Maquinna's Poop du Jour: September 2005

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Reservoir, Route 56

Miss Smelly on the Ropes

Oh yes...Miss Smelly is back in the news, but this time it might be the end of it...

Yesterday I heard disturbing reports of her breaching confidentiality of personal files kept by our office. If true...she'll be cleaning out her desk today.

I'm conflicted. On one hand it would probably be a good thing for us to start fresh with that position. On the other, it's going to be a bitch to hire someone for it, get them trained, and have us all live through the transition without pulling our hair out. In the end, we might get someone worse than Miss Smelly.

One thing I will be sure of though, if it comes to this. The new person will smell good.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Trapped in the Powder Room

Channeling MacGyver

You know how you have one of those days where everything points to a completely normal day...and then in one small instant, your day is completely upside-down?

Yesterday I returned from Boot Camp and started getting ready for work. Showered, dried my hair, got dressed. No breakfast - I was supposed to be making a stop at the lab for some routine bloodwork so I needed to be fasting. Fully dressed - skirt, blouse, heels - I headed back into the bathroom to brush my teeth and throw on a bit of lipstick before heading out the door.

I opened the bathroom window to let in some of the fresh breeze and de-fog the place. I opened another window on the other side of the landing to create a cross-breeze. When I returned to the bathroom, the door, swollen from the summer humidity and unable to fully shut for several months now, got caught by a gust of wind and slammed shut tight. It's just after 7 am.

I didn't think much of it at first, spitting out toothpaste into the sink, but with my first attempt to pull the door open, I realized it was going to be a lot harder than I thought. I pulled, and pulled, and the door wasn't budging even a bit. I checked the knob - was it locked? No. I pulled some more. Nothing.

What to do? I was all alone. I live on a fair amount of acreage in a rural area with few neighbours nearby. Craig wasn't expected home for about 12 hours. I didn't have my cell phone with me - and even if I had, I doubt it would have been much help. My cell reception in the boondocks is nearly zero.

I started to work on the door. I tried sliding a nail file through the gaps to the tighter areas, thinking I could slowly shave out the sticky parts. No luck there - the file was not nearly up to the task. Lubricant, I thought. I squirted some hair de-frizzer, a slick wet gel, along the edges and tried to work it in. Waste of costly hair styling product.

I thought about the pins in the hinges - maybe if I could work those out, I could pry the door out from the opposite edge. I looked around the bathroom for anything that would do the job, and settled on a pair of slanted tweezers and the bottom of a metal soap dispenser for a hammer. After about 20 minutes, I had the pins out. Feeling smugly clever, I began to pull the door from that side instead.

Nothing. Not even a budge.

It was close to 8 am by this time and I was starting to get pretty frustrated, and pissed off. Options? I could stay in here, stuck all day. At least there was water, and a toilet. I thought about taking a 10 hour bath. I thought about cleaning the bathroom (that thought passed very quickly due to total lack of interest). I thought about...the window.

I was on the second floor. The bathroom window is a tall, narrow crank-out mechanism, and I'd guess it was about 20 feet off the ground. Below, a soft grassy landing - but that's still 20 feet down. How to do it?

There is a partial roof, maybe 4 feet down and 6 feet to the right of the window. Could I jump from the window to that roof, and then from the roof to the ground? I doubted it. The more it seemed like I could do it, the more I saw myself clawing for the edges of the shingles, to no avail. What about a rope, I thought. I could cut up a towel, and make a rope.

I took the worst towel from the stack - or at least, the one with the most stubborn stains - and figured if I cut it into strips and knotted the strips together, it would make enough. But what to cut through the binding on the edges with? Toenail clipper, of course. After another 20 minutes, I had 20 feet of towel rope in my hands. I wound it around the window crank and tested it - it was certainly strong enough to hold me. Then I sat down on the toilet for a few minutes to gather my courage and ensure that I didn't shit my drawers on my way down to the ground.

I figured if I was going out the window, I might not be able to make it back into the bathroom, so I tossed out all the things I had with me that I thought I'd need, or would get in my way. Heels came off and went down first. My glasses and purse followed. I looked down at them waiting for me.

