Not a saint, not a serpant

So, our archival drive is floating around Tennessee somewhere. They tried to deliver it while we were back home, but to no avail, so they were like, fuck it. Let's send it to the most random FedEx location we can!

I took screen grabs instead, because I really want to post these. Again, they will be in no specific order, because I don't number things. I just name them all willy nilly. I mean, I don't name them willy nilly. Fucking syntax.

 Me and my daddy. My mommy is in the background, and so is my little sister. But this picture is all about that grin on my daddy's face. I have the handsomest, best daddy in the whole of the world.

 Fuckin' action bride, mother fuckers. Climbing up in to that semi was the best experience ever. It shocked my photographers. Ryan was like, "wouldn't it be cool if we could get some shots of you in there?" and I was like, "FUCK YEAH, help me up!"I had to climb up onto barrels and do a great deal of leaping, but I made it, and it was well worth it.

 Me and the bestie. Amber and I have been friends for eighteen fucking years. That's an amazing amount of time to not get sick of someone. How gorgeous is she?

 I posted this photo because I look hilariously cross eyed. I showed it to Amber, and she was like, YOU LOOK FUCKING GORGEOUS. Gorgeously cross eyed, she means. What the fuck, eyeballs. Keep your shit together. I mean, well...no. They DID keep their shit together. That's why I look cross eyed.

 Once I had gotten thoroughly tanked, and I really did, I took my hair down and danced for hours. This was the last picture taken for the night, of Derek and I dancing by ourselves. Drunk, happy, and awesome.

 My son gets all his moves from his equally silly mommy. I love this picture.

 Me and my daddy again. I love nobody in the world as much as I love him.

 Except maybe my little guy. Who isn't so much little as he is almost as tall as me. And he's only eight. I'm five fucking nine. How the hell is my son almost as tall as I am?

 As silly a face as she's making, I think this is the most gorgeous picture of Stevie I've ever seen. Look how god damn stunning she is.

 This picture was Kati's idea!!! She yelled out, HEY, Drea and I both have physics equations tattooed on us, can we photograph those together? And Ryan was like, SURE! So we did. I fucking love it.

 My photography company has this HUGE, movie sized poster of an engagement photo all lit up next to the wedding entrance. This was my reaction to ours.

 Who's fabulous, mother fuckers? This girl. THIS GIRL IS FABULOUS.

 This was Derek's reaction to seeing me before the wedding. I love it. Look at that jawline on that handsome face. I married that shit.

 Our venue made us personalized drinks for after the wedding. Signature shots! They were purple and really, really gross, but we all drank them and they were fun as hell.

 Really, I'm ambivalent about this picture as a picture. But I fucking love my dress and my veil, and this picture almost shows them off. Weeeee!!

 The grin that wins. I had just spent three pictures giving serious face, which I'm horrendous at, and then I got to let go and smile. Which I'm ALSO horrendous at, but I'm far better at smiling than looking serious and beautiful.

 I love this man. So much. And he loves me back. And I think...I THINK....people can tell.

 Me and my bro bro. You can also FINALLY see how this dress literally added at least and inch and a half to my frame. I am not even close to as big as that dress makes me look. It's thick as fuck.

 Me and my mommy. She's in my phone as Smooth Mommerator. When I was younger, she was a switchboard operator at a car dealership (she's now the fleet finance manager for Chevrolet. She worked her way up so hard, and I'm so proud of her). I heard the Sade song "Smooth Operator" and I thought it was about my mom. I thought she was saying Smooth Mommerator. So I've called her that ever since.

 If you think there's a better daddy out there, I have to ask you what it feels like to be wrong.

 My handsome guy. I love my buster.

 Me, mommy, and daddy. I really can't figure out who I look the most like. Or if I look like either of them at all.

 That look of adoration? It's not forced. That's the best part.

 Two of my best ladies. How fucking amazing and gorgeous are they?

 This picture was taken at the EXACT moment I finished reading my vows. I know, because I said SHIT, and this was everybody's reaction. Uncomfortable laughter. I tried so hard to behave my mouth, but it's REALLY hard up there, ok?

 The deal was, we each took one nice photo together, and one silly photo. I couldn't think of what to do with Syb, except to just push her face away. Being her older sister, I thought it made so much sense. It's easily one of my favorite pictures of the day.

 But she looks so grown up! This is the best picture I've ever seen of her.

 I was shielding his eyes from something. I have no idea what, but it was clearly hilarious. Can't have my husband seeing anything funny. I have to make him miserable.

 I love the lighting here. Even though the effect is a bit muted for my general tastes, I'm still wild about this photo.

 Ryan told us to be tender with each other. That involves facial licking, I guess.

