My sister's house

My sister's house has got to be one of my favorite places in the world. She and Tom live in this cozy, top-of-an-old-Victorian-house apartment in one of those fun villages at the end of a T line in Boston.



They have skylights, a big tub to soak in, a lightning fast Internet connection, and the kind of office-turned-guestroom that you think only exists in Pottery Barn catalogues. It's homey, and safe, and welcoming. There's a lot of napping on Egyptian cotton sheets.



My sister, being the most generous person I know, always lets me borrow socks or t-shirts or whatever I forgot. She also has an endearing, border-line obsession with bath and body products, which means that you can not only sample that fun, exfoliating fountain-of-youth never-tested-on-animals body butter you've been meaning to get with your next gift certficate, but she's probably already fallen out of love with it, moved on to the latest "On Sale at Sepphora" version, so she lets you take it with you.



Amanda also lets me bring my dog, who- with no hyper 90lb puppy to compete with- spends a great deal of time lolling around in cuddly canine princess mode. The other thing, too, is that my sister's house is organized a lot like our mother's. Forget your toothbrush? Here are five to choose from, still in their original Oral B packaging. Need pots and pans? Bottom cabinet next to the stove.



My own home is also organized partly like my parents' house. But I also adapted some of Amanda's organization ideas when I set up my apartment, so essentially- I can put my hands on bandages, Zip-loc baggies, etc in seven seconds or less.



I guess I love going there because it feels like a vacation, but it also feels like home. I was in a big hurry to leave for Boston on Christmas Eve. I grabbed a mug of tea out of the microwave just before it was done heating up, leaving 5 seconds blinking on the clock. My hands were full, my arms were full, I even had something tucked under my chin, so I didn't clear the time.



Hours later, when I finally arrived at Amanda's house, she and Tom were in NH celebrating with his parents. I found the hidden key, settled the dog, put the presents I brought under the tree, moved all my bags into the guest room and went to grab a can of the omnipresent Diet Coke from the fridge. The kitchen was extremely tidy, only a glass or two in the sink. But as I popped open the can of soda, I saw it. Instead of the time, the microwave displayed 12 seconds blinking on the clock.



Thanks for having us, Manda. :)

My sister's house

My sister's house has got to be one of my favorite places in the world. She and Tom live in this cozy, top-of-an-old-Victorian-house apartment in one of those fun villages at the end of a T line in Boston.



They have skylights, a big tub to soak in, a lightning fast Internet connection, and the kind of office-turned-guestroom that you think only exists in Pottery Barn catalogues. It's homey, and safe, and welcoming. There's a lot of napping on Egyptian cotton sheets.



My sister, being the most generous person I know, always lets me borrow socks or t-shirts or whatever I forgot. She also has an endearing, border-line obsession with bath and body products, which means that you can not only sample that fun, exfoliating fountain-of-youth never-tested-on-animals body butter you've been meaning to get with your next gift certficate, but she's probably already fallen out of love with it, moved on to the latest "On Sale at Sepphora" version, so she lets you take it with you.



Amanda also lets me bring my dog, who- with no hyper 90lb puppy to compete with- spends a great deal of time lolling around in cuddly canine princess mode. The other thing, too, is that my sister's house is organized a lot like our mother's. Forget your toothbrush? Here are five to choose from, still in their original Oral B packaging. Need pots and pans? Bottom cabinet next to the stove.



My own home is also organized partly like my parents' house. But I also adapted some of Amanda's organization ideas when I set up my apartment, so essentially- I can put my hands on bandages, Zip-loc baggies, etc in seven seconds or less.



I guess I love going there because it feels like a vacation, but it also feels like home. I was in a big hurry to leave for Boston on Christmas Eve. I grabbed a mug of tea out of the microwave just before it was done heating up, leaving 5 seconds blinking on the clock. My hands were full, my arms were full, I even had something tucked under my chin, so I didn't clear the time.



Hours later, when I finally arrived at Amanda's house, she and Tom were in NH celebrating with his parents. I found the hidden key, settled the dog, put the presents I brought under the tree, moved all my bags into the guest room and went to grab a can of the omnipresent Diet Coke from the fridge. The kitchen was extremely tidy, only a glass or two in the sink. But as I popped open the can of soda, I saw it. Instead of the time, the microwave displayed 12 seconds blinking on the clock.



Thanks for having us, Manda. :)

Last Christmas...

About a year ago, I was having a three-way phone call with Alissa and Gwen that went something like this.



Gwen: When are we getting together to do Hanukkah? Christmas, Hanukkah, whatever.

Angie: A co-worker of mine is engaged to a woman who is Jewish. He referred to it the other day as Chrismanukkah.

Alissa: We are NOT calling it "Chris M0nica."



Hee. Just thought of that. :) Happy Hanumas everyone.

Last Christmas...

About a year ago, I was having a three-way phone call with Alissa and Gwen that went something like this.



Gwen: When are we getting together to do Hanukkah? Christmas, Hanukkah, whatever.

Angie: A co-worker of mine is engaged to a woman who is Jewish. He referred to it the other day as Chrismanukkah.

Alissa: We are NOT calling it "Chris M0nica."



Hee. Just thought of that. :) Happy Hanumas everyone.

What's wrong with me?

"If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips would be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."

-Ebenezer Scrooge, in "A Christmas Carol"



Welcome, everyone! It's time for a round of "What's Wrong With Angie?" An exciting blog game how where I describe my neuroses, and YOU get to try to figure out why I'm like this! YAY! (Disclaimer: The prizes are four size U vacuum bags. I bought a pack right before my vacuum died, and I replaced it with a bagless.)



I... I really don't like Christmas. I'm sorry. Bah humbug. I know you're supposed to see all the happiness, and constant depictions of good will and charity, and ideal living and loving, and feel all fuzzy inside. I just feel inadequate and lonely and sad.



This entry just might have too much truth in it.



I do try, though. I started buying Christmas Presents at the beach in August. (This is not as OCD as it sounds. I see my best good friends at least twice a year- at the beach and for the holidays. A lot of time at "the beach" is actually spent shopping in the outlet stores and cute boutiques, so when my friends admire something, I usually go back and buy it for them.)



Most other holiday presents I make myself. I started making them in September. All but one is finished. All but two are wrapped. My apartment is tastefully decorated. My tree is up and lit. My dog is festively outfitted in the red and white collar Kelly gave her three years ago.



In the last two weeks, I have mailed nearly 80 greeting cards to my high school friends; college friends; former teachers and professors; relatives; boyfriend's family and lifelong friends; professional mentors and networking contacts; former picture story families: paganism, bling family [actually, I meant to write "blind family" but "bling family" is too funny to change], lesbian moms; and former host families from foreign countries. I mailed the international cards so that they will arrive before the actual holiday that the person celebrates in the country where they were sent.



I tracked down and caught up with all of my high school friends (Except Melissa. Hellllooooooo? Are you out there?) I am relatively up-to-date with the happenings in my college roommates' lives. I am all connected and not phone-tagging any of the special six people I talk to weekly/daily.



I paid off all my charge cards. I lost twenty pounds and two sizes in the past year. I got two raises and survived a second round of lay-offs. I am extremely happy with Stephen. We're connected and functioning well as a couple. I remembered three important birthdays and my ex-boyfriend's wedding anniversary with presents and/or cards that arrived on time. I am on track planning/helping the two people for whom I am maid of honor in 2005.



But here's the thing: It will never be enough. It will never feel like enough.



I'm sad to say that telling me: "Well, you just need to relax. Don't do all that stuff for the wrong reasons and just enjoy the holiday!" is NOT a vacuum bag prize winning response.



I'm doing all these things because I WANT to, because I love the people I reach out to, because I love the responses in the cards and letters that come back to me, because I love being connected to people in all the places that I have lived, because I love that people treasure the presents I make for them, because I feel cozy in my candlelit living room, because my dog wearing the fuzzy collar is too damn funny, because I love seeing someone light up when they open something they admired in my presence five months ago.



I feel so loved in my life. I really do. That's what Christmas is all about, right?



So why does a Pier One pamphlet telling me, 'It's the holidays! Be amazing!" hurt so much? Why does the all-green Target commercial with the happy Spanish-speaking family make me feel so sad? Why does "the Christmas spirit" seem so elusive? Why isn't everything I do Christmas-y enough? Why is my dog farting like a trombone?(Don't answer that last one.)



Please do try to answer the others, though. (Win vacuum bags!)

What's wrong with me?

"If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips would be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."

-Ebenezer Scrooge, in "A Christmas Carol"



Welcome, everyone! It's time for a round of "What's Wrong With Angie?" An exciting blog game how where I describe my neuroses, and YOU get to try to figure out why I'm like this! YAY! (Disclaimer: The prizes are four size U vacuum bags. I bought a pack right before my vacuum died, and I replaced it with a bagless.)



I... I really don't like Christmas. I'm sorry. Bah humbug. I know you're supposed to see all the happiness, and constant depictions of good will and charity, and ideal living and loving, and feel all fuzzy inside. I just feel inadequate and lonely and sad.



This entry just might have too much truth in it.



I do try, though. I started buying Christmas Presents at the beach in August. (This is not as OCD as it sounds. I see my best good friends at least twice a year- at the beach and for the holidays. A lot of time at "the beach" is actually spent shopping in the outlet stores and cute boutiques, so when my friends admire something, I usually go back and buy it for them.)



Most other holiday presents I make myself. I started making them in September. All but one is finished. All but two are wrapped. My apartment is tastefully decorated. My tree is up and lit. My dog is festively outfitted in the red and white collar Kelly gave her three years ago.



In the last two weeks, I have mailed nearly 80 greeting cards to my high school friends; college friends; former teachers and professors; relatives; boyfriend's family and lifelong friends; professional mentors and networking contacts; former picture story families: paganism, bling family [actually, I meant to write "blind family" but "bling family" is too funny to change], lesbian moms; and former host families from foreign countries. I mailed the international cards so that they will arrive before the actual holiday that the person celebrates in the country where they were sent.



