One Wedding and One Funeral

A few weekends ago I had the unique opportunity to attend a funeral on Saturday and a wedding on Sunday. The whole weekend felt very "circle of life"-esque. If only a baby had been born on Friday it would have been like the Reader's Digest condensed version of life events.

I don't attend many weddings or funerals, so to have both events in one weekend was definitely a first for me. The wedding/funeral weekend was by far the most action packed/interesting two consecutive days I've experienced in a very long time.

THE FUNERAL

On Saturday morning I traveled with my dad and his girlfriend to Glen Eden Funeral Home for "Larry's funeral-a-palooza 2K9". Larry died way back in June, and after three months of "Larry On Ice", my family was finally ready to put him to rest.

I have only been to a few funerals in my life. It's not that I have especially resilient friends and family, nor I'm emotionally unscathed when people kick the bucket. However, I'm a rather dramatic funeral attendee and I inadvertently tend to make a scene during funeral services. Once I get started it's nearly impossible for me to stop. I'm seriously considering "sobbing mourner" as a career option. Whether the funeral is for a crusty old geezer or an aborted fetus, I turn into a blubbering idiot.

It doesn't matter if I actually knew the person when they were alive. In fact, sometimes I'm actually more sad if I didn't know the person. People rarely say anything negative about the dead (at funerals at least), so when I sit in those uncomfortable pews listening to all the good things dead Mr.So-and-So did in his life I start to feel cheated out of a relationship with Mr. So-and-So, and the waterworks begin.

"He liked lawn bowling? That's my second favorite kind of bowling. I bet we could have been friends!" (cue tears)

"She was born in Ontario? That's just one province over! Why did our paths never cross?" (more tears)

"He was 96? I'm 26!" (tears)

When I was in high school my sister's boyfriend's mom passed away. I never met the lady and really knew nothing about her except she was responsible for spawning the gangly man-child my sister was so enamored with. My sister's boyfriend's sister (otherwise known as my sister's boyfriend's deceased mother's alive daughter) was in my grade. In all the years I had been in classes with her, I think we might have spoken twice, (and both interactions were monosyllabic). The moment I found out her mom was dead I tried to increase the significance of our relationship to the rest of the school population. I wanted in on the funeral. I now understand that pretending to be a person's friend just to have access to their mother's funeral is a little...insensitive. In my defence, it seemed like a good idea at the time. And, my efforts were successful, because I was invited to go to the funeral with a group of the poor girl's actual friends (and as an added bonus, the funeral took place on a Wednesday afternoon, so I was given an excused absence from my classes to attend. I was ecstatic! I wanted random schoolmate's mothers to die all the time!).

I blame my cut-throat funeral-quest on my parents, who, in their overprotective ways, refused to let me or my sister attend any funerals in our childhoods. Sure, we knew people died, and vaguely understood the concept of death, but funerals were totally foreign to us. I suppose my parents wanted to shelter us from the harsh reality of death. Instead they ended up creating a monster of curiosity, hellbent on funeral attendance.

I showed up to school on that fateful Wednesday dressed in a conservative black pant suit I had purchased for the occasion from a clothing store I was far too young to shop in. I accessorized the outfit with a solemn look in preparation for the afternoon's event. I had seen several soap opera funerals, so I had an idea about appropriate attire and behavior (I knew there would be tears, drama, and some one's evil twin would likely make a surprise appearance). Just like the people on the soaps, I was doing my best to act sad. I cringe to admit it now, but I was actually as excited as if it were Christmas. I was going to see a real, live, dead body. When I arrived at the church where the funeral was to be held I started to feel a bit nervous. It's one thing to scheme to attend a funeral. It's another thing to actually attend that funeral. As I entered the church I was surprised to see Mrs. Sister's-Boyfriend's-Sister's-Mom lying in a casket right by the door.

I stepped up to the casket. Mrs. S-B-S-M looked surprisingly normal considering the circumstance. She looked like she was having a nap.

"That's it?" I thought.

The bodies I had seen in the movies (mostly horror movies) were always so much more dramatic: bloody, disfigured, gory, decaying. This body looked as if it would sit up at any moment, yawn and stretch, and walk over to the food table to have a sandwich. This body didn't look dead. Dead looked like road kill, or zombies, or a foggy eyed fish floating at the top of my aquarium. Dead shouldn't look so...alive. I began to feel very uneasy.

The group of girls I arrived with paid their respects to the family. I stood back and watched. I figured I wasn't being rude, since the family didn't know me anyway. I noticed the men in dark suits and shiny dress shoes standing in a semi-circle making polite conversation. I saw the women in black dresses giving each other comforting hugs. I saw my sister's boyfriend standing with his sister. They looked so much like their mom. Even their expressions matched hers almost identically, and it occurred to me then that they looked more dead than she did.

A wave of guilt washed over me. I hadn't expected to feel so sad for a stranger. I had signed up for a no-strings-attached funeral experience. Instead I was getting the deluxe feel-really-bad funeral package with an absolutely free you're-a-bad-person-for funeral-crashing bonus. By the time the funeral service actually began, I was a wreck. I literally sobbed through the whole thing. I don't even remember specifics about the service. All I know is I was crying uncontrollably. I was crying like my whole family was in that casket with Mrs. S-B-S-M. I was crying for everything and everyone I had ever known who had passed away. I was crying for people who were not dead yet, but might die in the near future.

"Granny is in her 60's...she might only have 40 good years left!"

"My friend's dog just turned 10. That's 70 in dog years! Any doggy-breath could be his last!"

"My Dad! My Mom! My sister! They could go at any minute!"

I was crying as if I actually knew the person who had died, while my sister's boyfriend and his sister sat seemingly emotionless during the service. I had no idea how they could be so strong.

Since then, I've done everything in my power to avoid funerals. I made an appearance at my grandpa's funeral and at a friend's funeral, but other than that I kept myself and my tears a safe distance away from any area that might induce uncontrollable mourning. I told myself I wouldn't make a total ass of myself at poor Larry's funeral. I hardly knew Larry. He was my step-grandpa's brother. Larry and I were like ships in the night, passing each other at a distance. I knew he existed, I'm sure he knew I existed. I think we sat next to each other at Easter brunch once about four years ago, but that was the extent of our relationship.