It still seemed like a long way down, though. I had a lot of trouble just getting up onto the windowsill. I pulled down a shelving unit to make a step up, but the particleboard was pretty iffy. I tried the garbage can...but the lid groaned and bent to the side. Eventually I monkey-climbed my way up. and sat there, legs dangling over the side. It was a beautiful morning.

How hard can this be, I thought. Five minutes and this will all be over.

Five minutes, I thought, and I'll be lying on the ground with a broken neck.

I chickened out.

Pulled at the door some more. Got REALLY angry. Took the toenail clippers, opened them up, and started using the lever to pry around the edges of the door and attempt to unstick it. All I got was a lot of damage to the door frame, and the door still firmly and resolutely shut.

Back to the window. Chicken out again.

I realized there was only one tool left to my disposal - my lungs. I didn't know if anyone could hear me over the wind, or if I could yell loudly enough, but I thought it was worth a shot. I waited for a pause in the wind, and filled my lungs with air.

HELLLLLLPPP!!!!

HELLLLPPP!!!

Over, and over.

I heard a truck coming up our long driveway. I yelled, and yelled some more. Nothing...and then I heard the truck leave. Fist slammed against door.

Considered long bath again. Noted mildew around taps and drain of sink, found a cloth and wiped them out. Climbed up to windowsill again, decided that the only way I could ever go down that rope was if the house was on fire. Chickened out, removed dustbunnies from behind shelf unit. Noted tub needs cleaning. Thought about a nap, but figured that would totally eliminate any hope of someone coming to my rescue before evening.

Started screaming out the window, non-stop. Every time I yelled, I could hear Abby, the neighbour's dog, barking. I remembered that Abby's human, Dave, worked evenings and would probably be home, but likely in his basement working with power tools (Dave does a lot of woodwork). But at some point, he'd have to turn the saw off or get sick of that dog barking. I kept yelling, and yelling, until I thought I'd be hoarse. It's past 11 am.

Suddenly I hear Dave calling back - WHERE ARE YOU!!! - and I know I'm saved.

Poor Dave was worried I'd gotten hurt somehow, but once I explained the situation, he's relieved and comes up the stairs to shove against the door...before I had a chance, however, to tell him that the pins were out of the hinges...and that door came crashing into the bathroom like a drawbridge slamming down over the moat. Four hours of thwarted creativity and abject frustration gave way, like the door, to a welling of tears. Dave made a hasty exit before having to deal with a blubbering (but intensely grateful) neighbour, and the only thing that was going through my head was...

Thank god I have clothes on.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Lens Baby at the Beach, 2

Lens Baby at the Beach, 1

Summer's End

I'm one of those people that hangs on to the end of summer as long as possible. Sometime around November, I usually give in. Even though I know that the warmest days are behind us for the year, I'm loathe to admit it. I do love the cool evening breezes right now, though, and I don't miss the humidity of August.

September is also the ideal time to be down on Cape Cod. The weather is gorgeous, the water is hanging onto the warmth from the summer, and everyone else has bugged out. There's no traffic, no nasty bugs. OK, it's a little harder to find an open clam shack, but that's definitely a small trade-0ff.

We took a break from house renovations, perennial clutter, and the spazziest kitten on the planet and spent the weekend snuggled up on the beach. We rode bicycles and walked the dog in the morning. I watched Craig get bowled over by waves on his boogie board. I read a really bad novel.

I also spent a little time getting to know my new toy - a 'Lens Baby'. It's a kind of selective focus lens that you can manipulate to put a sweet spot of focus where you want, and blur out the remainder of the frame to a greater or lesser extent. It was created by a guy who was trying to mimic the old Russian Holga cameras that were notoriously poor in focus. Essentially it's like the lens of a pinhole camera with a little wiggle room, attached to a far better camera. I can see this making for some very interesting portraiture.

Up above are some examples of what happens when you use this thing. The biggest trick is that SOMETHING has to remain in focus for it to make an effective shot, and that's easier said than done.

One other thing - about my theory of stride last Friday? Nah. I'm just damn slow.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Pond at Elm Park, 2005

Taking It In Stride

I was pretty focused this morning on the mile run I have to do as part of the first week of boot camp - this establishes a baseline for improvement over the course of the camp. My last baseline mile run, in early June, had me coming in at 11:49. Not great, but I was looking forward to some improvement.

And then the ruptured tendon thing happened...and a summer of living like a slug...