I tracked down and caught up with all of my high school friends (Except Melissa. Hellllooooooo? Are you out there?) I am relatively up-to-date with the happenings in my college roommates' lives. I am all connected and not phone-tagging any of the special six people I talk to weekly/daily.



I paid off all my charge cards. I lost twenty pounds and two sizes in the past year. I got two raises and survived a second round of lay-offs. I am extremely happy with Stephen. We're connected and functioning well as a couple. I remembered three important birthdays and my ex-boyfriend's wedding anniversary with presents and/or cards that arrived on time. I am on track planning/helping the two people for whom I am maid of honor in 2005.



But here's the thing: It will never be enough. It will never feel like enough.



I'm sad to say that telling me: "Well, you just need to relax. Don't do all that stuff for the wrong reasons and just enjoy the holiday!" is NOT a vacuum bag prize winning response.



I'm doing all these things because I WANT to, because I love the people I reach out to, because I love the responses in the cards and letters that come back to me, because I love being connected to people in all the places that I have lived, because I love that people treasure the presents I make for them, because I feel cozy in my candlelit living room, because my dog wearing the fuzzy collar is too damn funny, because I love seeing someone light up when they open something they admired in my presence five months ago.



I feel so loved in my life. I really do. That's what Christmas is all about, right?



So why does a Pier One pamphlet telling me, 'It's the holidays! Be amazing!" hurt so much? Why does the all-green Target commercial with the happy Spanish-speaking family make me feel so sad? Why does "the Christmas spirit" seem so elusive? Why isn't everything I do Christmas-y enough? Why is my dog farting like a trombone?(Don't answer that last one.)



Please do try to answer the others, though. (Win vacuum bags!)

Oh. Alrighty.

"Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end."

-author unknown



Words to live by. Easy to say, hard to believe.

Oh. Alrighty.

"Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end."

-author unknown



Words to live by. Easy to say, hard to believe.

Ha. HA!

Take that, Cancer! I've said it before, and I'll say it again. We are SO perfectly happy being the Medical Miracle Freak Show Family.



As for the previous entry, I'm not too worried, despite Gwen's lovely, valid-in-some-situations concern. :) I'm not alone in my feelings about covering black-tie galas. It's okay. G's point is well-taken for future reference, though.



It's okay, everyone. Choose a Wealthy Name and take a shot at it. My faith in goodness is restored anyway. Someone is flying back to Cyprus with his entire thyroid in tact and cancer-free. It's all good.

Ha. HA!

Take that, Cancer! I've said it before, and I'll say it again. We are SO perfectly happy being the Medical Miracle Freak Show Family.



As for the previous entry, I'm not too worried, despite Gwen's lovely, valid-in-some-situations concern. :) I'm not alone in my feelings about covering black-tie galas. It's okay. G's point is well-taken for future reference, though.



It's okay, everyone. Choose a Wealthy Name and take a shot at it. My faith in goodness is restored anyway. Someone is flying back to Cyprus with his entire thyroid in tact and cancer-free. It's all good.

Almost Out of Here...

Okay, the bags are packed, the pies are baked, the pets bathed (a Herculean task involving giving Fred his second official bathub bath ever, with some special non-bleach whitening shampoo for light-colored pets, then bathing Bella, then scrubbing and bleaching the bathub, then realizing Fred angrily peed all over some stuff, rinsing said stuff under hot water and soaking overnight in tub, re-bleaching and re-scrubbing the tub, washing peed-on stuff three times in washer today, then walking Bella in the rain, leading to muddy paws and growing sense of exasperation on my part). I have one more assignment, and then I'm on my way home for a few days of friends, family and carbohydrates. Yay!



For those of you who know where Casa Gaul is, feel free to come for pie on Thursday evening, hanging around on Friday and the inevitable Lancaster-shopping on Saturday. :) Be sure to mention how clean and lovely the pets are. ;)

Almost Out of Here...

Okay, the bags are packed, the pies are baked, the pets bathed (a Herculean task involving giving Fred his second official bathub bath ever, with some special non-bleach whitening shampoo for light-colored pets, then bathing Bella, then scrubbing and bleaching the bathub, then realizing Fred angrily peed all over some stuff, rinsing said stuff under hot water and soaking overnight in tub, re-bleaching and re-scrubbing the tub, washing peed-on stuff three times in washer today, then walking Bella in the rain, leading to muddy paws and growing sense of exasperation on my part). I have one more assignment, and then I'm on my way home for a few days of friends, family and carbohydrates. Yay!



For those of you who know where Casa Gaul is, feel free to come for pie on Thursday evening, hanging around on Friday and the inevitable Lancaster-shopping on Saturday. :) Be sure to mention how clean and lovely the pets are. ;)

No, really... How do they know?

On Saturday night, I covered an art exhibit that has sparked a bit of controversary. I had to be frisked and have all my camera gear inspected by policemen AND a bomb dog, which, sadly, is fairly standard operating procedure these days.



I was crouched down to pull out each lens in turn. The bomb dog sniffs the bag like he was supposed to, but then he starts licking my face. I sort of patted the dog's head, because, you know, the dog is supposed to be sniffing out TNT or whatever. So then the dog rolls over on his back with his belly in the air. The police officer was like, "Wow, yeah, he's really not supposed to do that..."

No, really... How do they know?

On Saturday night, I covered an art exhibit that has sparked a bit of controversary. I had to be frisked and have all my camera gear inspected by policemen AND a bomb dog, which, sadly, is fairly standard operating procedure these days.



I was crouched down to pull out each lens in turn. The bomb dog sniffs the bag like he was supposed to, but then he starts licking my face. I sort of patted the dog's head, because, you know, the dog is supposed to be sniffing out TNT or whatever. So then the dog rolls over on his back with his belly in the air. The police officer was like, "Wow, yeah, he's really not supposed to do that..."

Retail Therapy

The odds of going to the store for a loaf of bread and coming out with ONLY a loaf of bread are three billion to one.

--Erma Bombeck



What Ms. Bombeck said is true, but then there are days when you go out for a loaf of bread and find not one, but TWO, things that you just know are going to make somebody (or somebodies) incredibly happy, whether you're the one paying or not...



And they're both red.

Retail Therapy

The odds of going to the store for a loaf of bread and coming out with ONLY a loaf of bread are three billion to one.

--Erma Bombeck



What Ms. Bombeck said is true, but then there are days when you go out for a loaf of bread and find not one, but TWO, things that you just know are going to make somebody (or somebodies) incredibly happy, whether you're the one paying or not...



And they're both red.

GBC Topic 4: The Dinner Party

Time: The Present

Place: A garden apartment on a small Mediterranean island that is not recognized as an independent nation-state by the UN

Dramatis Personae:

Cancer, (yes, the disease)

Dana Carvey

Cameron from Ferris Bueller's Day Off

and the cast of the 1996 movie Twister, including Helen Hunt, Bill Paxton, Cary Elwes, The Hot British Actor Who Played the Evil Dr. Jonas Miller in "Twister," But Who Was Also Wesley in "The Princess Bride"



As our scene opens, Helen Hunt is bustling around setting the table in the cool, efficient manner that all of her fictional characters (except for Lynne Stone, the "bad influence" friend in "Girls Just Want to Have Fun") seem to exude. She is preparing a meal, which consists of Cheerios, organic black tea, steamed cruciferous veggies, and any other foods that in no way make one susceptible to cancer. As the FDA's expert opinions on what defines "cancer-preventative foods" is constantly changing, feel free to imagine the plates continually filling with one type of food, such as boneless, skinless chicken breasts, which then disappear, and refill with broiled salmon filets.



Cameron is sipping water from a glass goblet and crunching the ice with his front teeth. Bill Paxton is standing in the corner talking on a cell phone with his head cocked to the right, the only reliable way to get cell phone reception. The rest of the Twister cast is sitting side-by-side checking the latest weather reports as their laptops fry their reproductive organs.



Helen Hunt returns to the kitchen to chop broccoli, (which is the only cruciferous vegetable I can think of at the moment.) Dana Carvey is sitting on the counter crooning, "She CHOPS! She CHOPS! She's chopping BROCCO-LAY!!"



There's knock at the door. The Most Hated of All Dinner Guests- Cancer- has arrived. Cancer, an crone old of a woman with a deep, terrible, fake tanning-bed tan, enters the apartment with an air of malevolance, lighting a fresh unfiltered cigarette with one hand as another is still smoldering as it dangles the corner of her mouth. Some of the smoke seeps out of the hole in her neck. Her bronze skin is wrinkled like leather, and as she exhales a wisp of smoke curls out of the tracheotomy hole in her neck.



Cancer surveys the room, before removing the cigarette and spitting chewing tobacco juice on the floor. She greets Bill Paxton, who is shouting "ME, JO! You've got ME!" into his cell phone. He has been on so long that phone has actually grown hot against his ear. "That's my boy!" she wheezes, as she pulls an old fashioned perfume spritzer from her purse, labeled "Chemo." She mists it in her general direction, but manages to nail Dana Garvey over her shoulder. He runs to the bathroom to throw up. His hair falls out en route.



Cameron offers Cancer a glass of water.



"I brought my own," Cancer states, as she pulls a Shasta out of her purse. "Unless that's water from the well in the town where Julia Roberts sues the polluting corporation while wearing a balconette demi-bra and a thong?" she asks. [Dana Carvey weakly shouts SCHWING! from the bathroom.]



Helen tells her that it's Evian. Cancer shakes her head. "Ah, Shasta it is then. I ask you, what's the good in showing off your breasts unless they're leaking silicone?" The Hot British Actor Who Played the Evil Dr. Jonas Miller in "Twister," But Who Was Also Wesley in "The Princess Bride" looks up from his laptop. "There's shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a shame to ruin hers."