 MY HEAD IS FALLING OFF!!!!!

See??? I'm god damn awful at serious, beautiful face. I look vacuous and silly.

What a god damn great day my wedding was. Seriously. I barely remember any of it, but I remember it being amazing.

A tale for Christmas

The few people who know me EXCEPTIONALLY well know that I have wanted nothing more in my entire life than to be a grifter.

I'm not even ashamed of this. Grifting is terrible, but also so fucking cool. Someone told me once that I was far too kind to be a grifter. He didn't know me well enough to say that with authority, however. No, it isn't kindness or morality that keeps me from a life of complex and interesting swindles, it's the fear of getting caught. I've pulled a long con or two in my day...nothing to write home about. But I'm less kind and more talented than I think people give me credit for. Bordering on the sociopathic, really. And I'm just fine with that. It's who I am.

The point of all this is to tell a story.

I wanted to be a magician when I was around my son's age. That's it. I bought magic books, and trick books, and watched magicians on TV, trying in vain to do the exact same tricks. These are not things I did with any amount of success. I attribute that to thinking magic was a real thing; all I had to do was have the right stuff, say the right words, and say them correctly, and I would be the next great name in Magic. My great aunt Pat came to visit me one year, fairly close to my birthday, and she took me to my childhood mecca: Toys'R'Us. Fuck yeah. I wandered up and down the aisles, holding two things of Gak in my hands, looking for one more big toy to go home with. And then I saw it. The 100 trick Magic Trick Kit. It was EVERYTHING I was missing. It had a hat, a cape, a stuffed rabbit, a wand, and 96 other bits and bobs that make up the most rudimentary of illusions. I didn't even have time to drop my splatter-shaped plastic containers full of fucking disgusting goop...I tried to hamfist that box onto my chest, with Gak coming along for the ride. I told my aunt Pat that THIS was what I needed. That I had to be a real magician, and this was my ticket in. And she bought the box for me.

I'm not delving into detail for the sake of being flowery...I remember this vividly. I got home, said a very hasty goodbye to my aunt, ran into the house with my prizes, and slammed myself into my room. I cleared my bed of all of my stuffed animals, of which there were several, and greedily opened up my magic box. Everything was there. I unfolded my cape and lovingly wrapped it around my shoulders, then I turned it around so the cape was covering my front. And I belted it at the waist, so it looked like I was wearing a magic dress made of cape. I found the wand, and unwrapped that next. Next came the top hat, which was disappointingly masculine to me, even at such a young age, but I put it on, anyway. I donned my magical attire and pranced around my room, waving my wand and bowing to an invisible (but massive, mind you) audience that was trilled to be watching me perform. I stopped peacocking around and dumped the rest of the box onto my bed, and there was the instruction book.

I'm going to spoil the ending for you and tell you that the instruction book kind of killed my childhood. That was when real magic disappeared, and it would be years before a different kind of magic took its place. I was crushed the learn that the rope tying trick was just a spring coil. The rabbit in the hat was just a hidden compartment. Making the plastic flower disappear from the delicately painted box was just a perspective trick that used mirrors. Magic was an illusion, and figuring that out depleted my tiny little spirits. I cried and cried and cried and cried. I must have looked ridiculous, with my cape turned around and belted, and my top hat askew, and my wand hanging limply at my side.

My dad later explained to me that the kind of magic I was interested in was a trick, yes, but there was real magic in other places.

My dad meant magic like the brilliance of the universe, and the kindnesses people show each other for no reason. Magic, the hyperbole. I thought he meant magic like mermaids and fairies and unicorns and other things like that, and being quite honest, there's a part of me that isn't wholly sold on the idea that those things aren't real.

In an infinite multiverse, there's no such thing as fiction.

I've adopted that quote as my own and used it to rationalize a lot of things I believe that could easily be termed ridiculous.

But you know...somewhere, out in the vastness, nine year old me is practicing really real magic. The kind that we write about in stories. And she's damn fucking good at it.

I'm really bad at titles.

There's a movie my aunt recommended to me a long time ago called Once. I LOVED IT. It was a very quiet, normal, not at all exciting love story that was also a musical. A very modern musical, no sweeping scenes with animals joining in, just acoustic guitars and pianos and two people singing about the ordinary process of dealing with heartache and moving on toward each other. Simple, elegant, touching. 

Allen has described it as the most boring  movie on the planet, but in more colorful language. 

He's not necessarily wrong. There's no turmoil, no obstacles, just people being people. 

I greatly enjoy movies like that. Where people are just being themselves, and there's no bizarre Hollywood construct of how people behave in "the world". 