I really thought I was running better this morning than I had that first run in June. Back then, I kind of split the walking and running evenly. This morning, I know I did a lot more running than walking. I keep track of these things.

So how is it I came in at 12:30 today?

I was so disappointed. I couldn't figure it out. I knew I'd been running more than walking, and I felt fairly strong. I was so pissed at myself, that when it came time to do the other part of our baseline endurance testing - pushups - I did 25 of them in a row, with an angry grunt punctuating every extension (for the record, back in June I managed 8 pushups before giving up, but since then I've learned how to do them a little better).

I marked my time down on the clipboard and put a :( frowny face beside it.

Through the rest of the workout, then cool down and stretching, I tried to analyze where I'd gone wrong. The improved stamina will come, I know - and even by changing little else I'm sure that better stamina alone will result in a better time three weeks from now, but if I'm really going to improve, I have to start taking a look at what I'm doing - or not doing - compared to those who are running better. What occurs to me is their stride.

Sure, I was running, but my strides were barely greater than I might do simply walking. Part of that I think is nervousness - I'm still a little afraid of overextending my legs and getting injured again. But as I thought about how I watched all the other women in front of me (OK, I wasn't dead last, but the vast majority of the others were definitely in front of me), I realized that I was seeing their legs stretching out further, taking up more and more of the pavement with fewer and fewer strides. I spent all that extra time and energy taking a lot more steps.

I'm going to have a few weeks to test out this theory. During the usual short morning runs at boot camp, I can try taking longer strides and see how my legs react.

Boot camp this morning ended, however, on a far more positive note. I made a photography pitch to all the other attendees, offering free portrait services to help me develop my portfolio. Before I left I had given out at least twenty business cards, which was a far greater response than I expected. Looks like I'll be busy over the next few weeks doing portraits for Christmas cards, more engagement photos, and who knows what else. I expect to have a real trial by fire dealing with small children as subjects, but maybe I can talk one or two people into having some more creative portraiture done.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Pajama Party, 2005

Odes to Cleaning Commodes

This morning while listening to NPR, a segment on housework-themed poetry caught my attention. In the last several weeks, I have been aware of a growing, seething resentment towards the dirt and disaster in my house. Unwashed dishes, haphazard piles of recycling, dust and mildew, bathtub rings and the as-yet-unsourced sulphury smell emanating from the water in the kitchen - they all taunt me.

I am not a neat freak, but I do feel far more relaxed in an orderly atmosphere. This means that kitchens and bathrooms especially must be clean and fresh. Everything's put away, or in neat little piles for tending later. Beds are made, floors are swept, and no food is turning into the next super-bug antibiotic in the back of the fridge. Alas, this is not the case in my house.

It's tough these days, with the schedules we keep. It's hard to even find enough time to sleep. And yet, listening to these poems on the radio this morning, I realized what it was that truly bothered me. Housework is never a completed task. It's the greatest act of futility there is. I was reminded of the myth of Sisyphus, doomed by the gods to forever roll the giant stone up the hill, only to have it fall back to the bottom again, and to watch it go, knowing he will have to push it back up again. And again. And again.

It's enough to drive one insane. Other projects have a start, a middle, an end. You never have that complete satisfaction where housework is concerned. No sooner is the counter wiped in the kitchen, then someone comes along and leaves a juice glass on it, staining the formica with a ring of grape.

Just for a moment, couldn't time stand still? Couldn't entropy just turn away from my house, only for a few minutes?

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Washed Ashore, 2005

Back to Boot Camp

This week marked my return to Boot Camp, and while the mornings are much darker than they were back in June, at least the mosquitoes aren't outnumbering us 100 to 1. I was a little nervous about returning, because I really want to avoid injuring myself again, but at some point I had to believe my body was ready. I'm trying to ensure every one of my body parts remains where it is, intact - with the exception of all that extraneous Maquinna thwarting the zippers on my trousers.

So, I stretch...and stretch, and stretch. I guess this is a sign of aging - that one's flexibility really does decrease as you get older. I can handle not ever doing the splits again as I once did - both back-front AND sideways! - but I really think I should be able to get through some basic exercise without detaching any tendons, ripping any muscles, or suffering a massive myocardial infarction trucking it back up the hill during a run.