Helen Hunt serves the steamed vegetables. Cancer glares at her plate before sprinking her entire portion with Aspartame sweetener she has pulled from her purse, then digs in. Helen scowls, then replaces Cancer's veggie plate with an entree of broiled salmon. Cancer leans forward and sniffs her filet. She beams and takes a big bite. "Freshwater salmon from an American-Indian reservation," she explains, as she dabs her mouth with a napkin. "Mostly mercury anyway."



"That's IT!" Helen Hunt stands suddenly, knocking her chair over. "You BITCH!" She throws her plate against the wall. She advances on Cancer, who merely blinks: "Who the hell do you think you are?" Cary Wells (Hot British Actor Who Plays the Evil Dr. Jonas Miller in Twister But Who Also- forget it, you know the rest) also gets to his feet.



"NO!" Helen Hunt shouts at him, doing her lines from the um, "climax" of Twister: "WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU?!" She points at Cancer. "You've never seen it miss this house, and miss that house, and come after you! You just f*ck everything up for everyone! That whole "What Cancer Can Not Do" thing is B*LLSHIT! It's B*LLSHIT! HOW MANY TIMES DO PEOPLE HAVE TO-" She turns to Cary Wells (HBAWPTEDJMITBWAPWITPB- you know that really isn't shorter): "WHAT?!?"



"Right," he says composedly. "Um, I just wanted to tell you all, despite the romantic fantasies you've all been carrying since you first saw the Princess Bride, that I am gay."



"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" screams Helen Hunt, the way Cameron does in Ferris Bueller when he realized that his father's car has been driven around by the skanky valet guys. "Isn't that my line?" Cameron asks, then shrugs and starts making with Cary/Wesley.



At this, Helen loses her temper in a hopping rage, then disappears in a puff of smoke like Rumplstiltskin. Cancer smiles slowly, then calls out to Bill Paxton, still on the cell phone in the corner: "Does your phone have a camera in it, sweetie?" She rasps. "My lady friends back at the clinic are going to DIE when they see this!"



The End.

GBC Topic 4: The Dinner Party

Time: The Present

Place: A garden apartment on a small Mediterranean island that is not recognized as an independent nation-state by the UN

Dramatis Personae:

Cancer, (yes, the disease)

Dana Carvey

Cameron from Ferris Bueller's Day Off

and the cast of the 1996 movie Twister, including Helen Hunt, Bill Paxton, Cary Elwes, The Hot British Actor Who Played the Evil Dr. Jonas Miller in "Twister," But Who Was Also Wesley in "The Princess Bride"



As our scene opens, Helen Hunt is bustling around setting the table in the cool, efficient manner that all of her fictional characters (except for Lynne Stone, the "bad influence" friend in "Girls Just Want to Have Fun") seem to exude. She is preparing a meal, which consists of Cheerios, organic black tea, steamed cruciferous veggies, and any other foods that in no way make one susceptible to cancer. As the FDA's expert opinions on what defines "cancer-preventative foods" is constantly changing, feel free to imagine the plates continually filling with one type of food, such as boneless, skinless chicken breasts, which then disappear, and refill with broiled salmon filets.



Cameron is sipping water from a glass goblet and crunching the ice with his front teeth. Bill Paxton is standing in the corner talking on a cell phone with his head cocked to the right, the only reliable way to get cell phone reception. The rest of the Twister cast is sitting side-by-side checking the latest weather reports as their laptops fry their reproductive organs.



Helen Hunt returns to the kitchen to chop broccoli, (which is the only cruciferous vegetable I can think of at the moment.) Dana Carvey is sitting on the counter crooning, "She CHOPS! She CHOPS! She's chopping BROCCO-LAY!!"



There's knock at the door. The Most Hated of All Dinner Guests- Cancer- has arrived. Cancer, an crone old of a woman with a deep, terrible, fake tanning-bed tan, enters the apartment with an air of malevolance, lighting a fresh unfiltered cigarette with one hand as another is still smoldering as it dangles the corner of her mouth. Some of the smoke seeps out of the hole in her neck. Her bronze skin is wrinkled like leather, and as she exhales a wisp of smoke curls out of the tracheotomy hole in her neck.



Cancer surveys the room, before removing the cigarette and spitting chewing tobacco juice on the floor. She greets Bill Paxton, who is shouting "ME, JO! You've got ME!" into his cell phone. He has been on so long that phone has actually grown hot against his ear. "That's my boy!" she wheezes, as she pulls an old fashioned perfume spritzer from her purse, labeled "Chemo." She mists it in her general direction, but manages to nail Dana Garvey over her shoulder. He runs to the bathroom to throw up. His hair falls out en route.



Cameron offers Cancer a glass of water.



"I brought my own," Cancer states, as she pulls a Shasta out of her purse. "Unless that's water from the well in the town where Julia Roberts sues the polluting corporation while wearing a balconette demi-bra and a thong?" she asks. [Dana Carvey weakly shouts SCHWING! from the bathroom.]



Helen tells her that it's Evian. Cancer shakes her head. "Ah, Shasta it is then. I ask you, what's the good in showing off your breasts unless they're leaking silicone?" The Hot British Actor Who Played the Evil Dr. Jonas Miller in "Twister," But Who Was Also Wesley in "The Princess Bride" looks up from his laptop. "There's shortage of perfect breasts in this world. It would be a shame to ruin hers."



Helen Hunt serves the steamed vegetables. Cancer glares at her plate before sprinking her entire portion with Aspartame sweetener she has pulled from her purse, then digs in. Helen scowls, then replaces Cancer's veggie plate with an entree of broiled salmon. Cancer leans forward and sniffs her filet. She beams and takes a big bite. "Freshwater salmon from an American-Indian reservation," she explains, as she dabs her mouth with a napkin. "Mostly mercury anyway."



"That's IT!" Helen Hunt stands suddenly, knocking her chair over. "You BITCH!" She throws her plate against the wall. She advances on Cancer, who merely blinks: "Who the hell do you think you are?" Cary Wells (Hot British Actor Who Plays the Evil Dr. Jonas Miller in Twister But Who Also- forget it, you know the rest) also gets to his feet.



"NO!" Helen Hunt shouts at him, doing her lines from the um, "climax" of Twister: "WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU?!" She points at Cancer. "You've never seen it miss this house, and miss that house, and come after you! You just f*ck everything up for everyone! That whole "What Cancer Can Not Do" thing is B*LLSHIT! It's B*LLSHIT! HOW MANY TIMES DO PEOPLE HAVE TO-" She turns to Cary Wells (HBAWPTEDJMITBWAPWITPB- you know that really isn't shorter): "WHAT?!?"



"Right," he says composedly. "Um, I just wanted to tell you all, despite the romantic fantasies you've all been carrying since you first saw the Princess Bride, that I am gay."



"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" screams Helen Hunt, the way Cameron does in Ferris Bueller when he realized that his father's car has been driven around by the skanky valet guys. "Isn't that my line?" Cameron asks, then shrugs and starts making with Cary/Wesley.



At this, Helen loses her temper in a hopping rage, then disappears in a puff of smoke like Rumplstiltskin. Cancer smiles slowly, then calls out to Bill Paxton, still on the cell phone in the corner: "Does your phone have a camera in it, sweetie?" She rasps. "My lady friends back at the clinic are going to DIE when they see this!"



The End.

Doom! DOOM!

Okay. I shot Passive Aggressive Bride's wedding on Friday, and I think that was the last wedding I will ever do. Except for Shauna, if she picks me. But then that's it! Never again. Or at least, not until 2006, when AJ and Kelly's weddings are finished.



Oh. My. God. First of all, there were 25 people in the wedding party, including six children under the age of seven, all of whom were emissaries from Crack Babies of America - so hyper, so badly behaved, so uncooperative, so insistent on picking their noses when I'm trying to shoot their photos... (I am not making that up. One jr groomsman did it, and then the others thought it was funny and wouldn't stop.)



It was a classic case of "You get what you pay for," honestly. The bride had a matron of honor, a maid of honor, seven bridesmaids, two junior bridesmaids, and two flower girls. But they only reserved two rooms at the hotel for them to get ready in. (DOOM!) She wanted elaborate, full centerpieces, but she ordered them from a grocery store florist to save money. There is an employee from the flower department of Stew Leonard's (a grocery store that features animatronic cows on mechanical swings above the dairy section) running around with permenant scars somewhere. To give them credit, the women's bouquets *were* gorgeous...



The bride insisted that I do all of the portraits of the wedding party in fifteen minutes, so that she could enjoy her full cocktail hour. WTF? That's like asking me to bake a wedding cake in a toaster oven. It may have been workable, ideal even, if she would have agreed to see the groom before the ceremony and get everything shot then. I tried to explain the benefits of that arrangement for months. No deal. We were supposed to at least shoot the bridesmaids' photos before the ceremony, but then the bride had a meltdown (a sobbing, makeup ruining meltdown). The hairdresser ended up putting her back together, and I ended up screening visitors at the door like the Curly Mustache Guy in the Wizard of Oz: "Nobody gets in to see the wizard! Not nobody, no how!"



I told her that I hate pulling couples out of the reception for formal photos, and she insisted that the cocktail hour was more important to her and was certain we "could make it happen." Actually, she missed a bit of the cocktail hour after all because she almost passed out after the ceremony, in her first of two fainting spells. The matron of honor and I ended up pulling her corset off of her in the bathroom, and making her sit and sip Sprite for the first 15 minutes because otherwise she was going to have to end up going up to her hotel room to lay down. (Lay down? Lie down? Gwen?)



Meanwhile, in addition to the Must-Take List that was already two pages long, her extended family kept asking me for poses of "The bride and all her cousins" or "Me, all my adult children, and grandchildren." Also, the parents and grandparents were expecting to shoot the formal photos between the ceremony and reception, as is customary, and were extremely concerned we hadn't done so by 10:15 p.m., with the reception scheduled to end at midnight. Tell me about it. Did I mention that the cake wasn't cut, and the special dances (other than the First Dance) hadn't taken place yet? DOOM!