I knew I had to attend Larry's funeral out of respect for my step-grandpa, and there was no getting out of it. I also knew I needed a game plan if I was going to avoid having a nuclear meltdown at the service. In preparation for the big day I mentally rehearsed several scenarios to occupy my thoughts during the service. While my body was required to attend, my mind could be off somewhere else. And if my mind was somewhere else, I had a good chance of not sliding down that slippery slope of tear-shed.

I could picture myself sunbathing on a (nearly) deserted island while Tegan and Sara fanned me with giant leaves and fed me grapes. Or maybe I could be in an Olympic sized swimming pool full delicious chocolate pudding with every contestant from every season of America's Next Top Model. Maybe I'd be doing body shots off of the Deschanel sisters while playing strip poker with Katherine McPhee. Or I could be in a candle lit Gothic library for a meeting of the "Hot Chicks with Nerdy Glasses Club" with Tina Fey, Lisa Loeb, Stephanie March and Jo "Supernanny" Frost.

With all those incredibly distracting fantasies to choose from, one would think it would be easy to block out the mourning of Larry. And, for a while it was. I could ignore the picture of Larry next to his ashes. I could avoid hearing the soft crying of people who knew Larry better than I did. I could block out the eulogy from Larry's best friend. But there is one thing that gets me choked up every time: a slide show of people looking happy in photographs set to low tempo music. As soon as the lights were dimmed, Dolly Parton sang the first few bars of "Coat of Many Colors", and a sequence of photos of Larry as a small child appeared on the wall: (Larry riding a bike with a banana seat! Larry wearing a paper hat! Larry and his brother standing in front of their childhood home!), no amount of Tropical Island Tegan and Sara fantasy could contain my emotions.

Funerals are awkward events. My Dad claims that when he dies, he doesn't want a funeral.

"Cremate me and flush my ashes down the toilet!" he always says, "Don't waste your money on someone who's dead!"

While I agree that would be a hilarious send off, I can't imagine ever flushing my poor dead dad (and if I did, I can't imagine ever being able to use that toilet again). He's getting a funeral whether he likes it or not, damn it! It makes me uncomfortable to think about my own mortality, so generally I avoid death thoughts at all cost. I don't, however, avoid thinking about my funeral. I want a big, elaborate send off. I told one of my friends that fireworks would be appropriate. I'm amending that to include only fireworks purchased from the dude who sells pyrotechnics out of a school bus near Bird's Hill Park (because it seems cooler, somehow). Also perhaps an 80's themed dance party would help everyone to better cope with the tragic loss. I want all my friends and family wearing blazers with shoulder pads, blue eye shadow and hair teased to the heavens in my honor. There's nothing like a little "Safety Dance" and "I Think We're Alone Now" to make you reflect on the memory of dearly departed AO.

That's not to say I want my funeral to be a happy event; a "celebration of my life" so to speak. Oh no, I want my funeral to be ridiculously sad. You all would be so bummed if I was no longer around! Maybe my funeral should just be a series of low-tempo-music/happy-me-photo slide shows. Nearly any low tempo song would be a fine tribute to me, however I do request you don't play the Sarah McLaughlin song "Angel", unless you're doing it with irony. That song is overplayed in general, but especially at funerals. On second thought, play it, but preface it by telling everyone how much I hate the song, then show a slide show of photos of me looking angry. That's the way I want to be remembered.

Finally, if at my funeral, you happen to see a strange girl you've never met before, crying uncontrollably, take comfort in the thought that I've likely been instantaneously reincarnated, and I'm continuing to make an ass of myself by being overly emotional at my own funeral.


THE WEDDING

Oh weddings. I've never been very excited about the whole marriage thing. I used to think it was because I hated weddings, but I realize now that I actually quite enjoy the party-hardy atmosphere only a love-union can provide.As a child, I never fantasized about my wedding like other little girls did about their future weddings. My sister would play dress-up in a child-sized wedding dress my parents bought her for Christmas one year. She would walk rhythmically down our hallway holding plastic flowers while rows of our stuffed animals looked on and I hummed the "Here Comes The Bride" song . I was always the hummer, never the bride, and I was perfectly content with that scenario. I had no urge to play bride as a child. While my parents told me that I would grow up and eventually find a man I would want to marry, for some reason I could never actually picture myself walking down the isle.Although I never had a wedding fantasy as a kid, I did have a sort of marriage fantasy. It had very little to do with the actual wedding and marriage, and more to do with an elaborate plan to live with my best friend for the rest of my life.I didn't actually have a best friend at the time, so in my fantasy my best friend could be whomever I wanted. Sometimes it was the Little Mermaid. Sometimes it was that cute older girl from next door who smiled at me once when I was drawing with chalk on the sidewalk in front of her house. Other times it was no one in particular, just an imaginary girl who was the most beautiful, kind, lovely best friend in all the world. My virtual best friend and I would do everything together. We would go to the mall, we would drive places, we would stay out late (three activities that I assumed were the cornerstone of friendship in the adult world). One day we would be at the mall and we would meet two brothers who would ask us to marry them, and we would. I never pictured what these brothers would look like, nor did I dwell on the whole wedding scenario for very long, other than my best friend would absolutely have to be my maid of honor, and I, of course, would be hers. After the imaginary weddings, my best friend and I would move into a duplex so that we could see each other often, (and by often I mean all day everyday). Our husbands would have jobs that would take them far away from us. I imagined our husbands would be soldiers and they would be called off to a future war in a far away land. While they were gone my best friend and I would spend every moment together doing all sort of fun things.For some reason I always pictured my best friend and I making a lot of potato salad together. That isn't a euphemism for something else, I literally imagined my adult self making delicious potato salad. I don't know why, or what Freudian significance it has, other than I really enjoyed potato salad and I assumed anyone who was a friend of mine would love potato salad too.