Third day down today. My biggest complaint so far is that it's so damn dark when we start, and for a good 30 minutes into the workout, that I can barely see anyone around me or see what the hell it is Sergeants Erica and Alexis are cooking up for our next torture. The dark does come in handy, though. Worcester has to look a lot harder to see me jogging up and down Salisbury Street, and that will probably save a few accidents.

Yesterday, about 15 minutes into the workout, an ROTC group from the college across the road came down to where Boot Camp happens, plainly with the idea that they were going to use the space, and shocked to see 42 women, and one smashingly gay man, already running around (the gay man was apparently adopted over the summer as some kind of mascot. Hans is 6'2" and I'd put him at about 220. He's a pretty imposing figure until you hear his voice, which is more like Tiny Tim). The ROTC folks opted to use the field next to our area, which was fine, and proceeded with their shouting drills and jumping jacks. It was sort of fitting - one boot camp next to another - but I guess we scared them off because they weren't out there today. Our two sergeants jokingly said they learned a lot from them, and before we knew it we were a chorus of:

"I don't know but I've been told!"

"I DON'T KNOW BUT I'VE BEEN TOLD!"

"Airforce wings are made of gold!"

"AIRFORCE WINGS ARE MADE OF GOLD!"

"Sound off!"

"ONE, TWO"

"Sound off!"

"THREE, FOUR"

"ONE TWO THREE FOUR ONE TWO...THREE FOUR!"

The beginning of camp timed mile will be happening again this Friday. I don't know how much improvement I'm going to make over the first time I did it back in June (11:49), but you'll hear all about it then. Wish me luck...and no ruptured tendons.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Maquinna's World (with apologies to Andrew Wyeth), 2005

Pitter Patter of Little Feet

I won't deny that Craig and I have every intention of starting a family sometime next year, but in the meantime we have been unexpectedly, um, blessed, with a new baby of the furry variety. Family relations on Craig's side had one final kitten from a litter last June, supposedly the runt, and she needed a home. Given our collective experience introducing another cat into the house ruled by Motorhead, I was initially skeptical, but moved by the plight of a kitten facing the shelter, willing to give it a shot.

For the last ten days, then, our lives have been turned utterly upside-down. I had forgotten how much energy a kitten has - how fast it moves, how it gets into absolutely EVERYTHING. Nothing is safe that isn't tied down, and even tied-down items are at risk. Anything that moves needs to be pounced on, repeatedly - this includes feet innocently moving under bedcovers at 3 am. Banishment only results in plaintive mewing outside the door, which naturally breaks my heart and my resolve.

And then there are the other animals, naturally bewildered by this addition, an affront to the silently agreed-upon equilibrium at the farm. Motorhead is definitely put out, and continues to hiss vigourously at the kitten whenever she sees it. Little kitten is certainly wary of her, but oh, her curiosity! You can literally feel just how much she wants to push her luck. Ock is relatively oblivious, and doesn't seem to mind having the new one around, but she is not to be trifled with either. At first, the kitten was terrified of Ock, who as a 30 lb shepherd-cross must have seen an enormous animal. Gradually she began to realize that Ock was no threat...unless, of course, you approach her while she's at her food bowl. That encounter resulted in Miss Snapper Jaw delivering a clear indication of what will NOT be tolerated, and little kitty ended up with a temporarily swollen eye, new respect for distance around the dog, and her first honestly acquired name - Sockeye.

We're still calling her other things - Badger, Pagoda, Junebug, Sambo - but somehow I have a feeling Sockeye's the one that's going to officially stick. The rest will be relegated to affectionate names, just as Ock is Snapper Jaw and Monkeyhead, and Motorhead is the Globehead and frequently Kit-ty (pronounced with very definitely clipped, curt syllables).

I was being very careful, the first week, not to bond with her too too much, in case it didn't work out and she was shipped off to some other home. I didn't want to deal with litterboxes right now. I'm scared about my collection of Polish glass ornaments this Christmas. She's starting to grow on me, though, despite her tiny little needle-prick claws digging into my calf in the middle of the night, Motorhead's disgruntled behaviour, and total animal feeding station chaos. I will, however, be glad when she slows down a little.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Tomatoes During A Full Moon, 2005

Green Tomatoes, 2005

Blame it on the Full Moon

If you work as a police officer, social worker, or in a hospital emergency room, you know that the full moon really does bring out the nuttiest of the nuts. Friends and relations I have in these professions, and others, all have interesting tales to tell about encounters with the general public during full moons, from a grandmother who decided to dance naked on her balcony after devouring a tray of hash brownies she accidentally stumbled across in her daughter's freezer, to a tremendously embarrassed man admitted into the E.R. in great pain, and with a foot-long hot dog lodged in his rectum.