I finally managed to get everyone together for photos around 10:30 p.m. I have my work cut out for me with PhotoShop, because everyone was drunk and disheveled by then. At one point, when I went to straighten the bride's extremely crooked veil, she actually *stamped her foot* and snapped: "@ngel@, can do this any faster? I want to dance! I waaaannnt to daaance!" Her aunt whispered, "You're going to be twitching by the end of the night" in my ear, but I was sort of speechless at that point.



Finally, the Very Aggressive Grandmother managed to corral everyone into her most desired pose (20 people), and I shot it. I didn't know that the Grandfather's New Wife (referred to all day as "The Slut") was in the shot. I didn't know she wasn't supposed to be in the shot. (DOOM!)



Massive family fight ensues, wherein Evil Granny yells at her Daughter, Daughter yells at the Bride, and Groom yells at Evil Granny. I try to smoothe things over by explaining I can digitally remove the Person in Question (a.k.a The Slut) from the photo, at which point, Evil Granny shouts "Excuse me!" and physically removes me from the coversation with a firm tap/"gentle" shove.



The Happy Couple returns to their reception, and everything goes as planned without further incident. I seek out The Grandmother, who agrees that digitally removing The Slut from the photo is the best course of action. Cake is cut, dances are danced, reception ends. At 12:15 a.m. I'm just finished packing up- the last extension cord is wrapped, the last umbrella folded, the last lightstand collasped, when the bride asks me if we can re-gather the troops and re-shoot the Fight-Causing Portrait Sans Slut.



No. No, we cannot. As I type this, I am retrospectively temped to stamp my foot and snap, "I want to dance! I waaaannnt to daaance!" I'm os glad I didn't think of doing that then. Instead, I tell her politely that I will take her out digitally, and I've already spoken to the Grandmother about it. I drive home from the Mountain Resort in a sleet/snow storm and crawl under the covers, where I have been camped for the last 48 hours.



Actually, wedding bullshit aside, I'm sick. I haven't felt like this since I had mono- exhaustion, body aches, enormous swollen glands. Luckily, you aren't supposed to be able to get mono twice. I have another day off tomorrow, and plenty of sick time to use before December 31 if needed. Feh.



Anyway, be good to each other, dear readers and fellow union bridesmaids. If I learned anyhting this weekend, it's that we should all take our birth control pills, drink plenty of fluids, and avoid operating heavy machinery in the presence of bridal magazines. :)

Doom! DOOM!

Okay. I shot Passive Aggressive Bride's wedding on Friday, and I think that was the last wedding I will ever do. Except for Shauna, if she picks me. But then that's it! Never again. Or at least, not until 2006, when AJ and Kelly's weddings are finished.



Oh. My. God. First of all, there were 25 people in the wedding party, including six children under the age of seven, all of whom were emissaries from Crack Babies of America - so hyper, so badly behaved, so uncooperative, so insistent on picking their noses when I'm trying to shoot their photos... (I am not making that up. One jr groomsman did it, and then the others thought it was funny and wouldn't stop.)



It was a classic case of "You get what you pay for," honestly. The bride had a matron of honor, a maid of honor, seven bridesmaids, two junior bridesmaids, and two flower girls. But they only reserved two rooms at the hotel for them to get ready in. (DOOM!) She wanted elaborate, full centerpieces, but she ordered them from a grocery store florist to save money. There is an employee from the flower department of Stew Leonard's (a grocery store that features animatronic cows on mechanical swings above the dairy section) running around with permenant scars somewhere. To give them credit, the women's bouquets *were* gorgeous...



The bride insisted that I do all of the portraits of the wedding party in fifteen minutes, so that she could enjoy her full cocktail hour. WTF? That's like asking me to bake a wedding cake in a toaster oven. It may have been workable, ideal even, if she would have agreed to see the groom before the ceremony and get everything shot then. I tried to explain the benefits of that arrangement for months. No deal. We were supposed to at least shoot the bridesmaids' photos before the ceremony, but then the bride had a meltdown (a sobbing, makeup ruining meltdown). The hairdresser ended up putting her back together, and I ended up screening visitors at the door like the Curly Mustache Guy in the Wizard of Oz: "Nobody gets in to see the wizard! Not nobody, no how!"



I told her that I hate pulling couples out of the reception for formal photos, and she insisted that the cocktail hour was more important to her and was certain we "could make it happen." Actually, she missed a bit of the cocktail hour after all because she almost passed out after the ceremony, in her first of two fainting spells. The matron of honor and I ended up pulling her corset off of her in the bathroom, and making her sit and sip Sprite for the first 15 minutes because otherwise she was going to have to end up going up to her hotel room to lay down. (Lay down? Lie down? Gwen?)



Meanwhile, in addition to the Must-Take List that was already two pages long, her extended family kept asking me for poses of "The bride and all her cousins" or "Me, all my adult children, and grandchildren." Also, the parents and grandparents were expecting to shoot the formal photos between the ceremony and reception, as is customary, and were extremely concerned we hadn't done so by 10:15 p.m., with the reception scheduled to end at midnight. Tell me about it. Did I mention that the cake wasn't cut, and the special dances (other than the First Dance) hadn't taken place yet? DOOM!



I finally managed to get everyone together for photos around 10:30 p.m. I have my work cut out for me with PhotoShop, because everyone was drunk and disheveled by then. At one point, when I went to straighten the bride's extremely crooked veil, she actually *stamped her foot* and snapped: "@ngel@, can do this any faster? I want to dance! I waaaannnt to daaance!" Her aunt whispered, "You're going to be twitching by the end of the night" in my ear, but I was sort of speechless at that point.



Finally, the Very Aggressive Grandmother managed to corral everyone into her most desired pose (20 people), and I shot it. I didn't know that the Grandfather's New Wife (referred to all day as "The Slut") was in the shot. I didn't know she wasn't supposed to be in the shot. (DOOM!)



Massive family fight ensues, wherein Evil Granny yells at her Daughter, Daughter yells at the Bride, and Groom yells at Evil Granny. I try to smoothe things over by explaining I can digitally remove the Person in Question (a.k.a The Slut) from the photo, at which point, Evil Granny shouts "Excuse me!" and physically removes me from the coversation with a firm tap/"gentle" shove.



The Happy Couple returns to their reception, and everything goes as planned without further incident. I seek out The Grandmother, who agrees that digitally removing The Slut from the photo is the best course of action. Cake is cut, dances are danced, reception ends. At 12:15 a.m. I'm just finished packing up- the last extension cord is wrapped, the last umbrella folded, the last lightstand collasped, when the bride asks me if we can re-gather the troops and re-shoot the Fight-Causing Portrait Sans Slut.



No. No, we cannot. As I type this, I am retrospectively temped to stamp my foot and snap, "I want to dance! I waaaannnt to daaance!" I'm os glad I didn't think of doing that then. Instead, I tell her politely that I will take her out digitally, and I've already spoken to the Grandmother about it. I drive home from the Mountain Resort in a sleet/snow storm and crawl under the covers, where I have been camped for the last 48 hours.



Actually, wedding bullshit aside, I'm sick. I haven't felt like this since I had mono- exhaustion, body aches, enormous swollen glands. Luckily, you aren't supposed to be able to get mono twice. I have another day off tomorrow, and plenty of sick time to use before December 31 if needed. Feh.



Anyway, be good to each other, dear readers and fellow union bridesmaids. If I learned anyhting this weekend, it's that we should all take our birth control pills, drink plenty of fluids, and avoid operating heavy machinery in the presence of bridal magazines. :)

I feel like I could vomit blood.

Yesterday when I was voting, I actually got a little misty-eyed, thinking that this was it, that here was our chance to change things, to make things right, to show the world the compassionate and just country America can be.



I am heart-broken, not necessarily because I believed in Kerry, but because the people who taught me right from wrong, who worked three jobs each to help me earn my education, who took me to Martin Luther King, Jr.'s home, church and grave, who instilled in me a deep respect for scientific research, voted for Bush. And they did it in my name, because they believed we would be safer from a terrorist attack in New York City if we didn't change administrations.



I doubt that we will be able to undo the damage that this president has done, and will do in the next four years, in my lifetime.



Not in my name. Not in my name, not ever.

I feel like I could vomit blood.

Yesterday when I was voting, I actually got a little misty-eyed, thinking that this was it, that here was our chance to change things, to make things right, to show the world the compassionate and just country America can be.



I am heart-broken, not necessarily because I believed in Kerry, but because the people who taught me right from wrong, who worked three jobs each to help me earn my education, who took me to Martin Luther King, Jr.'s home, church and grave, who instilled in me a deep respect for scientific research, voted for Bush. And they did it in my name, because they believed we would be safer from a terrorist attack in New York City if we didn't change administrations.



I doubt that we will be able to undo the damage that this president has done, and will do in the next four years, in my lifetime.



Not in my name. Not in my name, not ever.

Helloooooo over there! It's me and Nelson Mandela. To the left. A little further. Here we are!

My friend Becky recommended this little Internet quiz... I haven't had this much fun since we all turned out to be Thomas Paine and/or Alexander Hamilton in that "Which founding father are you?" quiz last year.



Speaking of politics, I found these two cartoons from my favorite comic strip particularly funny.

Helloooooo over there! It's me and Nelson Mandela. To the left. A little further. Here we are!

My friend Becky recommended this little Internet quiz... I haven't had this much fun since we all turned out to be Thomas Paine and/or Alexander Hamilton in that "Which founding father are you?" quiz last year.



Speaking of politics, I found these two cartoons from my favorite comic strip particularly funny.

GBC Topic 1: To myself, on the occasion of my 13th birthday.

Hey you,

Okay, happy birthday, but listen up. It's going to get worse before it gets better.



I know you've been worried about this for a while now, so take a deep breath: The Mean Girls are about to take you out. You couldn't know this last night, but that little birthday party trip to Dance Theater, followed by a sleepover? The beginning of the end.