On days when I was feeling particularly morbid, I would imagine that both of our husband were tragically gunned down in the war. My best friend and I would vow to stay together throughout our widowhood declaring each other "the only family we have left". Naturally, after losing the "love" of our lives we would never consider getting remarried. Instead, we would spend the rest of our lives together, making potato salad, driving to the mall, and staying up very, very late. As an adult I can look back on that fantasy and see that I was really quite a gay child, and thus marriage to a man had as little appeal to me then as it does now. As a photographer one of my biggest challenges was learning to accept and embrace a wedding culture I knew I would never really understand. Even in my adult years I found it difficult to imagine any woman wanting to marry and actually live with a man (opposed to marry a man who would die in a war so that you could live forever with your best friend...or better yet, skip marrying the man altogether and just hook up with your friend). Early in my photog-existence I had no interest in shooting weddings. However, after attending several weddings I eventually warmed up to the idea (and learned to stop mentally killing off the groom and pairing the bride with her maid of honor). I have recently learned that weddings can be a lot of fun. People at weddings are generally in a good mood. They are dressed nice and they actually want to be photographed. I have been fortunate that all the weddings I have shot have been for very hospitable couples. The wedding I photographed on the Sunday following the funeral was lovely. The bride and the groom were nice people, their friends and family were eager to be photographed and the day was trouble-free. The wedding spanned five locations, three hundred guests and fourteen glorious hours. The more weddings I shoot, the more I realize that the photography part of the wedding is not the hard part. After all, the bride and groom can't move too fast in elaborate formal wear, so there is usually enough time to set up a decent shot. The most difficult part of photographing a wedding is being energetic, polite and intelligent for ten to sixteen hours at a time. On my good days I only have about four hours of energy, one hour of polite and two to three hours of intelligence on reserve. A fourteen hour day definitely tests my limits, however I have found that energy bars and adrenaline can stretch those limits by a few hours. My favorite part of shooting weddings is the chance to see what it would be like to belong to a someone else's family. It amazes me how much you can bond with a group after spending only a few hours with them. Usually by the time the speeches roll around I'm laughing with the rest of the crowd, as if I actually remember the time the groom and Uncle Steve went fly fishing, or the time when the bride and her maid of honor backpacked through Europe.

The wedding/funeral weekend made me realize that funerals and weddings aren't all that different: family and friends get together dressed in uncomfortable clothing, they share fond memories and tears, there's usually food and religion, and by the end of the day every one is exhausted.

AO!

The Scotiabank Incident

I laid down the law today at the bank.

Most of my banking needs are dealt with via ATM machine, however certain occasions call for human interaction. Yes, there are certain things even a flashing, humming, gyrating, money-giving machine can't do. Today was one of those days I needed good old fashion analog assistance. I entered the bank and saw that while all the tellers were busy, there were no other people waiting in line. I claimed my "first in line" spot on the grey patch of carpet where people who are waiting in line should stand, and proceeded to attempt to determine which teller would be finished with their interaction first.

An elderly man with a handful of haphazardly piled utility bills stood at the first teller. Common sense told me that transaction would take awhile. A mother with a little boy in a stroller and a little girl on her hip who looked like she hadn`t slept since the birth of her son, mumbled the word, "mortgage" at the second teller and I knew she wasn't going to be finished any sooner. But the middle aged woman who was dressed in business casual attire and who glanced at her watch before handing the teller her debit card, looked like she had potential to leave the bank in the near future. I shifted slightly, predicting her line would be freed up the fastest.

After a few minutes of standing alone, a little old lady entered the bank and joined me on the line of grey carpet. Moments later a tall man who looked as if he had just rolled around in a mud puddle approached the grey carpet and stood in line behind her. The three of us enjoyed a peaceful waiting-in-line-existence for several moments, until I saw Little Old Lady (from here on referred to as LOL) eyeing me up. I thought it was odd that I would be "checked out" by someone who surpassed the coveted "cougar" label by several decades, but I was flattered and pretended not to notice (after all, I am SO out of her league).

To my surprise LOL tapped me on the shoulder and said in a voice that could be described as excessively unfriendly (with a dash of confrontational), "Can you move up?" and gestured to the foot or so of grey carpet in front of me.

I looked at LOL (slightly disappointed when I realized she wasn't checking me out after all), then looked back at the foot of grey carpet in front of me. Then I looked around to see if some flash mob had congregated in line that would warrant me moving up the extra foot to make room for them. What I saw instead was just one person in line behind LOL. All of us were comfortably on the grey carpet as per "waiting in line at the bank" policy. I looked back at LOL.

The harshness of the woman`s request and the unnecessarily rude tone of her voice sent a bolt of anger through me. I'm sick of people pulling shit like that. When I worked as a cashier people would do little petty things like that all the time to other customers, but most of all to the staff.

"Don't squish my bread!"

"Double bag that!"

"Careful with my tomatoes!"

"Don't put my meat with that other meat! There could be cross contamination of raw meats!"

"My kid threw up, can you clean up the mess he left down the isle?"

"Smiles are free, you know!"

Whenever people said such things to me at my cash register I had the overwhelming urge to go all "Karate Kid" on their ass. However, while at work, truly expressing one's feelings towards Joe Public (and/or judo chopping Joe Public) was frowned upon. Thus I was forced to comply with the wishes of miserable strangers. I always vowed that if I was ever free of the ball and chain that is retail work, I would not put up with unnecessary dominating behavior from strangers.
The proverbial "glove slap" from LOL was my chance to make good on my vows.

Several scenarios played out in my head as LOL continued to give me the grandmother's version of the "death stare".

In the first scenario, I moved up to the end of the grey carpet without incident. I assumed complying with the wishes of the LOL would create the least amount of drama. However, I am sick of being a doormat and I wanted to keep my promise to my helpless-cashier-self-from-the-past, so I quickly dismissed that option. Also, my life has become dreadfully mundane lately and I needed to kick things up a notch.

A second scenario played out in my head in which all the bank was a stage and I became a modern day version of Hamlet. The bank lights would dim and I would deliver my heartfelt soliloquy:

"To move up, or not to move up--that is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler to oblige the LOL

Or to remain on one's chosen space of grey carpet.

