Archive for August, 2010

Its my own fault. I’d been feeling very unhealthy lately. Burning the candle at both ends, eating my emotions with large bags of chocolate picked up at various European airports, choosing fries instead of salad and washing it all down with healthy portions of vino. An intervention was needed and that intervention took the form of a large pot of soup, made from scratch with healthy vegetables full of vitamins, leafy greens full of antioxidants and aduki beans full of protein and fiber. Basically everything a girl needed to get back on good terms with her liver. What she didn’t need to do was share her detoxifying broth with her little doggy, Dexter, cos hours later as I lay in bed reading with Dexter spread eagle next to me, I found myself at the mercy of some major canine flatulence. Major. We are talking doggy farts strong enough to strip paint off walls. Potent, absolutely potent. And lingering, wow did they linger. The only saving grace was the fact that I didn’t have any scented candles burning that night, cos a naked flame in a gassy situation such as the one I was in, could only have ended badly.

I yelled at Dexter, as I cranked the AC, telling him he was being a very bad room-mate, disrespectful and rude, but he didn’t care, he merely adjusted his sleep position and continued to periodically pollute my immediate air supply. Bad doggy.

Do not let this fool you, that is clearly the eyeball of a guilty doggy.

You Picked The Wrong Chick

August 18, 2010

It was 5 am, waaaay to early. My eyes were still closed as I rested my elbows on the sink, chin supported by the palms of both hands, waiting for the running water to go from cold to hot. Fintan sat next to my face, watching, waiting for me to finish my morning exfoliation routine so he could get some breakfast. With a huge yawn I tried with all my might to open my eyes, but they were just-so-heavy. At the second effort both eyelids gave a lazy flutter, opened a fraction, just enough for me to take a quick look in the mirror and see the reflection of something that instantaneously shocked me awake, wide awake. Crawling up the wall behind me was the biggest, meanest, grossest, shiniest, blackish brownish looking cockroach I have ever seen. Like football sized. I kid you not.

I froze. I froze like an intruder had just walked in a put a gun to the back of my head. I wanted to cry. This could not be happening. What the hell am I going to do. I was afraid to move a muscle in case the evil beast lunged at me. In a low voice I called to Fintan, psst, Fintan, do you see that? Go get him kitty. But Fintan looked at me like all of a sudden he didn’t speak english and proceeded to stick his face into my make-up bag. Great, thanks kitty, so I guess I’m handling this all by myself.

Slowly, every so slowly I reached for the toilet paper, unwound a fist full and without giving myself a second to think, for fear of losing courage, I spun around and slapped my hand full of toilet paper over the evil roach. Instantly I felt the thing squirming under my fingers and at that point all bets were off.  I dropped everything, toilet paper, courage, inside voice, everything and run for the door screaming and Riverdancing. Dexter started barking, my alarm clock began buzzing and Fintan took off for cover under the bed. It was 20 seconds of complete bedlam. I pulled the bathroom door shut. I didn’t want Mr. roach to escape into the rest of the house. I wanted to give him some time to get his-self together and leave the same way he came in, whatever way that was. Which he did, at least I hope he did. There was no sign of him when I eventually crept my way back to the bathroom and for my own sanity I like to think that this means he has moved on to terrorize some other house and not that he is hiding under the towel rack, in a drawer or at the bottom of my press-powder compact. No absolutely not, he’s definitely gone. Damn it, what if he’s not gone?? Seriously, if he shows up again I’m gonna shot him and not with my camera, with a real hardcore, badass, Dirty Harry, don’t eff with me type handgun, or rifle, or maybe just a BB gun. Basically whatever Wal Mart will sell me is how he’s gonna die. You picked the wrong chick Mr. roach, the wrong chick.

And keeping with my efforts to include more photos of myself, and/or The Husband, here I am spectating at the Crystal Palace meet in England last weekend. My friend and US discus thrower Aretha Thurmond, took the photo with her spankin new iPhone 4G. Jealous. And seriously, how friendly and approachable do I look?? Not at all smug. Or maybe thats jealousy written all over my face cos Aretha has the spankin new iPhone 4G.

Who Are You People?

August 16, 2010

I struggle to blog sometimes. Lots of times actually. Writing about something, anything that someone else might find even remotely interesting is very challenging. I mean seriously, who really cares that this evening I spent a good half hour watching an infomercial that promised me a Better Body and Buns if I just committed to a 30 minute routine a day and 4 easy payments of $19.99, all because I was too lazy/jet lagged to figure out where I last left the remote? Does anyone really need or want to hear that at certain moments, I’m an unmotivated, lazy and lump’ish mess. Shouldn’t I really use this blog to showcase the shining moments of my life? To highlight all that is good and motivated and productive and accomplished about myself? Why yes, the simple answer is yes. But screw it, right now, I’m just to jet-lagged to care. So instead what you get is a sleep deprived, sunken eyed, informercial watching mess who can’t even find it within herself to get off the couch and locate the remote. Thats the reality people and it ain’t pretty.