That bullshit @bby W!tman pulled about "vowing-not-to-eat-junk-food-for-a-year-starting-48-hours-ago" [on May 1st]? Don't sweat it. There will be a parade of people who love eating that taco dip while sitting on that same couch in the family room for years- even DECADES- from now.



Now. About your birthday wishes. At the time I that I write this, there is no cure for MD, but there's progress. The good news is that Brad will be around longer- a LOT longer- than you've dared to hope. Next week, he's going to walk into that hospital and come through the surgery like a champ, but no- he will not walk back out. He will, however, someday learn to ski, thanks to technology in the new millennium. :)



Sadly, you have less time with Mike H@rtranft than you think you do. Much less. He's going to do a lot of important work in the time he has left, and he's going get a lot of attention for it. A lot of people are going to try and steal some of the limelight for themselves. It's going to drive us crazy- you in your 13-year-old present and me in my 25-year-old hindsight- but... Truthfully, I still don't know what the best way to handle that would have been. Regardless, time flies without our noticing, and it will be hard when it runs out.



Moving on from all that life and death stuff... The boy with whom you share your first real kiss is going to be a real disappointment unless you listen to me very carefully. This is important. Come August, when Ry@n Rubenste!n walks into the laundry room to help you turn off the broken buzzer on the dryer, do NOT grab your windbreaker, chirp "thanks!" and walk out. STAY in the laundry room. STAY.



Also, please stop complaining about being flat-chested. Yep. It's true. We have trouble finding flattering button-down blouses in the future. Enjoy your time in the "Itty Bitty Titty Committee" while it lasts.



What else? Oh, the bacteria you're about to start looking for in your science fair project is anaerobic. Save us three years of research and put the petri dishes in one of those "hermetically-sealed-to-keep-out-oxygen" bags from the start, would you? About the science fair... If I recall, you spent more time worrying about whether or not working with cow manure would lead to "social suicide" than you did putting together the display board, and that's saying something.



And honey, the "social suicide" happens anyway. This is what I was alluding to before, see above. In about two weeks, you're going to tell the Queen Bee off after she tearfully announces to the entire 7th grade that "her best friend" (the Other Girl she's been torturing all year) is in the hospital battling anorexia. You're going to love where your science fair project leads you, even though a few steps require you to work with diluted cow manure, and the rest is just bullshit. Pun intended.



I don't want to write this next part, but you should know. You need to know. Your big sister is about to go through a very difficult time. She makes some bad choices; we all do. Her next few years will be like a kaleidoscope- one minute the colorful pieces look like flowers, with a flick of the wrist, like dragons breathing fire. But you and me, 13, we're nothing if not loyal. When the pieces come together for her in a few years, it's really quite beautiful, and no one loves you like she does.



This is more serious than I intended, Little Angie, but we were at a serious crossroads at the start of May 1992. Not to worry. When life gets good, it gets very, very good. So many amazing adventures are coming your way. I already told you- we get boobs for days!- but I don't want to spoil any other surprises for you. Just know that your life, our lives, our LIFE! will be extraordinary.



Love until later,

Angie, 25

PS Remember- STAY in the laundry room. STAY!

GBC Topic 1: To myself, on the occasion of my 13th birthday.

Hey you,

Okay, happy birthday, but listen up. It's going to get worse before it gets better.



I know you've been worried about this for a while now, so take a deep breath: The Mean Girls are about to take you out. You couldn't know this last night, but that little birthday party trip to Dance Theater, followed by a sleepover? The beginning of the end.



That bullshit @bby W!tman pulled about "vowing-not-to-eat-junk-food-for-a-year-starting-48-hours-ago" [on May 1st]? Don't sweat it. There will be a parade of people who love eating that taco dip while sitting on that same couch in the family room for years- even DECADES- from now.



Now. About your birthday wishes. At the time I that I write this, there is no cure for MD, but there's progress. The good news is that Brad will be around longer- a LOT longer- than you've dared to hope. Next week, he's going to walk into that hospital and come through the surgery like a champ, but no- he will not walk back out. He will, however, someday learn to ski, thanks to technology in the new millennium. :)



Sadly, you have less time with Mike H@rtranft than you think you do. Much less. He's going to do a lot of important work in the time he has left, and he's going get a lot of attention for it. A lot of people are going to try and steal some of the limelight for themselves. It's going to drive us crazy- you in your 13-year-old present and me in my 25-year-old hindsight- but... Truthfully, I still don't know what the best way to handle that would have been. Regardless, time flies without our noticing, and it will be hard when it runs out.



Moving on from all that life and death stuff... The boy with whom you share your first real kiss is going to be a real disappointment unless you listen to me very carefully. This is important. Come August, when Ry@n Rubenste!n walks into the laundry room to help you turn off the broken buzzer on the dryer, do NOT grab your windbreaker, chirp "thanks!" and walk out. STAY in the laundry room. STAY.



Also, please stop complaining about being flat-chested. Yep. It's true. We have trouble finding flattering button-down blouses in the future. Enjoy your time in the "Itty Bitty Titty Committee" while it lasts.



What else? Oh, the bacteria you're about to start looking for in your science fair project is anaerobic. Save us three years of research and put the petri dishes in one of those "hermetically-sealed-to-keep-out-oxygen" bags from the start, would you? About the science fair... If I recall, you spent more time worrying about whether or not working with cow manure would lead to "social suicide" than you did putting together the display board, and that's saying something.



And honey, the "social suicide" happens anyway. This is what I was alluding to before, see above. In about two weeks, you're going to tell the Queen Bee off after she tearfully announces to the entire 7th grade that "her best friend" (the Other Girl she's been torturing all year) is in the hospital battling anorexia. You're going to love where your science fair project leads you, even though a few steps require you to work with diluted cow manure, and the rest is just bullshit. Pun intended.



I don't want to write this next part, but you should know. You need to know. Your big sister is about to go through a very difficult time. She makes some bad choices; we all do. Her next few years will be like a kaleidoscope- one minute the colorful pieces look like flowers, with a flick of the wrist, like dragons breathing fire. But you and me, 13, we're nothing if not loyal. When the pieces come together for her in a few years, it's really quite beautiful, and no one loves you like she does.



This is more serious than I intended, Little Angie, but we were at a serious crossroads at the start of May 1992. Not to worry. When life gets good, it gets very, very good. So many amazing adventures are coming your way. I already told you- we get boobs for days!- but I don't want to spoil any other surprises for you. Just know that your life, our lives, our LIFE! will be extraordinary.



Love until later,

Angie, 25

PS Remember- STAY in the laundry room. STAY!

I gagged. I actually gagged.

I was just looking on the Knot.com (involuntary shudder) for a basic Must-Take List that I could modify and send to Pleasantly Passive Bride, with the suggestion that she edit accordingly.



I don't know what it is about me and the wedding industry. It's scary, and painful, and yet- like a beetle to a bug zapper- I can't seem to stop poking around it. Yes, a bunch of people I love are getting married, and yes- I make an extra couple thousand dollars a year shooting weddings, so I can't really avoid it completely. But still. Bug zapper.



Must. Focus. On insect carcasses... illuminated by..... compelling blue light. Ooh..shiny!



Okay, that's not why I gagged, though thinking about carcasses of any kind can do that to you. The Knot's Must-Take Photo List is completely nauseating, not to mention unrealistic. Any photographer trying to follow this is going to come up short AND miss most of the real emotional moments. Christ. Feeling masochistic? Go here.



Feeling curious in that car accident kind of way?

From the preparation portion: "Groom getting ready with Dad and pals (tying the tie is a classic)

From the ceremony portion: "Close-up of groom's adorably nervous mug waiting for his other half"

From the portrait portion: "Bride with her happy, proud parents and/or stepparents"

From the reception portion: "Guests going nuts on the dance floor"



Could somebody please pass the saltines? Maybe I'll choke. Hey, what's the funny, buzzing blue light over there?

I gagged. I actually gagged.

I was just looking on the Knot.com (involuntary shudder) for a basic Must-Take List that I could modify and send to Pleasantly Passive Bride, with the suggestion that she edit accordingly.



I don't know what it is about me and the wedding industry. It's scary, and painful, and yet- like a beetle to a bug zapper- I can't seem to stop poking around it. Yes, a bunch of people I love are getting married, and yes- I make an extra couple thousand dollars a year shooting weddings, so I can't really avoid it completely. But still. Bug zapper.



Must. Focus. On insect carcasses... illuminated by..... compelling blue light. Ooh..shiny!



Okay, that's not why I gagged, though thinking about carcasses of any kind can do that to you. The Knot's Must-Take Photo List is completely nauseating, not to mention unrealistic. Any photographer trying to follow this is going to come up short AND miss most of the real emotional moments. Christ. Feeling masochistic? Go here.



Feeling curious in that car accident kind of way?

From the preparation portion: "Groom getting ready with Dad and pals (tying the tie is a classic)

From the ceremony portion: "Close-up of groom's adorably nervous mug waiting for his other half"

From the portrait portion: "Bride with her happy, proud parents and/or stepparents"

From the reception portion: "Guests going nuts on the dance floor"



Could somebody please pass the saltines? Maybe I'll choke. Hey, what's the funny, buzzing blue light over there?

Mmmm... Good weekend

Last week totally sucked, but I feel ready to face the world again after this weekend.



There were good friends (old friends laughing with new friends, seeing friends-in-law), beautiful leaves, yummy cider, good food, funny movie, cuddly pets, cozy throw blankets and time to relax.



Passive-Aggressive Bridal Couple totally behaved themselves for their engagement portrait session, which I think, goes to show that my sister, the contract lawyer, gives great advice. When the situation reached the point that I was fantasizing about pulling a Donald and screaming: "YOU'RE FIRED!" she told me when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, when to push back to show "I mean business!" and how to do it. She rocks. In the future I'm going to try to implement the rest of the advice: "If the client cries, the price goes UP!" We'll see.



Actually, I just love October. I love Halloween, and wood smoke, and cozy sweaters. October always seems to be when I'm having fun, falling in love, celebrating a lot of favorite people's birthdays...