To stand in line, to wait--

To wait so long you fall asleep--and perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,

For if I fell asleep LOL would likely cut in front of me in line."

Unfortunately, I knew a good old fashioned soliloquy wouldn't be the best option in the situation, (Shakespeare's Hamlet is best left unparodied, especially in situations involving financial institutions), so I moved on to the third (and most viable) scenario: not obliging the old coot. There was no reason for me to move up, so I simply would not.

I turned to the LOL and said, "no, I'm good where I am, thanks".

LOL kicked the death stare up a notch, "You're supposed to stand at the end of the carpeted area".

"It's o.k. I'm good here".

"Nothing bad will happen if you move up" she said through gritted teeth.

"I know" I said, suddenly wondering if something bad might happen if I DIDN'T move up.

LOL huffed and I calmly turned my attention towards the teller who was finishing up with Middle Aged Business Casual Lady. As I turned I caught the eye of the the guy in line behind LOL. He raised his eyebrow as if to say, "Oh no you did-in't!".

Oh yes I did, Eyebrow Guy. Oh yes I did.

I stood my ground. Literally. And it felt great. Was I being petty? Sure. Was I right to send LOL into a huffed-state just to prove a point? Perhaps not. Is it possible that by not obliging the LOL I may have introduced unnecessary stress into her life that may or may not cause a heart attack or stroke? Maybe (after all, people at that age are ticking time bombs of medical emergency). Nonetheless, I was glad I didn't budge.

I've always subscribed to the notion that being kind is more important than being right. Lately I've realized that being kind doesn't get you very far in life. Sure, people like you, but when it comes down to it, being liked doesn`t count for a whole heck of a lot.

That's not to say I've always been kind or that now I`ve decided to be all bad-ass. But maybe looking after number one is the way to go occasionally. Maybe not letting the elderly bully you at the bank is o.k.

AO!

You Enjoy Being Photographed.

AO!

Around July In 31 Photographs

July 2009 felt like the longest month. Ever. Nearly every day in July I woke up thinking, "It's STILL July? REALLY?".

This summer reminds me of the long summers of my childhood. We only had two months off from school, but it always felt like a lifetime. This summer feels like a lifetime.
*****

The members of my family are in rough shape. I emailed my aunt the other day because I hadn't heard from her (or anyone else in my family for that matter) in several months. This is unusual. Generally my family likes to be all up in my biz-natch.

I now realize my family's lack of poking and prodding in my life can be attributed to their energy going to staying alive. My aunt emailed me back to say:

a) My grandma went to the hospital because she had chest pains. Now she has to go for bladder surgery. I'm not sure what those two things have to do with one another.

b) My uncle fell off an 11 foot ladder and broke a plethora of bones.

c) My other uncle suffered nerve damage while using a pole saw. Now he can't move the left side of his upper body.

d) My mom was hit by a car.

e) My cousin's grandma has a lump on her eye and was jetted off to Toronto this week for emergency surgery.

Hmph.

*****


Not wanting to be out done, the other side of my family called to tell me that my step-Grandpa's brother killed himself.

Death trumps ailments. Dad's side wins again.
*****

Is it just me, or are movie titles getting more aggressive sounding? Harry Potter and the Half BLOOD Prince. The UGLY Truth. The HANGOVER. ICE Age. G FORCE. Public ENEMIES. BRUNO. O.K, maybe not that last one. (Although to me Sacha Baron Cohen is more disturbing than any of the aforementioned titles).

****

I'm not overly offended by aggression, mind you. This month I purchased three seasons of Law and Order SVU on DVD. I have been watching episodes of the show non stop for a few weeks now. I love that show; not because of the twisty-turny plot lines, the fabulous guest stars, the drama, the numerous scenes with interesting lighting. No, I love the show because the women detectives and lawyers on the show are REALLY REALLY attractive.

Yea, that's right, I'm shallow.
*****

In an attempt to be lomo and crafty, I went to Home Depot to buy a peep hole. My theory was that a peep hole could act as a low-rent fish eye lens.

After searching the Home Depot for what felt like hours, and getting flashbacks of my parents dragging me through hardware stores on weekends when they were on home improvement kicks, I finally found a clerk. I asked him, "Where are your peep holes?". The guy looked at me as if I asked him for a kilo of cocaine or something. It dawned on me then that perhaps the thing I was looking for was not called a "peep hole". It likely has a more technical name that I'm not aware of. It also dawned on me that perhaps when I didn't enunciate the last "p" in "peep" well enough.

Embarrassed, I tried to describe a peep hole to the guy, "You know, it's like this" and I made a circle with my index finger and thumb, "and it goes on a door so you can see the other side?"

"OH! Uh...down that way I think", the guy said and hurried off in the opposite direction.

Well, I got my peep hole, and my lomo hopes and dreams have yet to be realized. I think I'll probably still have to invest in a REAL fisheye lens at some point.

*****

The chicken in this photo seems angry in a, "there's an evil monkey in my closet" kind of way. *****




I keep hearing that aspartame and deodorants are bad for your health. Are these just rumors or are they true? More importantly, do I really want to live in a world where everyone stinks and gum tastes bland? I don't think so.
*****

I miss all my photo friends. Sometimes I'll take a photo that reminds me of a far away photo friend and it makes me miss them more.

*****
My favorite web series "This Just Out with Liz Feldman" ended this month. I'm bummed. I really liked that show. I mean, it's nowhere near as hot as watching a sexy ADA argue with a sexy detective on SVU, but it's a close second, and I'll miss it.

*****


Recently I've been doing some photo experiments with plants. Sometimes in the course of the shoot the plant is destroyed and I can't help but feel a little murderous. I guess it's residual guilt from being a vegetarian.


*****


In an uncharacteristic display of domestication, I went out last week and purchased a Swiffer Wet Jet. I haven't used it yet, but I'm ashamed to report I'm looking forward to it. Oh man, my linoleum is going to be so freakin' clean...