I started watching Happy Christmas this afternoon while Derek was  home for lunch, and as he was leaving, he said, "This is the most fucking boring movie. Nothing is happening. Nobody cares."I laughed and told him to shut up. 

I ended up truly enjoying the movie. And nothing happened. It was just an hour and a half of watching people do stuff and fuck up. 

Allen and Derek deserve each other. I don't mind watching my movies alone. 

I hope to one day be the incredibly eccentric aunt that everybody loves, and also gossips wildly about. I want to wear big, floppy hats, and dress like a fabulously fancy bee keeper. and spends days in my garden with a billion cats to keep me company. 

I'm going home in three days. I'm so fucking excited!!!! Knowing I'm going home has kept me from finding gainful employment, and while it's been somewhat nice to just relax, it's also been driving me crazy to have nothing to do. My house is immaculate, so I can't even occupy my day cleaning. I put everything together weeks ago. 

So, having nothing to do, knowing nowhere to go, and without a canvas and paints, how does this girl occupy her time?

I cook.

Derek brought me a box...a BOX...of pears from his time in the field. I didn't know what to do with it. I've given half of it to my neighbor's kids. They're very friendly with me, particularly considering they're teenagers. 

That still left me with, very literally, ten pounds of fucking pears. 

I found a bunch of recipes for pears. They all sounded delicious, but I also have a very limited window to use up all of these pears. And besides, who wants to eat fucking pears for every god damn meal? Ugh. The thought alone makes me want to vomit. Which is an extreme reaction, considering I'm emetophobic. Derek and I have been doing this running campaign line for something we adore. Sushi for every meal, 2016! Beef and Broccoli for every meal, 2016! Jamaica every day, 2016! Things like that. Pears for every fucking meal, 2016 just doesn't sound appealing to me. It also doesn't have the same ring to it as sushi. Anyway, I don't have a week at my disposal to use the rest of these pears morning, noon, and night, so I wondered how I could use them all up at once. 

The answer?

JAM, mother fuckers. 

Well, initially jelly. I wanted to make jelly. But then I didn't want to bother with pectin, because I've read that it can be difficult to work with. Ok, once. I read that once. OK FINE, I read it on a blog the day I decided I'd make jelly. So, Tuesday. Anyway, I wound up forgetting pectin at the store, anyway, so jam it was. 

I peeled and cored and sliced up pear after pear after pear and if I did this for how many pears I sliced up, we'd have another eleven pounds to get through. It took HOURS. I listened to music, and sang, and peeled pear after fucking pear. UGH. It was exhausting. I filled a ten quart boiler with pears, and then spiced it and put in less sugar than it needed, and three hours later, I had a deliciously fragrant vat of spiced pear preserves. I thought, anyway. What I ACTUALLY have is a shitload of pear butter. My grandfather taught me how to make apple butter when I was younger. It was something that he loved immensely, and he taught me how to make it. I love apples, and the fact that I'm allergic to them is almost criminal. My pear butter is a very spicy variation on the apple butter I learned how to make when I was just a little chick. That's what my grandfather called me. 

It's delicious. 

I've been putting it on my chocolate chip coconut banana pumpkin bread. Which is a lot of flavors, I know, but it's really yummy. 

I'm bringing the second loaf of that home with me, and also a jar or twelve of pear butter. Spiced pear preserves. Whatever I jarred that had pears in it. 

It's about time for me to go on a run. Derek has his Christmas party tonight. Clearly I'm not going, because I don't want to. Derek won't be there for very long, and then we have to go to the store when he's done, and all kinds of normal errands, 

A friend of mine passed away two days ago. I haven't really known what to say about it. I suppose that will suffice. 

Jamaica, part the last.

These are photos from one of our last days in Jamaica. We went on a catamaran booze cruise, and I got land sick. For two days. It was an unpleasant experience, to say the least, but worth it. 

Boat!

Holy fuck, they've multiplied.

HOOSBAHND! Having a rum punch in the middle of the open ocean, because what the fuck else are you going to do out there?

This picture serves little to no purpose other than to showcase how impossibly blue the Caribbean is

This is my favorite picture that I took on the entire time, bar none. This man's name is Noel, and I asked him if I could take his photo. He said of course, and he said he didn't want to smile because he didn't have many teeth. I told him I thought he was beautiful, but I'm also shy about how I look, so I understood. He graciously let me take his photo. I hugged him after I took the shot, and he said to me, "It's all one love, beautiful lady. Don't you forget that." I adore him. I looked for him again after that day, but didn't see him any more. Very sadly, my settings weren't right for the one shot deal I signed up for, and if I had had time, I would have spent another ten minutes making sure I got everything right so the picture would do him justice. As it stands, I still love this photo. I just wish it were better. He deserves better. I can DO better.