On a related note (I promise), I shot high school football on Friday night. It was the school's homecoming game, and they are one of the few schools in the area that has a marching band. Actually, they're one of the best high school bands in the nation, so I've done quite of few stories about them. They are some of my favorite kids that I regularly cover, for musicals and theater awards, etc etc. Most of last year's graduates were back for Homecoming, and predictably- some of them came out, got tongue rings, seem to be really happy and confortable in their own skin a way that only college freshman can be (and yeah, some of that "I LOVE my new life!" stuff is an act, but it's good to see them).



Band kids, though, are pretty universal in personality and attitude, actually, so I can't help but be reminded of people I know, people I used to know, and people I know as I used to know them.

I know you're out there, somewhere, turning 27. Happy belated birthday, you.

Mmmm... Good weekend

Last week totally sucked, but I feel ready to face the world again after this weekend.



There were good friends (old friends laughing with new friends, seeing friends-in-law), beautiful leaves, yummy cider, good food, funny movie, cuddly pets, cozy throw blankets and time to relax.



Passive-Aggressive Bridal Couple totally behaved themselves for their engagement portrait session, which I think, goes to show that my sister, the contract lawyer, gives great advice. When the situation reached the point that I was fantasizing about pulling a Donald and screaming: "YOU'RE FIRED!" she told me when to hold 'em, when to fold 'em, when to push back to show "I mean business!" and how to do it. She rocks. In the future I'm going to try to implement the rest of the advice: "If the client cries, the price goes UP!" We'll see.



Actually, I just love October. I love Halloween, and wood smoke, and cozy sweaters. October always seems to be when I'm having fun, falling in love, celebrating a lot of favorite people's birthdays...



On a related note (I promise), I shot high school football on Friday night. It was the school's homecoming game, and they are one of the few schools in the area that has a marching band. Actually, they're one of the best high school bands in the nation, so I've done quite of few stories about them. They are some of my favorite kids that I regularly cover, for musicals and theater awards, etc etc. Most of last year's graduates were back for Homecoming, and predictably- some of them came out, got tongue rings, seem to be really happy and confortable in their own skin a way that only college freshman can be (and yeah, some of that "I LOVE my new life!" stuff is an act, but it's good to see them).



Band kids, though, are pretty universal in personality and attitude, actually, so I can't help but be reminded of people I know, people I used to know, and people I know as I used to know them.

I know you're out there, somewhere, turning 27. Happy belated birthday, you.

Better get cozy. This might take a little while...

In some versions of the King Arthur story, Merlin the Magician is described as having been born at the instant the world came to an end. He lived his life backwards. As a result, he had already lived through the future by the time he was an old man. Unlike other people, who grow older and wiser with time, Merlin experienced the consequences before the catalysts. Because he was a younger, less wise man when he witnessed the outcomes, he didn't always have the best understanding of which thing caused what. He had to constantly sift through his memories, which, because he lived backwards, were comprised of everyone else's destinies, trying to warn (or teach) people about the right thing at the right time. Unfortunately for Arthur, Merlin occasionally got confused and gave off the impression of having a Swiss cheese-like memory: strong and full of holes.



The other week, hefk and I were talking about her classes and how she has to structure her fifth period lessons around lunch breaks that divide into three (A, B and C) parts, which, of course, was how HHS did it. She said that her memory begins in high school, further back than that is fuzzy. That discussion lead to a full-on demonstration of my frighteningly detailed memory. If you've never reminisced with me before, then you should know that my first memories (that can be corroborated by other people) are from when I was about 10-months-old.



And I don't just remember things *I* experienced. I remember things people told me that happened to them before I met them that they've since forgotten. I remember the origins of other people's inside jokes. Of course, my memory isn't perfect. There are some really painful things I *have* managed to forget. Like everyone, I sometimes I remember things how I wish they would have happened. Like everyone, sometimes I don't remember things properly because I misunderstood (or was in denial about) the situation as it was occurring.



The thing most people don't get, though, is that my memory never really turns off. It's running constantly. Constantly. Not just when a scent or a song reminds me of something, or when people quiz me about the plots of old Sweet Valley High books as a party trick. It never stops. The longer I live, the more memories I have, obviously. But because the memories are always running, I am, kind of like the Merlin example, living both forwards and backwards simultaneously. Today offers a few interesting examples, so I'll try and explain it with specifics, shall I?



Okay. This is how a normal person would describe my day. This might be how I would describe my day if I were pretending to be normal or, at the very least, when I try to ignore my scary memory. I swear, if I could delete half of the crap that's in my head, I could harness the wasted power and move objects with my mind. At least, I would probably remember where I put my keys.



Here goes: I slept 'til noon, got up, walked the dog, chatted to Kelly. Carucha picked me up. We drove into the city, originally planning to go to a big demonstration-type gathering of knitters in the village (Greenwich Village is neither in Greenwich, nor a village. Discuss.) and then to see a show that College Roommate Erika was in. A lot of people I went to college with were involved in its creation, including the playwright, producer and lead actor. There was a parade down 5th Avenue, and we were stopped in traffic for a long time while a marching band passed. We skipped the knitting thing and caught the sold-out show, since luckily there were a few ticket holders who were no-shows. Then Carucha and I went to a funny Trailer Park Diner in Chelsea. We split a hot Krispy Kreme for dessert. We wandered through a shop- a costume shop anyway, but in all its glory for Halloween- and began winding slowly through still-slow traffic back to Mount Vernon.



Here's how a day I experience a day like this. Forget all the memories jogged by the parade- 7 years of participation in marching bands, plus memories from trying to cover the Pride Parade- I'll just start with the arrival at the theater.



[Present Day:] Erika touches my shoulder as she passes me in the lobby. I'm about to see her performing in a show written by Julien, a guy I knew in college, with whom she was once desperately in unrequited love.



*2000: I can see her, sitting on the screened in porch, smoking a cigarette. She's talking to my Soph/Jr/Sr Roommate Jo, her friend more than mine at the time. She wants to break the lease she signed to live at Marathon House (if the Drama Dept was a fraternity; this was their house) and live with us instead senior year. Okay. She's over him, but.... I think she's been crying.



*in Sept. 9, 1999: Julien is putting on a Paul Simon CD, at a 9/9/99 party in the apartment where Erika lived during study abroad. Our semester in London is when I spent the most time with Julien, who was Stephen's best friend freshman year, before he was never *not* under the influence of a variety of recreational drugs.*



[Present Day:] A catalogue of faces from college are scattered all around this little black box theater. Julien wrote this play. It's the last performance. He's got to be around here, right? He's... okay, that guy sitting two feet away from me. We chat: Hi! Yeah, no, well, to see Erika, but also... How're you doing? Fine, fine. I'm glad we got in. You wrote a sold out show, congratulations. Yeah, Boston. Stephen's playing a quadriplegic Elvis impersonator who gets a (fake) hand job from a man on stage. And then kissed on the mouth by man. "I may just have to see that," he says.



*1999: my Finsbury flatshare. Julien's wearing baggy pants and walking down a short flight of stairs in the apartment. "I feel like a miner in these pants." He does a funny sort of Cartoon Gold Rush walk, saying "There's gold in 'em hills!"*



*December 1997. Walking back from a Pimps and Hos party at 3 a.m. I'm tipsy, wearing a borrowed red dress that's just a little shorter than something that would have been appropriate at a Hempf!eld Homecoming Dance, to be honest. And Come F*ck Me Shoes. Jo is drunk. She was wearing borrowed velvet hot pants with fishnets and pulled off the "ho" costume with greater success. Our feet were killing us. Julien is walking us back. I start walking barefoot, even though there's snow on the ground and salt on the sidewalk. My feet hurt so much. Jo's in worse shape. She decides to crawl, which Julien and I insist is a terrible idea. I'll never forget this. He takes off his Converse basketball sneakers and gives them to me to wear. Barefoot, he gives Jo a piggyback ride all the way back to the dorm.*



[Present Day:] The director makes a little speech about what else this little theater company has going on. He mentions that "reading director M!chael We!selberg" recently received permission to translate a play from Hebrew something something something Israeli consulate. He nods to someone behind me, and there's Mike, whom I first met in Junior High, *1991: when his name was Hal. [Back to Present Day:] I give him a little wave. He has no idea who I am. I wish I were thinner.



The show starts. The lead actor walks out on stage. Eric. He starred in the first play Stephen wrote, when it was produced in a young playwright's festival senior year.



*Mid-March 2001. Opening night for My Brother's Keeper (Stephen's play). He's nervous. I managed to shower and leave the house, only paging my shrink once. A miracle. I was wearing a dress I bought in London, sheer black over a pink shift. It stopped fitting in 2000 when my weight went up, but fit again once I got depressed and lost the will to eat. The last time we'd had a date, Valentine's Day, I had a panic attack in the Olive Garden and Stephen had to lead me from the restaurant in tears. I always wore that dress with my funky Mary Janes. I lost the right shoe in the move to Miami. I'm still pissed about that.*



[Present Day:] The show is wonderful. Eric, the lead, is doing this funny bit with a woman his character is meeting for the first time. In the plot, they individually sneak out of a movie to smoke and get locked out. They're doing this funny bit with popcorn someone else left out there that they really want to eat, but it's popcorn someone left in an alley, so... It reminds me of this scene in the play "Art" where the three characters are fighting, not speaking, but sharing a bowl of olives. I know this director. Program check. He directed Stephen in "Art." May 2001. Who else was in that? Julien. Huh. And another guy, who is not currently in this theater. I think.



Intermission.



I approach Mike/Hal. We talk about the English translation of the Hebrew play. He's seeking funding. I tell him he's got to reach out to art patrons in Chestwester. He tells me they need $10,000. I tell him I met a woman yesterday who paid that amount for her new puppy. I can't find my business card. He's telling me earnestly about the play.



