands and fathers-in-law and brothers-in-law, but Life kind of had other plans, courtesy of Jordan and Shelby.  And sorry in advance for the crappy photos . . . I haven't had the time to even play with a photo editing program (read on).

Jordan and Shelby, or the Girls as they've been collectively called since they were born, are home from Temple this summer. A friend of ours asked if they could house sit and watch their dog, Ranger. The house also comes with a hot tub, so it was a pretty quick "Yes" on their part followed by a, "For god's sake, no parties," on our part. So, Saturday night, they left to check on Ranger. We get a phone call about ten minutes later. "We almost hit an animal on Glenbrook but we stopped to check and it was a kitten and now there are four kittens and you need to come quick and help us catch them because they are going to get hit so bring a box and some gloves because they are not in a good mood." So much for a calm night in with Dave.

Not being in a good mood was an understatement. The kittens were frightened and vocal, but after about 30 minutes, the Girls caught them all, separating them into three boxes and a reusable shopping bags (which will no longer be reusable). Dave and I went to Target, bought two larger boxes and some tape, poked holes in the boxes, and somehow managed to get them all into the new "homes" for the evening.

The Girls brought them over to our house the next morning while we tried to find a shelter for them because they were not staying with us any longer than was necessary. We called seven shelters but got the same response from each: sorry, we aren't taking kittens . . . we're full. The Pike County Humane Society said that they would accept them for a $25 fee (it's a bargain and if you can click on over there, they accept PayPal donations). Jordan and I took three of them the Humane Society but kept one little calico for the Girls and their apartment in Philadelphia. So, Olive Murray is resting comfortably upstairs. She's had a very long flea bath, lots of food, a trip to the vet, and much loving from the Girls, me, Dave, and the dog. Our cat? Hates her with a passion . . . which is why Olive will be leaving for Lancaster tomorrow to spend the summer with one of the Girls roommates.

Two things really pissed me off about this whole situation. The first one is obvious: if you are going to have a pet, do the right thing and get them spayed or neutered. The probability of your pet getting knocked up if you don't? Somewhere around 90%. Dumping the litter of kittens or puppies or whatever the hell you have on the side of the road in a semi-populated area doesn't solve the problem; it just makes you a douche. The second thing that really pissed me off was that no one stopped to see if the Girls needed help. Granted, the road we were on was twisty and it was dark, but if you see a car with its hazards on, at least stop and ask if everything is alright. 

The Girls returned to their house sitting duties on Sunday evening - this time with explicit instructions to leave any and all animals they find wandering around in the woods . . . no matter how cute they are.

- Jill

PS - This really should have been a birthday post for Erika since today is "that day" but again, Life got in the way. So that post will have to wait until later this week . . . but Happy Birthday, Erika! You've definitely made my life more interesting (and better times a bajillion)!

It's time for me to admit I was wrong.

I was a horrible Boot Camper.  I was like the kid in the back of class.  My head was down & I was doodling.  I was listening to every single word Maegan was preaching, but I wasn't raising my hand very often.  I did stand up on Day 2 & now I should raise my hand again.  Here's my "Thank You" & "Apology" all in one.

I put this post up early in the morning.  And by the time I was doing dinner's dishes, I knew I was wrong.  I had read & absorbed the comments which forced me to rethink my words.  I'm not sure why I was so reluctant to add those titles.  Because honestly at least one of those titles was used a lot when I was younger.  Why was age making me skittish about accepting it once again?  Let me break it down.


"I like to take pictures"  that's not true.  I know people that like to take pictures.  They seem to always get group shots.  Their big events are masterfully captured by pictures.  They take a lot, print a lot, & post a lot on sites.  Some are blurry.  Some aren't rotated.  But the photos are up & out into the world.  I'm envious of these people because they get those group shots.  People say cheese.  Birthdays are remembered & everyone there is photographed.  I'm bad at taking pictures at events & actually capturing a variety of people.  I don't like to take pictures.  I love to take pictures.  I can take 10 photos of an object/person at one angle.  And then reposition to take another 10.  One might be blurring & one might be perfect.  I whittle down a pile of 80 photographs to 10.  I see things through my viewfinder when my camera is in the other room.  I want to take a photo that makes your heart ache.  I want to remember the first time my kid pops a pea.  I want those moments that are easily forgotten to be frozen.    And I want my camera to capture it.  Photographers do that.

My paternal Grandmother (Chocolate Milk Grandma-cause she gave us chocolate milk-duh) was an artist.  I'm assuming that when she had leftover money, it was spent on art supplies.  I wasn't told this, but she always had lots of art books & supplies.  And I know that money was always tight. Her medium was oil paints & she used a variety of items as her canvas.  Saw-blades, logs, & backs of cereal boxes were what I remembered.  Out of her 4 grandchildren, I was the only one that inherited her talent.  And my parents spent years cultivating that talent.  I was in art classes with peers.  When they felt that didn't challenge me, they asked the art museum to let me take classes with the adults.  High school was for preparing me to enter art in college.  By the time college rolled around, I was done.  I wasn't pushed into art.  It's what I did, but I couldn't see myself making art for a living.  I didn't have a passion for it.  I was good at it, but there was no passion.  I didn't feel bad entering college as a computer science major (dropped that too).  And that was it.  My days as an artist were done.  No regrets.