*****


So I have an idea for a project involving X-Ray images, but I have no idea where one would go to find old X-Rays. I did a Google search but it didn't produce any useful results. Does anyone have any ideas where I can get my little photog hands on some X-Rays?


*****

My cousin is one of the funniest, coolest people ever. Sadly, I haven't had any sort of relationship with him in almost fifteen years. I regularly stalk his blog and laugh at his wittiness, but every time I've tried to contact him in recent years he has ignored me. He won't even add me on Facebook (which, as everyone knows, is the ultimate insult. I have people on my Facebook who I've literally spoken to once, and my own cousin won't even accept my friend request). I not-so-secretly hope that he is stalking my blog too an he'll read this and think, "Oh lordy! Amanda and I should be friends!".

*****

The other night Cindy and I roamed the rainy streets of the Exchange District taking photos. All was well until we accidentally ventured out of the "safe happy artist" part of the Exchange and into "gentleman's club and downtown junkies" part.

Here is a snippet from our conversation, as we walked by a group of shady looking teens and a man emerging from a dark alley who "just wanted to talk to us for a second":


Cindy (trying not to make eye contact with creepy looking people): On a scale of one to ten, how safe do you feel right now?

Me (unsure if one was the low or high end of the safeness scale): Uh...Not so safe.


Obviously everything turned out alright. As an added bonus, I managed to get some decent shots that night. Maybe sometimes a little bit of danger in photography is a good thing.


*****




Obviously Dad and his girlfriend are on the same wavelength.
*****


I started wearing contact lenses as a young teenager. When I was eighteen, I had an eye injury that abruptly halted my contact lens wearing experience for several years. A few years later when I went to the eye doctor they (as in the eye doctor and the receptionist people) strongly encouraged me to try contact lenses again. Not willing to go through the hassle, I declined. The eye doctor was upset, but let the issue drop. Two years ago when I went to the eye doctor they were unrelenting about me getting contact lenses. It was as if they were getting commission from the contact lens companies or something (conspiracy alert!). I was hesitant, but since I was going to begin photo school and I was getting tired of seeing my face print on the inside of my lenses from where I pressed my eye up against my camera's view finder, I decided to give contact lenses another try.

Recently I went to the eye doctor for a check up and the doctor told me I wear my contact lenses too much and now I need to get glasses again. I think her change of heart stems from increased monetary compensation from the eye glass companies (yet another conspiracy!).

I actually would have been wearing glasses more often if the styles of frames out in the world today were less offensive. I passionately hate those chunky, dark rimed frames that are in style now. There are only two people who can get away with wearing dramatic eye glass frames: Buddy Holly and Lisa Loeb. O.K, and maybe "naughty librarian" types too. But everyone else has to settle down and wear normal eye wear.

If your frames are big enough to have fake jewels pressed into the side, they are too big. Personal eye health be damned, I want no part of this offensive fad.

*****

Once when I was a kid I accidentally swallowed a whole ice cube. I think that was one of the most painful experiences of my life. My family and I were sitting in the Smitty's in Selkirk having lunch one minute, and the next there was an icy demon brutalizing my esophagus.

Every time the cube moved it felt like someone was stabbing my rib cage from the inside. Inch by inch the ice cube made it's way down to my stomach, and I felt every little move it made. Eventually the ice cube melted, and I recovered from the icy assault. But you never forget something like that.

I don't think there is a moral to this story besides, "don't put large ice cubes in your mouth", but maybe that in itself is a good enough moral.

Please drink responsibly. Avoid ice cubes.

*****

My apartment feels like a completely different place at night. I guess I'm still getting used to living here. I do, however, find comfort in one consistency that transcends time: the child in the next suite who will not stop crying.

Where is the line between cranky toddler and possible abuse? Or, more accurately, possible adult abuse. That child is abusing the eardrums of every adult in this building.

The other night I was taking some photos in the dark at around 10:30pm. All was calm in the apartments until a blood curdling scream erupted from the cranky child. Apparently junior didn't take kindly to being forced to go to bed.

The kid had been screaming for nearly ten minutes when someone in another suite decided to fight fire with fire and blared the Simon and Garfunkel song, "The Sound Of Silence" loud enough to partially drown out the child's screaming. At first it was kind of creepy...screaming child, ominous music playing, total darkness...but then I realized the humour in the situation and appreciated the message in the song.

Minutes later the song ended, but the screaming didn't. Oh well. Whoever played the music got their point across. Kudos to them.

*****

AO!

The Fine Line Between Over-share and I-Don't-Care

Today my boss walked into the office, sat down next to me, and proceeded to tell me all about how he pulled his groin muscle last night.

O.K, so it's not like I don't feel bad for him. Any injury to that area of a person's body has to be painful/embarrassing. But it deeply disturbs me to think about that particular part of my boss' body (or that part of any man's body, really). I'm a little traumatized now.

My boss and I aren't very close. We're definitely not, "talk about your private parts" kind of close. If some mysterious ailment plagued my lady-regions I wouldn't tell him about it. In fact, he would likely be one of the last people on the planet I would tell. I'd sooner go through the phone book, randomly calling strangers and telling them about my cha-cha angst than having an, "I don't feel so fresh down there" heart-to-heart with my boss. So why did he feel the need to tell me about his trouble down-under? I realize that "groin" isn't necessarily synonymous with "the family jewels", but since it's in the same general region, it's still a place I'd like to avoid thinking about.

I'm fairly sure it's common knowledge that there are certain things you just can't talk about with certain people; no matter how close you are. I love my grandma, but we have never once discussed the pros and cons of threesomes. My younger cousin is cool, but I don't plague her with conversations about finances and investments. I love my Dad, but we have never chatted about absorbency discrepancies between brands of tampons. Most importantly, if I ever suffer any kind of below the belt injury, I don't go to my male boss for advice.

Speaking of things that are disturbing, I took these photos while in a cemetery in Canora, SK earlier this month. I have no idea what this thing is. Is it a plant? Is it an insect? Does anyone know?

AO!