*June 4, 1995. Hal's telling me earnestly about his crush on L@ura Sugerwal@, and that he's moving to Massachusetts. We're sitting on the swings in a park in Mountville at a joint birthday for my friend Becky and my not-friend L!ly L@i.*

*April 1994. We're sitting in his family's kitchen making a diorama of a polar biome with Kelly's brother. His house in Centerville had one of those crafty flags with a soccer ball on it by the door.*

*September 1997. I run into him into a huge party at Marathon House, where freshmen line up at a keg for a $5 plastic cup of beer. I'm wearing a kicky, brown velvet dress from Express that's not so kicky compared to all the tight, black pants and chunky platform shoes all around me. Hal's wearing a Green Day t-shirt and has a wallet chain. He tells me his name is Mike now, and he was cool in his school after HHS.*



[Present Day:] Act II. Erika's up on stage. She's wonderful. It's a flashback scene; her character is at a college house party. Her costume includes tight black pants and chunky platform shoes. The irony.



I see Emily, one of the theatre crowd from college, in the audience. She's cuddled up next to Nick, the producer and founder of this little post-grad theater company. They started going out senior year. Nick always wore a cap that looked like a knitted condom. He used to be haphazard about personal hygiene. Now he looks older, mature, clean, disconcertingly like hefk's husband. He's not wearing a hat.



The second act isn't as funny as the first. It's darker, you learn more about the characters' past. The more you know, the less you like them. It's not a happy ending, but it's real and it's raw. I am so proud of the friend I came here to see. The lights go up.



[Present Day:] As I file out, I pass by Emily, who is telling a young couple that "[She] and [her boyfriend] Nick would love to take the baby for a weekend." She gushes that they would love to baby-sit, any time!"

*April 2001:* College. Nick, a very tall, larger-frame guy under the influence of recreational drugs, jumped off a chair and accidentally crushed his housemate's kitten. It did not die immediately.*

[Present Day:] The young couple, clearly close friends, nod enthusiastically and promise to entrust the care of their newborn to them soon.



I say hello to Emily. I reintroduce myself. I know from Erika that she was in "Mona Lisa Smile." We chat, we hug, she thanks me for coming.



I hang out with Erika for a few minutes. She points out her new boyfriend, smoking a cigarette down the street. He is easy on the eyes. We promise to get together soon, when Jo is in town, if not sooner. I'm homesick for college.



Rue and I walk back to her car. I almost trip over my own feet, and she has to stop twice to re-tie her shoes. We're laughing, and I haven't been this grateful for a friend since *September 1984: I asked Wendy Shenberger to hold my Cabbage Patch Doll while I put my coat in my cubby on the first day of kindergarten.*



[Present Day:] We go to the funky trailer trash diner in Chelsea, and a few minutes later we're trying on Dame Edna glasses in a costume shop. I wish I had my camera. We drive home, and she gets on the GW bridge going the wrong way. We end up in Jersey and crawl back to Chestwester with the rest of the suburbanite traffic. We sing all the songs from the Dixie Chicks latest album titled "Home." The irony.



We're driving so slowly in traffic that we can fully appreciate the Manhattan skyline from the bridge. Rue expands on her dream to live in a big studio apartment in Harlem that doubles as a portrait studio. It occurs to me that someday, in the future, I will be crossing this bridge after visiting an old friend where she creates her art, and I will remember what I was wearing- black t-shirt, a denim skirt with striped thigh-high socks, and (my replacement) Mary Janes- and that we once knew all the lyrics to "White Trash Wedding."

Better get cozy. This might take a little while...

In some versions of the King Arthur story, Merlin the Magician is described as having been born at the instant the world came to an end. He lived his life backwards. As a result, he had already lived through the future by the time he was an old man. Unlike other people, who grow older and wiser with time, Merlin experienced the consequences before the catalysts. Because he was a younger, less wise man when he witnessed the outcomes, he didn't always have the best understanding of which thing caused what. He had to constantly sift through his memories, which, because he lived backwards, were comprised of everyone else's destinies, trying to warn (or teach) people about the right thing at the right time. Unfortunately for Arthur, Merlin occasionally got confused and gave off the impression of having a Swiss cheese-like memory: strong and full of holes.



The other week, hefk and I were talking about her classes and how she has to structure her fifth period lessons around lunch breaks that divide into three (A, B and C) parts, which, of course, was how HHS did it. She said that her memory begins in high school, further back than that is fuzzy. That discussion lead to a full-on demonstration of my frighteningly detailed memory. If you've never reminisced with me before, then you should know that my first memories (that can be corroborated by other people) are from when I was about 10-months-old.



And I don't just remember things *I* experienced. I remember things people told me that happened to them before I met them that they've since forgotten. I remember the origins of other people's inside jokes. Of course, my memory isn't perfect. There are some really painful things I *have* managed to forget. Like everyone, I sometimes I remember things how I wish they would have happened. Like everyone, sometimes I don't remember things properly because I misunderstood (or was in denial about) the situation as it was occurring.



The thing most people don't get, though, is that my memory never really turns off. It's running constantly. Constantly. Not just when a scent or a song reminds me of something, or when people quiz me about the plots of old Sweet Valley High books as a party trick. It never stops. The longer I live, the more memories I have, obviously. But because the memories are always running, I am, kind of like the Merlin example, living both forwards and backwards simultaneously. Today offers a few interesting examples, so I'll try and explain it with specifics, shall I?



Okay. This is how a normal person would describe my day. This might be how I would describe my day if I were pretending to be normal or, at the very least, when I try to ignore my scary memory. I swear, if I could delete half of the crap that's in my head, I could harness the wasted power and move objects with my mind. At least, I would probably remember where I put my keys.



Here goes: I slept 'til noon, got up, walked the dog, chatted to Kelly. Carucha picked me up. We drove into the city, originally planning to go to a big demonstration-type gathering of knitters in the village (Greenwich Village is neither in Greenwich, nor a village. Discuss.) and then to see a show that College Roommate Erika was in. A lot of people I went to college with were involved in its creation, including the playwright, producer and lead actor. There was a parade down 5th Avenue, and we were stopped in traffic for a long time while a marching band passed. We skipped the knitting thing and caught the sold-out show, since luckily there were a few ticket holders who were no-shows. Then Carucha and I went to a funny Trailer Park Diner in Chelsea. We split a hot Krispy Kreme for dessert. We wandered through a shop- a costume shop anyway, but in all its glory for Halloween- and began winding slowly through still-slow traffic back to Mount Vernon.



Here's how a day I experience a day like this. Forget all the memories jogged by the parade- 7 years of participation in marching bands, plus memories from trying to cover the Pride Parade- I'll just start with the arrival at the theater.



[Present Day:] Erika touches my shoulder as she passes me in the lobby. I'm about to see her performing in a show written by Julien, a guy I knew in college, with whom she was once desperately in unrequited love.



*2000: I can see her, sitting on the screened in porch, smoking a cigarette. She's talking to my Soph/Jr/Sr Roommate Jo, her friend more than mine at the time. She wants to break the lease she signed to live at Marathon House (if the Drama Dept was a fraternity; this was their house) and live with us instead senior year. Okay. She's over him, but.... I think she's been crying.



*in Sept. 9, 1999: Julien is putting on a Paul Simon CD, at a 9/9/99 party in the apartment where Erika lived during study abroad. Our semester in London is when I spent the most time with Julien, who was Stephen's best friend freshman year, before he was never *not* under the influence of a variety of recreational drugs.*



[Present Day:] A catalogue of faces from college are scattered all around this little black box theater. Julien wrote this play. It's the last performance. He's got to be around here, right? He's... okay, that guy sitting two feet away from me. We chat: Hi! Yeah, no, well, to see Erika, but also... How're you doing? Fine, fine. I'm glad we got in. You wrote a sold out show, congratulations. Yeah, Boston. Stephen's playing a quadriplegic Elvis impersonator who gets a (fake) hand job from a man on stage. And then kissed on the mouth by man. "I may just have to see that," he says.



*1999: my Finsbury flatshare. Julien's wearing baggy pants and walking down a short flight of stairs in the apartment. "I feel like a miner in these pants." He does a funny sort of Cartoon Gold Rush walk, saying "There's gold in 'em hills!"*



*December 1997. Walking back from a Pimps and Hos party at 3 a.m. I'm tipsy, wearing a borrowed red dress that's just a little shorter than something that would have been appropriate at a Hempf!eld Homecoming Dance, to be honest. And Come F*ck Me Shoes. Jo is drunk. She was wearing borrowed velvet hot pants with fishnets and pulled off the "ho" costume with greater success. Our feet were killing us. Julien is walking us back. I start walking barefoot, even though there's snow on the ground and salt on the sidewalk. My feet hurt so much. Jo's in worse shape. She decides to crawl, which Julien and I insist is a terrible idea. I'll never forget this. He takes off his Converse basketball sneakers and gives them to me to wear. Barefoot, he gives Jo a piggyback ride all the way back to the dorm.*



[Present Day:] The director makes a little speech about what else this little theater company has going on. He mentions that "reading director M!chael We!selberg" recently received permission to translate a play from Hebrew something something something Israeli consulate. He nods to someone behind me, and there's Mike, whom I first met in Junior High, *1991: when his name was Hal. [Back to Present Day:] I give him a little wave. He has no idea who I am. I wish I were thinner.



The show starts. The lead actor walks out on stage. Eric. He starred in the first play Stephen wrote, when it was produced in a young playwright's festival senior year.



*Mid-March 2001. Opening night for My Brother's Keeper (Stephen's play). He's nervous. I managed to shower and leave the house, only paging my shrink once. A miracle. I was wearing a dress I bought in London, sheer black over a pink shift. It stopped fitting in 2000 when my weight went up, but fit again once I got depressed and lost the will to eat. The last time we'd had a date, Valentine's Day, I had a panic attack in the Olive Garden and Stephen had to lead me from the restaurant in tears. I always wore that dress with my funky Mary Janes. I lost the right shoe in the move to Miami. I'm still pissed about that.*



[Present Day:] The show is wonderful. Eric, the lead, is doing this funny bit with a woman his character is meeting for the first time. In the plot, they individually sneak out of a movie to smoke and get locked out. They're doing this funny bit with popcorn someone else left out there that they really want to eat, but it's popcorn someone left in an alley, so... It reminds me of this scene in the play "Art" where the three characters are fighting, not speaking, but sharing a bowl of olives. I know this director. Program check. He directed Stephen in "Art." May 2001. Who else was in that? Julien. Huh. And another guy, who is not currently in this theater. I think.