{SOOC not the best photo}

 {"I thought they just came out of your camera like that" -Bridget said while I quickly edited this photo}

It was easy back then to believe I was an artist.  I was given a blank canvas & my hands created something that few could.  I held the charcoal.  I sketched.  Me.  I struggle saying that my photographs are art.  Disclaimer: I do not believe that anyone with a "good" camera can take a good picture.  I don't believe that it's the camera.  I know that it's the taker.  I felt for a long time that Photoshop made my pictures better.  I can't deny this.  Jay & Silent Bob might say I'm a tracer.  I use other people's products (Actions & Presets) & apply them to my photos.  Anyone can do that, right?  Tracers aren't artist.

On Day 2 of CBC, I sat with those comments.  And realized that I was insulting to myself.  Like many of my inspiring friends on Flickr, I take one photo & crop it to show off the emotion.  I use an action or preset to convert that picture into two totally different photos.  I'll tweak the Contrast, Saturation, Curves, add Textures, etc.  Even though, I know that picture A is the winner.  I will toggle back & forth.  Picture A.  Picture B.  Repeat 20 times.  Until one picture speaks.  One of those pictures tugs at my heart.  One that was changed by my finger is the winner.  One of those pictures was edited to match my emotions I felt when I hit the shutter.  I decided when to take it.  I decided what to keep & what to enhance.  Me.

Even though Grandma used a different medium, she gave me that Eye.  And I owe it to her to call myself an artist & a photographer.  If I want to cultivate my own children's talents, I have to accept my own.

I am an artist & I am a photographer.

There.  I said it.  By saying it, does mean I'm bragging.  It doesn't mean I'm the best.  It just means I accept it.  We all have our own talents & we shouldn't be afraid of saying we've got them. 

I'll get off my soapbox now & go back to my dishes.  They're piled up again.

-Erika

It's Friday Afternoon & I'm Behind the Times . . . an Afterschool Special

Huh . . . I thought I had the latest edition of Photoshop Elements. But I guess there were six numbers that came in between the edition that I have and the edition that I will have in about an hour. What the hell.

Jill

"It's Friday & I'm in Love" Lush

"Official" transcript of conversation with Erika on Wednesday evening:

Erika: So, you're home now. You get to do the Friday, I'm in Love post.

Me: What the hell?

E: Think of something you're in love with.

M: How about milk? I love milk. (quietly puts the cap on the milk jug and puts it back in the fridge)

E: Umm, no . . . not milk.

M: What about Ezekiel Bread . . . I really like that now.

E: Not "really like" . . . LOVE.

M: You sure you want me to do this?

E: I'm going to bed.

For two days I pondered this question . . . and came up with nothing. Sure I love: my kids, my husband, my family, my job, sitting on my fat ass doing whatever I want until August 31, drinking coffee every morning, milk (can't do milk, can't do milk). So here goes. 

Lush. Lush. Lush. I'm not admitting to a drinking problem, but if I have to be in love with anything, it has to be Lush and their smelly goodness. I think my first Lush store was in England when Bridget and Shannon lived there, but I don't really remember. Dave knew from that trip on that we would be bringing back approximately one metric ton of Lush products every time we went. The beauty of Lush is that even if you aren't looking for it, you can find it simply by following your nose. The smell is unmistakable, pungent even. On a trip to New Orleans, I once smelled the shop from about three blocks away. The Girls thought I was nuts (probably still do) until they picked up the scent, too. 

A small, small portion of the Lush stash . . . minuscule if you ask me. 

 

So what's so good about this smelly little mess that is Lush? Just about everything. They made "all natural" and "handmade" cool well before the push made it to the mass retailers. Products look more like food, which is always a plus for me. There are huge chunks of ingredients in their soaps with magical properties. Funny names like 17 Cherry Tree Lane and Goth Juice and Sonic Death Monkey either evoke childhood memories or grown-up belly laughs. Either way, you put the soap in your little wicker basket and head to the register like a modern day Dorothy clicking her heals chanting, "There's no place like Lush, there's no place like Lush."

My favorite, can't live without it product is Ultrabland, an extremely hardworking but gentle makeup remover. Smear it on (about a fingertip's worth), wipe it off in the shower with a hot washcloth, you're good for the day. It's pricey (maybe $15 for a small container) but that small container will last half a year at least and for the most part, it leaves your skin so silky smooth that you don't even need any moisturizer. I haven't met a mascara that can stand up to Ultrabland. If I know that I'm visiting some place with a Lush, I'll check my stock of Ultrabland and grab a new pot. Otherwise, I'll invent a trip to New York City to buy some.

 Attempting to distract you with your pretty hydrangeas - for which I do nothing

If you've never tried Lush, give it a go. You might not have a store near you, but chances are, you have do. About six years ago, they started to crop up in Macy's and in larger cities. I used to come home from England with duffels loaded of the potent soaps and lotions. Now, I buy what I need when I visit Erika in Columbus . . . unless it's Christmas time. Then I stock up on Snowcake, the once-a-season soap that makes you want to lick yourself all-over . . . but that might be a post for "It's Saturday & I Have a Problem."

Jill

PS - I don't love the asshole beeping his horn at me this morning when I backed out of the driveway to let my husband out; so sorry I took up 10.7 seconds of your very precious morning . . . and that I flipped you off.