A Goat In The Pen Is Worth Four Splattered On The Highway

I'm not what you would call an animal person. As a child I never had a dog or a cat or any sort of four legged creature that suburban kids tend to have as pets. My only near-pet experience happened in my teenhood, when my sister bought herself a good natured grey and yellow cockatiel. She called the bird Dixie, after a particularly annoying sketch on MadTV involving an over tanned older woman (not that Dixie reminded her at all of the sketch, it was just something that made the whole family laugh and the name stuck).
.
Dixie's cage was always left open and her wings weren't clipped, thus she had free rein of our home. Ours was the only house on the block with an uncaged bird, and soon Dixie became somewhat of a neighbourhood celebrity. My sister's friends would visit our house often to play with Dixie. They fed her, they gave her a bath on the living room table (her favorite place to take a bath!), and she sat on their shoulders and chirped. While technically Dixie belonged to my sister, she felt more like a community bird.


Over time, I came to love Dixie. I loved how she would sit on my shoulder and twist her neck to the side, close her little birdie eyes, and rub her head against my cheek. I loved how she would chirp and swoop around the house. I loved that Dixie had an affinity for popcorn and would dive head first into popcorn bowls, surfacing sometime later covered in butter and salt with kernels stuck to her feathers.

There were so many things I loved about Dixie, but there were also things I could do without. Dixie was loud. She either loved or hated the birds who lived outside, it was hard to tell above all the squawking. Some days all she would do was sit at the living room window and hiss at other birds.

I don't know much about avian reproduction, but I know that every few weeks Dixie would lay eggs. The eggs were the exact size of Cadbury Mini-Eggs and she would lay 4 or 5, then sit on them for days. Someone should have told Dixie about the "birds and the bees" (ha!) because she seemed oblivious to the fact that she didn't have any sort of birdie sex that would cause baby birds to be coming out of those eggs. If human women behaved like Dixie they would be going out and buying diapers and breast pumps every time they had PMS. Poor confused little cockatiel.

Dixie behaved so strangely during her "time of the month". She would hiss at us if we came near her and try to bite us if we tried to take the eggs away. Dixie would guard her eggs for days and she didn't seem to eat or drink anything during that time. Also, apparently Dixie had a small birdie vagina because she often had much difficultly pushing out the eggs. Several times they got stuck inside her and she had to go to the vet to be put on medication to help ease in the laying process. Because of this, having Dixie as a pet was very stressful . At any given moment an egg could get lodged in her birdie uterus and BOOM, we'd have a dead cockatiel on our hands.

And then, of course, there was the poop. Ah bird poop. There really isn't anything like it, is there? I don't know if it's possible to potty train a bird, but Dixie definitely wasn't potty trained. She pooped wherever she pleased, and since she had free rein of the house there was birdie poop everywhere. There was poop on the furniture, poop on the floor, poop on me and my sister and my mom and my dad and anyone else who visited the house. I begged my parents to make her wear a diaper, but apparently that would be cruel. To me it was cruel having to wear poopy clothes to school because Dixie somehow found her way into my dresser. Other kids went to school with cat or dog hair all over them. I went with feathers stuck to green and white spackle.

To me, the negatives of having a pet have always out weighed the positives. Honestly, I'm much too selfish of a person to be trusted with another living being's quality of life. Hell, I can't even be trusted with plants. I think I would make a horrible mother. I'm a much better aunt, or aunt-substitute. I visit, bring gifts, hang out, and then leave when the going gets tough. I'm here for a good time, not a long time. When the going gets tough, I get going. I'm not saying that as a bad thing. This is a character trait I highly value, because it allows me a great deal of "me time", which is my very favorite time of all. I'm a self-proclaimed good time Charlie, and that's the way I like it.

Thus, I was a little surprised when Dad asked me to look after his farm for nine days while he and his girlfriend went on vacation. Dad's farm consists of a few acres on which a barn, a house, six dogs, four horses and four goats reside.

My mission was to keep everything intact for nine days. The buildings were to stay erect and the animals were to stay alive. That seemed like an easy enough mission, although running a farm was not ever something I thought I would be good at, or even something I felt I would be remotely interested in doing. However, Dad and his girlfriend have been together nearly a decade and have literally never taken a holiday together. Who was I to stand in the way of their once-in-a-lifetime tropical vacation?

In the weeks leading up to my stay in the country, I visited the farm every weekend for Farm Maintenance Boot Camp. I learned about hay and watering rituals, the various follies of having an iron-rich well-water supply, and the exact use for all the breakers, switches and dials throughout the house.

I was also warned of the extreme likelihood that either Dad, his girlfriend, me or the animals would die while the trip was taking place. Since Dad and I have always been homebodies/hypochondriacs, it's no wonder we imagined every possible worst case scenario: Dad and his girlfriend could get into a plane crash, or get pulverized on a scary American super highway; I could accidentally get electrocuted or get trampled by wild horses; the animals could escape and be mulled by bears, eaten by coyotes, or used and abused by swooping falcons. By the time Dad and his girlfriend left for their vacation, we were all certain at least one of us wasn't going to make it out of the nine days alive.

Despite all the fear, I was quite looking forward to spending some time "getting away from it all" down on the farm. The first morning when I awoke to a beautiful sunrise, I thought that perhaps the time on the farm would give me a chance for personal reflection and allow me to figure out some pressing issues in my crazy life. The sun slowing rising above the hazy fields looked like the cover of a spiritual retreat brochure, and I was in the mood for meditation. It was time to embrace my temporary farm life.

About two minutes later when the goats escaped, a horse bit me, and the dogs started to fight, I realized that the nine days were going to be anything but relaxing. I began to doubt there would be much time for soul searching.

Over the next nine days I struggled to balance living my regular life back in the city and living my new life on the farm. Work, appointments and social engagements didn't stop just because I was now an hour and a half away. In fact, there seemed more to be than ever. Immediately I felt torn between two worlds.