On the catamaran tour. If heaven is real, I have to believe that this is how you get there.

A little rocky outcrop on the way to the ocean.

Jamaica was a fantastic place to visit. While the last two days were hard for me, because I missed home, and I just wanted to go back to my creature comforts before I had to leave them all behind, I greatly enjoyed my time in Jamaica.

Hubs is locked in to not traveling until 2017, so we can't go anywhere next year, but we're planning our next trip to Costa Rica. My Costa Rica. I was going to go this year, but then I got married instead. I didn't want to waste Costa Rica on a honeymoon. I think Amber is going to go with us, because she's never been out of the country, either, and desperately wants to go.

I know none of this matters to anybody. I think, much like my last blog, nobody pays attention to my small section of the internet. But I like logging all of this, because it's very probable that I will forget all of it one day.

Catching up, part six: Jamaica? Jamaica.

One of the excursions we took was to Dunn's River Falls. Before we left, we were told that there was a dry way up the falls, and a wet way up the falls, so Derek and I brought our cameras. Sadly, what they DIDN'T tell us was, the dry way u p the falls didn't give you any of the falls experience that the wet one did. So I dutifully took the dry way up the falls and let Derek take the fun way up. I took pictures. Most of them were stupid, to be honest. I missed the opportunity to take pictures of the most fabulous hummingbird I've ever seen in my life (for those of you playing the home game, this splendid mother fucker right here), but I saw the biggest spiders I've ever seen! Trade off, I suppose. 

Spider! Huge fucking spider!!!! But beautiful just the same.

The top of Dunn's River Falls. Considering I didn't use a tripod when I took this, I am definitely not mad at it.

Catching up, parts three, four, and five: Jamaica again

I would very happily do a day by day of everything that we did in Jamaica. Which would be more than mundane to anybody reading it, but nice for me for the sake of posterity.

The only thing keeping me from that is the fact that my photos are in no kind of order whatsoever.

I tried to keep up on daily happenings while I was in Jamaica, but I couldn't, because the internet isn't really a thing that exists where I stayed. Ultimately, that was perfectly fine, because I wasn't involved in blogging, and I wasn't even involved in school, because I couldn't be. Which is a story for a later time.

Anyway, one of the things Derek and I did on one of these days, and then the subsequent days whenever we could, was go snorkeling on the reef. We swam with moon jellyfish (fucking COOL!), saw a cuttlefish (FUCKING COOL!), brain coral the size of our cars (do I have to say fucking cool again? YES! FUCKING COOL!), urchin, and more sand dollars than I've ever seen in all of the years I went snorkeling in Florida. It was fucking AMAZING. Derek and I contemplated buying underwater housing for our cameras (which would have set us back by about 8 grand, and I decided that was a wasteful expenditure for people who live in a landlocked state), because we knew we'd go snorkeling, but I bought an underwater 35mm instead. I haven't gotten it developed, because I'm lazy and I don't know where to take it. I will soon, though.

The first full day we were there, there was a culture show in the primary dining area of the resort. There were dancers, singers, and instrument players, and it was fucking incredible.

There's that restaurant again, but in daylight! Bayside was so wonderful, and really, it looked quite nice, too. I watched these fantastically huge waves crash against the buildings during the REALLY big storms, but those were way too wet for me to bring my camera out.

This little bar was open from 11:30-5:30, then 10:30 until 5:30. And everything was so delicious. I loved the colors of the place. Unfortunately, I shot a little too far under, but not so far that I mind posting them.

Yeah yeah, man. Fry them crisps.

One of my favorite shots from the entire trip. This was during the culture show I mentioned earlier, doing a traditional dance. His movements were so graceful and perfect, and his muscles were exactly what they should have been. The sweat on his body was an amazing highlight to the lines of his body, and I'm so grateful I got a shot.

There were female dancers, as well. They changed costumes, and were fantastic. I loved the show they put on. I wish I understood everything that they were showcasing for us. Unfortunately, they gave no explanation between acts for what was going on. It's hard to find information on something you have no name for.

The sidewalk to Bayside, during one of the mild thunderstorms.

Oh, hullo, crab that I kept calling Qwab!

There's that silly Qwab again!

Derek and I sat on our balcony, watching this storm roll in. Such a delightful way to end an evening.

Two nights in a row, Derek and I returned to our room to find treats awaiting us. One day, it was sunflower cookies and a bottle of champagne, and the next day it was complimentary spa sessions. We were treated like royalty our entire stay, but it made me feel like a terrible person. Which I will get into in a later post. I had a lengthy discussion with both Derek and Allen about it, so I would like to discuss it here. But not right now.