Intermission.



I approach Mike/Hal. We talk about the English translation of the Hebrew play. He's seeking funding. I tell him he's got to reach out to art patrons in Chestwester. He tells me they need $10,000. I tell him I met a woman yesterday who paid that amount for her new puppy. I can't find my business card. He's telling me earnestly about the play.



*June 4, 1995. Hal's telling me earnestly about his crush on L@ura Sugerwal@, and that he's moving to Massachusetts. We're sitting on the swings in a park in Mountville at a joint birthday for my friend Becky and my not-friend L!ly L@i.*

*April 1994. We're sitting in his family's kitchen making a diorama of a polar biome with Kelly's brother. His house in Centerville had one of those crafty flags with a soccer ball on it by the door.*

*September 1997. I run into him into a huge party at Marathon House, where freshmen line up at a keg for a $5 plastic cup of beer. I'm wearing a kicky, brown velvet dress from Express that's not so kicky compared to all the tight, black pants and chunky platform shoes all around me. Hal's wearing a Green Day t-shirt and has a wallet chain. He tells me his name is Mike now, and he was cool in his school after HHS.*



[Present Day:] Act II. Erika's up on stage. She's wonderful. It's a flashback scene; her character is at a college house party. Her costume includes tight black pants and chunky platform shoes. The irony.



I see Emily, one of the theatre crowd from college, in the audience. She's cuddled up next to Nick, the producer and founder of this little post-grad theater company. They started going out senior year. Nick always wore a cap that looked like a knitted condom. He used to be haphazard about personal hygiene. Now he looks older, mature, clean, disconcertingly like hefk's husband. He's not wearing a hat.



The second act isn't as funny as the first. It's darker, you learn more about the characters' past. The more you know, the less you like them. It's not a happy ending, but it's real and it's raw. I am so proud of the friend I came here to see. The lights go up.



[Present Day:] As I file out, I pass by Emily, who is telling a young couple that "[She] and [her boyfriend] Nick would love to take the baby for a weekend." She gushes that they would love to baby-sit, any time!"

*April 2001:* College. Nick, a very tall, larger-frame guy under the influence of recreational drugs, jumped off a chair and accidentally crushed his housemate's kitten. It did not die immediately.*

[Present Day:] The young couple, clearly close friends, nod enthusiastically and promise to entrust the care of their newborn to them soon.



I say hello to Emily. I reintroduce myself. I know from Erika that she was in "Mona Lisa Smile." We chat, we hug, she thanks me for coming.



I hang out with Erika for a few minutes. She points out her new boyfriend, smoking a cigarette down the street. He is easy on the eyes. We promise to get together soon, when Jo is in town, if not sooner. I'm homesick for college.



Rue and I walk back to her car. I almost trip over my own feet, and she has to stop twice to re-tie her shoes. We're laughing, and I haven't been this grateful for a friend since *September 1984: I asked Wendy Shenberger to hold my Cabbage Patch Doll while I put my coat in my cubby on the first day of kindergarten.*



[Present Day:] We go to the funky trailer trash diner in Chelsea, and a few minutes later we're trying on Dame Edna glasses in a costume shop. I wish I had my camera. We drive home, and she gets on the GW bridge going the wrong way. We end up in Jersey and crawl back to Chestwester with the rest of the suburbanite traffic. We sing all the songs from the Dixie Chicks latest album titled "Home." The irony.



We're driving so slowly in traffic that we can fully appreciate the Manhattan skyline from the bridge. Rue expands on her dream to live in a big studio apartment in Harlem that doubles as a portrait studio. It occurs to me that someday, in the future, I will be crossing this bridge after visiting an old friend where she creates her art, and I will remember what I was wearing- black t-shirt, a denim skirt with striped thigh-high socks, and (my replacement) Mary Janes- and that we once knew all the lyrics to "White Trash Wedding."

Bite me! Oh wait, you can't.

Hmmm. For a while now, I've been thinking about writing an entry about this phenomenon I've been calling "the people in black."

There is an elaborate form of traditional Japanese theatre called bunraku. Bunraku is a form of puppetry where as many as four people clad all in black work together to operate one puppet. It requires intense teamwork, as one person may only be responsible for moving, say, the puppet's mouth.

The puppets move in such lifelike, subtle ways that supposedly the audience doesn't even remember that the people in black are visible on stage (as opposed to hidden under a platform, behind scenery, or similar, like Muppets.) Again, unlike Muppets, the puppets never interact with humans like Harry Belafonte, Rosie O'Donnell or Luke Skywalker, so the audience is able to further suspend their disbelief and ignore the puppeteers. They just stop seeing them.

This place works the same way. Keeping up the glossy veneer of effortless perfection is essential here, so armies of people are needed to clean the toilets, bleach the teeth, mow the lawns, wax the body hair, scrub/paint the feet, fix the luxury vehicles, remove the garbage, and raise the puppet-children. Those of us who do those jobs, and most of the time I count myself in this group, are the people in black. The rich people just don't see us.

True story: It was dark and stormy night at a country club. A man pulled a Lexus SUV up to the main entrance, left it running and ran inside. A valet jumped up and called after him, "Sir! Excuse me, sir! Are you-" and before he could say, "just running inside for a minute?" The man called back, without turning around to look, "Oh, the valet will take care of it!" not realizing that he was *talking to the valet.*

Some of the people in black wish the puppets would die in their sleep.

Anyway, last weekend, two of the "people in black" got married. He works for the department of public works (DPW) driving a snowplow in the winter, and, I think, a garbage truck the rest of the year. She works in a drugstore. I first met them (and their kids from previous marriages) ten months ago. I was doing a story about the DPW workers (and volunteers) who build parade floats in one of the towns.

I kept seeing them at Girl Scout events, cheerleading practices, the PTA fair. They asked me to be their wedding photographer. They are so nice, and I know they're saving up to send their teenager to a good college in a few years. I knocked as much as I could (75%) off the price.

The wedding was simple and lovely. They were so happy, except when a fire alarm that went off in the church as soon as the bride got down the aisle. They had cupcakes on a three-tier cake stand instead of a wedding cake. The reception was in the social hall.

Still, the bride was worried about what her mother would say "about all the extravagance." The bride's mother reminded me of my own grandmother (who almost boycotted my parents' wedding in 1973 because the reception wasn't held in a fire hall.) And yes, her father accidentally left his teeth in New England, which makes shooting portraits where everyone smiles kind of interesting.

Bite me! Oh wait, you can't.

Hmmm. For a while now, I've been thinking about writing an entry about this phenomenon I've been calling "the people in black."

There is an elaborate form of traditional Japanese theatre called bunraku. Bunraku is a form of puppetry where as many as four people clad all in black work together to operate one puppet. It requires intense teamwork, as one person may only be responsible for moving, say, the puppet's mouth.

The puppets move in such lifelike, subtle ways that supposedly the audience doesn't even remember that the people in black are visible on stage (as opposed to hidden under a platform, behind scenery, or similar, like Muppets.) Again, unlike Muppets, the puppets never interact with humans like Harry Belafonte, Rosie O'Donnell or Luke Skywalker, so the audience is able to further suspend their disbelief and ignore the puppeteers. They just stop seeing them.

This place works the same way. Keeping up the glossy veneer of effortless perfection is essential here, so armies of people are needed to clean the toilets, bleach the teeth, mow the lawns, wax the body hair, scrub/paint the feet, fix the luxury vehicles, remove the garbage, and raise the puppet-children. Those of us who do those jobs, and most of the time I count myself in this group, are the people in black. The rich people just don't see us.

True story: It was dark and stormy night at a country club. A man pulled a Lexus SUV up to the main entrance, left it running and ran inside. A valet jumped up and called after him, "Sir! Excuse me, sir! Are you-" and before he could say, "just running inside for a minute?" The man called back, without turning around to look, "Oh, the valet will take care of it!" not realizing that he was *talking to the valet.*

Some of the people in black wish the puppets would die in their sleep.

Anyway, last weekend, two of the "people in black" got married. He works for the department of public works (DPW) driving a snowplow in the winter, and, I think, a garbage truck the rest of the year. She works in a drugstore. I first met them (and their kids from previous marriages) ten months ago. I was doing a story about the DPW workers (and volunteers) who build parade floats in one of the towns.

I kept seeing them at Girl Scout events, cheerleading practices, the PTA fair. They asked me to be their wedding photographer. They are so nice, and I know they're saving up to send their teenager to a good college in a few years. I knocked as much as I could (75%) off the price.

The wedding was simple and lovely. They were so happy, except when a fire alarm that went off in the church as soon as the bride got down the aisle. They had cupcakes on a three-tier cake stand instead of a wedding cake. The reception was in the social hall.

Still, the bride was worried about what her mother would say "about all the extravagance." The bride's mother reminded me of my own grandmother (who almost boycotted my parents' wedding in 1973 because the reception wasn't held in a fire hall.) And yes, her father accidentally left his teeth in New England, which makes shooting portraits where everyone smiles kind of interesting.

I should really write something...

I've been wholly uninspired lately. Actually I've been putting a lot of my creative efforts into the International Sisterhoods of Bridesmiads lately. (ooh, well placed teaser) I hope to launch a website for it soon, actually.



In the meantime, I'll put it to a vote. Should I write about:

a.) driving in Manhattan

b.) the father of a (client) bride who left his teeth in another state

c.) monkeys*

or

d.) the wealthy Chestwester County woman who returned an orchard





*at the Bronx Zoo