Waking up at 4am everyday was not something I was used to. I'm more of a night owl and a "sleep in until noon" kinda girl. Apparently the dogs didn't get that memo though, and every morning, without fail, they would be very vocal in their quest for attention at 4am. Dad's routine involves him waking up at 4am everyday to do chores before work, and the dogs were so used to that routine that despite my best efforts to get them up later, the dogs woke at the crack of dawn.

.

During my stay at the farm I learned that dogs are very energetic animals, with a virtually unlimited capacity to play fetch. One night after work I played fetch with the dogs for three hours, and they still brought that ball back to me as if it was the first time I had thrown it. No matter where I threw the ball, the dogs would do the same thing: the most energetic of the dogs would catch the ball, then the other five dogs would chase the dog that had the ball through some horse poop, a puddle of mud, the flower beds, then back to me. Again and again and again: horse poop, wet mud, flowers, me. Thus, by the end of the game of fetch everyone, including myself, was covered in poop, mud and floral debris.

I have often heard people say that animals can understand us. I can't count how many times I've been at the house of a couple who owns a dog, when owner A says to owner B "Should we give Fido some t-r-e-a-t-s?". The spelling out of words is based on the belief that while dogs can understand spoken English, they sadly are not literate.

Before Dad and his girlfriend left for their trip, they told me that there are certain things I would have to say to the dogs to get them to do what I wanted them to do. For example, if I wanted them to go outside to do their business, I would have to say, "Go outside, go pee-pee!". If it was night time and I wanted to go to bed, I would have to say, "Go outside, go pee-pee, go nite-nite!" to signify that would be the last trip to the doggie potty ground.

As I've mentioned, I don't have animals or children or anyone in my life that I would speak to in a melodic baby-talk kind of way. It's not that I'm incapable of this kind of speech, but it feels mighty awkward saying those things if you're not used to saying them. Hearing the phrase, "Go pee-pee, go nite-nite" come out of my mouth was slightly psychologically damaging. Thus, I decided to do an experiment to see if all that baby talk was necessary.

One day when I didn't have to work and I was at the farm with the dogs all day, I decided to find out how much they REALLY understood. I had two theories:

a) The dogs don't actually understand any of the words we say, they just respond to the way we say them.

b) The dogs understand some key words, but react based on how you say those words.

I was sitting on the couch watching TV, when I said to the dogs, "Spiderman, Tonka Truck, Rainbow Brite?" in the same way I would say, "Go outside, go pee-pee, go nite-nite?". The dogs all stood up and looked at me, but they didn't run to the door like they usually would if I told them to go outside to do their business.

A while later I said, "Do you want to have an Ice Cap with Jimmy Kimmel?" and the dogs got up and ran to the shelf where their food is kept. It dawned on me that Jimmy Kimmel likely sounds a lot like "You want some kibble?" to a dog.

I then tried using a monotone voice to say a list of random words to see if the dogs would react to words I suspected they understood. I said, "Pizza, computer, Jesus, monster, outside..." and upon hearing the word "outside" the dogs jumped up and crowed around me. Hmmm. Interesting. "Window, tissue, watermelon, treat..." at "treat" they went crazy, jumping, barking, running in circles. Finally, when I said, "Playboy, ski mask, trampoline, ball", they ran to the door and barked and scratched and yelped. It was obvious "Playboy" is what set them off in that last test group, and it became clear to me the dogs definitely did understand some words, thus "Go outside, go pee-pee, go nite-nite" was sadly not falling on deaf ears.

Of course after all the verbal experimentation, I had to make good on my promises. I went outside with the dogs, fed them some kibble, gave them a treat and let them read Playboy. I'm not cruel, after all.

Aside from life with the dogs, the other farm duties were much less exciting. Looking after the goats who are expert escape artists is a full time job in itself. Some days I was certain I would come home to find four goat shaped splatters on the highway. Luckily, even when the goats did escape they just ran for the nearest grassy area and were easily bribed back in their pen with goat food.

With the exception of the one time the horse bit me, the horses were very well behaved and easy to care for. They spent all day grazing, and when I came home they would greet me at the gate, and nuzzle me with their big horse noses.

Over the nine days at the farm I learned to appreciate farm life. At home in the city there is a constant hum of people and traffic. At the farm it's much quieter, the air seems fresher, and there is much more space to roam. To my surprise I quickly became accustomed to living on the farm, although fourteen animals was a bit much for me to handle. Feeding the horses while the goats headbutted me was a bit taxing and I ended up receiving a giant goat-induced bruise on my knee. Also, at one point one of the puppies almost asphyxiated herself by digging a hole in the futon cover, sticking her little puppy head in the hole, then spinning around several times to create a noose. I learned that animals can make any object a dangerous death trap, and thus I had to be on my toes at all times.

But then there were the quiet times in the evening, with me and the dogs sitting around the TV watching The Dog Whisperer (seriously!). Two dogs would lie at my feet, two would sit beside me on the love seat and two would climb up on my lap and cuddle. It dawned on me that I don't have that kind of love in my city life. If there is one thing that makes a gal feel special it's being the center of an animal cuddle-fest.

When Dad and his girlfriend came home I was anxious to get back to my regular life, but I was also sad to leave my temporary farm home. By day nine I was completely exhausted. If I never have to see 4am again I'll be a happy person. But the first days without a three hour fetch-a-thon followed by a love seat puppy cuddle were strangely lonely. At home I could make a sandwich and leave it on the table and no one would jump up and eat it, but no one was there to greet me at the door when I came home either.

This farm experience gave me a new respect for all the farm folk I know. I didn't even have to do any actual farming and I was dead tired by the end of my stay. It amazes me that people can farm day after day, and year after year. This experience also made me respect pet owners and parents. Taking care of animals was extremely difficult, I can't begin to imagine what it's like to have to take care of a kid. I was constantly worried the puppies would get into something they weren't supposed to. I think when you have a kid, you probably feel that way for at least eighteen years...if not longer. However, after all this, I'm confident that I am now able to adequately care for a plant. O.K...maybe a cactus. (Everyone has to start somewhere).