It is in this spirit that I note that the world was turned on its lunar head last night when William Shatner received an Emmy award - apparently, for his acting. I was disappointed, but not surprised, to hear that Emmy voters put on their little P.C. family values hats and voted "Everybody Loves Raymond" as best comedy series...in these days of post-Katrina strife and affliction, "Desperate Housewives" is just too edgy and dangerous for your Average Joe to admit loving. For the record, however - Emmy voters, are you listening? - everybody does NOT love Raymond. In fact, some of us are so glad that series has finally decided to hang it up that we're considering throwing a party in our woods, having the cast and company dress as deer, and inviting some confused hunters from Wisconsin to come on by.

But William Shatner? Getting an acting award? How fucked up is that?

I admit it, I've never seen an episode of "Boston Legal". Until I heard the Emmy results on the radio this morning, I had no idea he was being paid to do anything on T.V. except pitch budget travel websites. I'm certain, however, I detected a hint of mirth in that announcer's voice as she noted Shatner's win.

The only reason I can come up with is that the Emmy voters felt some kind of uneasy obligation to recognize the many decades of Shatner's presence in our living rooms, and the many years of suffering he has inflicted upon us, in the hopes that he would cease and desist. Just drift off, Bill. Go marlin fishing somewhere. Rest on your laurels. Really, we don't mind. You've earned it, bub.

Given the fact, however, that Emmy awards seem to universally go to the most banal, unchallenging, wonder bread, lets-not-risk-angering-the-advertisers shows...I have to believe that giving William Shatner an Emmy seemed like a peachy way to make it look like they're really cool and in touch with retro star appeal. And for anyone who might have had a moment's sanity during voting, there was the destiny of that big fat full moon on awards night to push them over the edge.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Carbonation Consternation

I'm at a complete loss to understand any fundamental difference between Diet Coke and the new Coke Zero. I had thought Coke had settled its identity crisis issues after the New Coke / Coke Classic debacle of the early 90s. Apparently this is not the case.

Their ingredients and nutrition labels are the same. Neither has any carbs or calories. Both have 30 mg of sodium. Both appear to be sweetened with aspartame, according to their labels, although the Coke website claims Diet Coke is sweetened with Splenda.

Do they taste different? No.

This, so far, is all I can see which is different. Diet Coke appears to be marketed towards older, and for the most part, female, customers. The marketing lingo is full of words like 'sass' and 'style'. It says, 'so flirt, laugh, dance, giggle, sparkle!' Coke Zero, on the other hand, has marketing language written in FULL CAPS, with lots of use of words like 'CHILLIN' and phrases like 'YOUR MIND IS YOUR CRIB'. Apparently Coke Zero is for skateboarding adolescents.

Can anyone enlighten me otherwise?

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Kim, 2005

Yep. That's Her Tattoo.

My Sister's Tattoo

How we see each other. How we see ourselves. Who we are when we're alone, and when we're with others. Even a photo isn't reliable - it only tells one side of the story. As a photographer, however, it's my prerogative to tell the story I want, but I also cannot ignore the stories other pictures tell.

This past weekend my sister emailed me some photos of her getting her first tattoo. She had described what she planned to get while she was visiting the other week. I am certain I didn't provide anything amounting to encouragement but her mind was plainly made up.

I am not anti-tattoo. I've toyed with the idea myself over the years but never came up with anything I would want to live with for the rest of my life. I've actually had a lot of fun with temporary tattoos. I once had some lovely Arabic script emblazoning my left wrist, until an Egyptian classmate advised me that I was sporting a bastardized version of the first laws of Islam, and it was something that probably wouldn't go over very well amongst more fervent Muslims. Since then I've stuck with stuff a little more in my territory. A large celtic knot around my navel (dammit if anyone thinks my belly should be hid just because it isn't a washboard). Barbed wire around my upper arms, for a Hallowe'en costume. I actually wouldn't mind a west coast Native style salmon if it could be made delicately enough and placed on the small of my back.