But upon trying to think about my blog for this evening, it dawned on me that I actually don’t post a lot of photos of either myself or The Husband. Its kind of challenging for me, as the photographer I’m always the one behind the camera, so most of the shots that I am in, were probably taken using the outstretched one armed technique at an angle you hope is not cutting off half you head or face. Or as of lately, putting to good use, the on-camera timer. Which is an improvement on the outstretched one armed technique but also has its limitations. But something is better than nothing, right?

Anyway, as a way of including ourselves (The Husband and I) on the blog more, here are a few random photos of The Husband playing a spot of golf with his brother Steve last week on Cape Cod.

Ok, I’m no golf pro, but even I can tell that that swing, needs a little tweaking. But “good job honey”.

And believe it or not, here is the only photo of me taken at the Cape last week. Which honestly, I’m ok with that. The old sun-burn did not have me looking my finest, so it was best to leave me where I belonged, behind the camera. But for this particular photo, we decided to go with the self-timer technique, but couldn’t get the camera any higher than table level, hence our hunchbacked pose to ensure we both managed to squeeze into the frame.

Access Denied

August 15, 2010

Its no secret I’ve been a little absent from my own blog recently, but through no fault of my own. In order to explain I need to be given the space to vent and for this verbal assault I would like to target the internet, but more specifically, the internet in England. Don’t ask me why, but for reasons beyond comprehension, the internet appears to be somewhat of a challenge for hotels up and down this jolly old country. At least this has been my experience each and every time we travel here.

If internet is available then you better believe there is an accompanying sky high charge for the mere privilege of logging on. I mean seriously?? My friggin cell phone can pull a WiFi signal out of thin air no matter where I travel and doesn’t slap me with a charge equivalent to the cost of blasting an actual satellite into orbit for the luxury. Its ridiculous. In the year 2010, internet should be available in ALL hotels, free of charge. The hotel I stayed in the past weekend did boast about the availability of internet, at a per day charge of course. But what it forgot to mention, or maybe it was in the the small, smaller, smallest  print, was the fact that logging on was an absolute impossibility. Assuming it was somehow my error I tried and retired accessing the supposed internet from every angle but to no avail. Frustrated and on the verge of lashing out, I made a quick call to reception where I was informed in a pleasant sing-song tone that they were currently experiencing some difficulty with the internet but were doing their best to rectify the situation. Taking what was said at face value, I calmed my frustrations figuring I could wait a couple of hours if needed to check e-mail. But several hours later, nothing.

Thinking sing-sing reception lady had somehow forgotten my request for internet access, I decided to give her a little reminder call along with a suggestion of a modem restart or how about the old CNTL-ATL-DELETE trick?? That use to work for any and every computer issue back in the day. But again she just sang about how sorry she was and that they were doing everything they could to resolve the issue. Well, if that was in fact the case, why, 24 hours later did I still not have access to the world wide web?? Or how about 48 hours later? Or even 72 hours? All weekend we were denied access to the internet, which if you ask me, is completely barbaric. Why the British are so stingy when it comes to internet is beyond me. For some reason they treat it like its the black gold of modern times and only those who are truly worthy and powerful can gain access while the rest of us mere mortals must press our faces to the glass and watch with cold and hungry eyes, dreaming of the day that we too may feast upon the privileges of accessing the world wide web.

Dear England, give your people internet.

Am hoping this sign promising change, does in fact include high-speed, not dial-up. Wait, at this stage I’d settle for dial up.

Red buses and red phone booths, very British.

Some track action. This is the heats of the men’s 100m. Tyson Gay is in the center of the shot. And yes, it was raining and cold.

Family shoots make me nervous, I’m not gonna lie. The only kids Husband and I own are not of the 2 -legged kind but more of the 4-legged and furry kind, which come to think of it, are just as challenging as real kids. They are fast, unpredictable and once they’re done, believe me, they are done. Negotiation is not an option. And bribery is only a temporary distraction. Soon enough they’ll figure out your tactics and then you could be left with a mini coup on your hands. Luckily for me, both my nephews, obviously sensing my nervous disposition, decided to go easy on me when we got together for a family shoot yesterday at Cape Cod. Both boys worked hard to give me at least 2-3 minutes of poising time in between spontaneous burst of chasing, climbing and exploring. And for that wee nephews, I am completely grateful.

As I’m in the middle of packing, again, this time headed to London, England for the Crystal Palace Grand Prix meet this weekend, I only have time to post a couple of shots. But this was one of my favorites from the session. We arrived on the beach just as the sun was about to set and the sky was ablaze with color. As a result, I got to snap this adorable silhouette and I love it.

Dinara, you look amazing in this shot, fabulous, happy, and just so you. Definite Yummy Mommy. Steve, very proud of your stellar efforts during our shoot. I know it was tough, but your nailed it. Paul and James, what can I say, cute a buttons both of ya.