All things considered I enjoyed being a farm girl for nine days. Apparently Dad and his girlfriend enjoyed traveling, and want to do it again soon, so I may get another chance to flex my farming chops in the near future. And all things considered...I can't wait to do it again.

AO!

Crouching Neighbour, Hidden Mattress

I have moved. Relocated. Adjusted my geographical co-ordinates.

Ah moving. I feel like that is the only thing I have done in my life since April. I’m sure everyone I know is sick of me talking about the move. My catch phrase in late April was, “I’m moving!”. Then in early May it morphed into, “I’m still moving”, followed by “when will I be done moving?”, followed by, “I think I’m almost done moving”, followed by “I don’t want to talk about it. But seriously, I’m still moving”.

Moving is not fun…don’t do it. In fact, it's borderline traumatic. It combines the three things I dread the most: cleaning, heavy lifting, and walking up and down stairs WHILE heavy lifting. I don’t recommend anyone move. Ever. I suggest everyone find a place they feel comfortable and stay there for the rest of their lives.

I also don’t recommend one move using only a ' 94 Ford Tempo. You will end up making 30,000 trips, seeing as the Tempo has only enough trunk space to hold a shoebox (as you can imagine, sadly I know this from experience). My advice: just rent a U-Haul. Seriously.

Leaving the house and moving to the apartment was hard. At first. I lived in that glorious duplex for seven years. That's seven Christmases, seven birthdays, seven seasons of Law and Order; so many memories. It was a nice little place, with hardwood floors, 3 bedrooms, and tons of storage space. I now realize that I had too much storage space, because as I cleaned out the house I found Tempo loads full of things I:

a) Never knew I had (ie: A cookie jar shaped like a can of Coke!);

b) Knew I had but never used (ie: A large gift bag full of ancient shower gel);

c) Used at one point, but would never use again (ie: A set of hot rollers. I bought them when I was a teenager and thought they would make my hair full of volume and full-bodied curls. Instead my hair looked frizzy and poodle-ish. It's hard to let go of the dream, but during the move I was finally able to throw them out).

That being said, now that I have finally moved, I quite like my new apartment. It’s smaller than the place I was in before, and lacks the sentimental value the other place had, but now that I’ve unpacked it is starting to feel like home. My favorite thing in my new apartment is my new sofa bed, or “Couch Bed” as I like to call it. In the old place I had a comfy greeny/blue couch. However, it was massive and there is no way in hell that plush beast would have fit through the tiny apartment doors. Thus, a donation of a smaller, used sofa bed from my dad’s coworker was much appreciated.

When I first saw Couch Bed, I was mortified. I even changed my Facebook status to, “I now own the ugliest couch on the planet”. (As everyone knows, once something is on Facebook, it becomes official).

Over the past few weeks, I’ve developed a fondness for Couch Bed. It’s still the ugliest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on, but I now believe there is a thing that happens when something is critically ugly; somehow it swings back around and becomes attractive again. Like…Gina Gershon. At first there's that "EW!" reflex, but then once your stomach settles you find yourself re-watching the movie Bound for the 10th time in a week. What once was repulsive becomes not so bad...even downright likable.

My favorite thing about Couch Bed is the fact that at any given moment I can say, “Hey, I want to be in bed”, and within seconds that’s exactly where I am. If I ever decided to be more of a player, I'm sure the ability to insta-bed will be an asset. For the time being, generally I find myself sitting in the livingroom, watching TV, when I get the overwhelming urge to be reclined. All I have to do is move two cushions and pull out the mattress and BOOM, I’m stretched out like a cat in the sun. How did I make it this far in life WITHOUT Couch Bed?

Aside from Couch Bed, there are some things about the apartment that will take awhile to adjust to. The major thing is living in a place with a few hundred other people. So far my interactions with my fellow apartment dwellers have been mostly positive. People smile and wave hello when we pass, hold the door open when I’m carrying something heavy, are generally pleasant folks. However there are a few things that will take some getting used to.

On the day I got possession of the apartment I went to the suite to check out the place. After spending a few minutes puttering, I decided to go to the car to get some boxes. As I walked down the hall, I passed a door that was slightly ajar. Out of curiosity I glanced inside and saw a middle aged woman, naked and on all fours. I stopped walking and just looked at her (I mean really, how could I not?). She looked back at me for a moment, her saggy dirty-pillows dangling like udders, then yelped, "OH!" and slammed the door.

Now, I just have to say this isn't just a funny story I made up, it honestly happened. My only regret is not having my camera handy to record the event (although that might have made the situation even more awkward). I wonder, who exactly was she waiting for? Why did she think crouching nude doggie style in front of her door was the right thing to do at the precise moment I was walking by? I mean, I've heard of the Welcome Wagon, but she really was going above and beyond...

The suite directly below mine houses a single mom and her kid(s). Either there is one very loud child or two very loud children living in that suite. It’s hard to tell over the constant screaming. There seems to be a chorus of screaming, although it's possible there is just a single voice accompanied by a horrible echo as the sound makes its way through the floor. All I know is the child who lives there is very cranky.

The kid/kids either never sleep, or they sleep in short power naps throughout the day, because they sure as hell don't sleep at night. All night I hear, "Waaaaa!Waaaahhhhhh! Wahahahahaha!!!" from directly below my bedroom. I'm thinking of leaving a bottle of children's NyQuil on their doorstep. AO needs her beauty sleep.

Speaking of over medicating, I am fairly sure the person who lives directly across from my suite is a drug addict. The fumes that waft over from that place are consistently herbal. The other day when I was bringing in some groceries, there was a man pounding on my neighbour’s door in an angry, “I’m a drug dealer and you owe me funds” kind of way. I avoided eye contact and tried to blend in with the woodwork until the dude left.

Everyone who knows me, knows that I'm a notorious hater of change. Although moving sucks, perhaps the change of scenery is good for me. In the duplex I was able to be a hermit and interact with no one. Now I'm constantly seeing and talking to people. Although at first I felt a little bit like a turtle without her shell, over the past month things have gotten a lot easier. Who knows, maybe I'll even get to know my neighbours a little, starting of course with Crouching Naked Lady...

AO!