What I object to in tattoos are twofold: tasteless illustrations and lots of colour. I don't think much needs to be said in the first case. It's a personal aesthetic I feel no need to defend. Some things are just downright tacky. Colour is another aesthetic issue...partly because few tattoo artists are capable of using colour deftly, but mostly because over time, the colours always become muddy and indiscernible. If you're going to do it, do it in black ink only, and make it something interesting and personal.

Which brings me to my sister's tattoo. It's right up there above all this. As is plainly visible, it's some tarty chiquita in a cowboy hat with mardi gras beads around her neck (no, this has nothing to do with Hurricane Katrina), leaning seductively over a stool. With enough colour to make a parrot blush. I can hear my grandmother Baba now. Oy yoy yoy! What the hell were you thinking?

I suppose I should ask her what it was about this particular image that she decided she wanted to put on her leg, taking up no less than twenty square inches of her calf. My guess is this is a manifestation of the ongoing spirit of rebellion she harbours, a kind of in-your-face 'yeah, I know it's crude and nasty and I'm the only one who likes it, THAT'S why I did it' thing. I can see her standing with her hands on her hips, chin jutting out, saying screw you. There's also a sad part too, that fears to acknowledge how much she wants to be noticed, but will go to dramatic lengths to get that notice. Something about living under a shadow and wishing she didn't.

This was part of the reason that when I photographed her myself, I put her in the dark, emerging from shadow. I think she's starting to come into her own as a person, finally. Starting to assert herself in ways that are actually going to make a positive, rather than a negative, impact on her life. Well, excepting the tattoo, but some aspects of character aren't really likely to change, nor do they need to.

She still drives me nuts, by the way. This was a good visit, though, at a time in both of our lives when we needed to find some connection with each other.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

I guess this is fun for SOMEONE.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

The Bear Necessities

Yes, my sister is back on the west coast now. No one got killed or maimed on the way, either. I did, however, have to endure her request to be taken to a local outlet of the 'Build-A-Bear Workshop' to pick up - get this - back to school outfits for her childrens' stuffed toys.

She first mentioned that she wanted to do this long before she arrived. I had to look it up on the internet - I had no idea what it was. I am not yet a parent, so there are many things of which I am ignorant. For those of you who would like to witness the horror first-hand, go here.

I talked to my friend Donna about it on IM (she's also back in B.C.). Her comments: 'sounds like a place where 300-lb. 30 year old women who have a freakily unhealthy fantasy life work'. I'd have to say she was right on the money.

First of all, it's in a mall. A mall, on a gorgeous Friday afternoon. I'm in a fucking mall. You walk in this joint and it's all painted in bright primary colours. I was greeted by the screech of a dozen five-year olds in the middle of creating their own personal bears, some in princess clothing, some in gaily-patterned pajamas, and some in allegedly sexy clothing that created the effect of Britney Spears in serious need of an all over body wax job.

Three people seemed to be working - none of them less than 300 lbs. Maybe you have to LOOK like a stuffed bear to work there? One was ringing up purchases, another was dealing with the birthday party, and another was at the 'stuffing machine'.

My sister, Kim, made a beeline for the things she wanted. Some little denim outfit with faux leopard trim for my niece Alyssa's unicorn (a unicorn is a bear?), and a football outfit for my nephew's creature - whatever the heck it was. I started looking around the store. There are about two dozen different bears you can choose from, all priced around $20. But that's just for the bear, and, I assume, the stuffing. Many of the bears aren't bears at all. Some are dogs or cats or giraffes or - get it now, before it's retired - a pink flamingo.

So, you pick out your animal carcass, then you take it to the stuffing machine. If you're older, I think they let you stuff it sort of yourself. If not, then someone stuffs it for you. You get to decide when it has reached its optimum squishiness.

No responsible bear owner could leave with a naked bear, so there are literally hundreds of different ensembles to choose from. Clothing, costumes, shoes and accessories. Even licensed Harley-Davidson leather. Wigs, seriously. You can give your bear Cher hair. And you guessed it, there's no way your bear gets dressed for under $30.

I'm dazed, but then snapped right out of it by cheers from the birthday party, followed by the sight and sound of a dozen small children in their party best, hugging their newly stuffed and dressed bears. Then the freaky shit happens. The party leader has them all raise their right hands and take the bear vow. I kid you not. It goes something like this:

"This is my bear. I chose it. I stuffed it. I made it myself. Best friends are forever, so I promise to always take care of my new best friend." Twelve tiny automatons, with twelve furry, glassy-eyed dopplegangers, repeated the words blankly, at top volume. This, apparently, was the cosmic intersection of Orwell's 1984 with Pee-Wee's Playhouse.

Kim's at the register, and I notice that she has the New England Patriots' football uniform for Adam's bear, but no football shoes. And it seems so wrong. I go to the display and choose a pair of striped, Adidas-style cleats. They're $7.00 plus tax. And I'm handing them to my sister, and fishing out the money for them, and mumbling something about spoiling nephews being the privilege of being an auntie.

After which, I walked very briskly out of the store before I was put on a Build-A-Bear Workshop diet of doughnuts and ice cream and was sucked further into its evil vortex. Clearly this was not a safe place.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Sister, Sister

The last week has been rather dizzying, what with my sister arriving, major projects looming in photography class, and the busiest week of my work year all coinciding like an interstellar catastrophe...and of course watching peoples' lives float away down on the gulf coast, watching gas prices soaring hourly, and watching the Red Sox claw their way back yet again from another multi-run deficit doesn't make the stress level any less.

First, my sister. I announced on my last post that she was arriving last Thursday morning, August 25th. Craig and I were up at 5 am and drove bleary-eyed through Boston commuter traffic to Logan, only to discover she was not on the plane. After an hour of searching, having her paged, and finally getting through security to the gate, I learned that she was actually arriving on FRIDAY, the 26th. As she was taking a red-eye, she LEFT on the 25th, but didn't arrive until the 26th. The fault lays partly with me, who plainly didn't read closely enough between the lines on her itinerary, but I must say her repeated mention of 'the 25th' did little to make me think that I was supposed to be at the airport any other day.

Yes, I was livid. I don't think Craig - who inexplicably found this immediately hilarious - much liked what he saw. Then again, he hasn't spent 36 years of his life in a sibling relationship where an incident such as this hammers home, with astounding clarity, how very little between my sister and me is on the same page. He kept saying I would find this funny soon. I glowered back at him.

So, the following morning, we repeated the procedure, and this time we found her. We had plans to be down at the cape the entire weekend so we immediately piled back into the Vanagon and headed out of the airport...only to be stymied by the toll booth operator at the head of the tunnel back into Boston. We were refused passage because we have a propane tank on board. No matter, apparently, that it is empty and broken, and no use trying to explain that fully-loaded semi-trailers barrelling through the tunnel pose a far greater explosive hazard than an empty propane tank. Rules will be rules, and after soaking us for $4.50 for the toll anyway, unearned, forced us to endure a police escort to the opposite side of the highway and pushed us northward towards Revere, instead of south towards the cape.

We decided to have breakfast before proceeding further, and give us an opportunity to consult a map and figure out how the heck to get out of Revere during the last dregs of the morning rush hour, without going through the city. We pulled over at the 'Three Yolks' diner off route 1 and sat down to a breakfast of such American proportions it would have choked a pig. 'Three Yolks' refers to EVERYTHING on the menu. Nothing seemed to come with less than three eggs. Kim and I each ordered orange juice. They came in 20 oz. soda glasses. I should have skipped the glass and asked for an I.V. drip.

We wound our way afterwards around Boston and finally made it onto a major route south that wasn't going to result in our being suspected of terrorism via an empty and broken propane tank on an '86 Vanagon with a somewhat testy idle (see posts from March for tales from the South Carolina Vanagon rescue adventure). A weekend of warm beach weather on the cape was a welcome relief.

As for things with my sister...she's still here, and I'm surprisingly calm. My feelings about it all are still kind of mixed up and uncertain. I realize it's definitely me, and not her, and that's troubling. I guess I haven't got it sorted out enough in my head to commit it to words yet, and I suspect that when I do, the statements will be sometimes sad, sometimes hopeful, harsh, loving, and contradictory.

All of which, for now, sums up the whole thing rather nicely.

Take care.

Maquinna's Poop du Jour