When magic turns to dust


I’ve been super busy lately, between the job I’m keeping and the job I’m leaving and the weddings and the client work and the apartment and the move and whatnot, but I like to think I’ve been keeping a handle on myself. I keep moving, I make lists, I don’t think too hard, and it happens. It’s like magic, it’s like waitressing – that part of waitressing that’s just instinct and flow, total mastery of your task and environment. That part of waitressing that happens just before you hit the weeds.

“The Weeds”, in restaurant terms, means you’re overloaded. You’re beyond. You’re too swamped to even tell people how to help you, but you’re also too swamped to do anything for yourself. All you can think of is everything you need – the drinks, the desserts, the dinners, and the checks for tables 4 and 6 – and how impossible it will be to get all of it done before something explodes. The weeds is the worst place to be, it’s the opposite of productive. It’s digging your own grave and pissing in it.

This morning I got a call from my mom that her mom (my grandma) is not doing well. Morphine drip level not well. And before I can even deal with the potentially imminent passing of my last surviving grandparent, I’m thinking about all the different ways this will blast out the intricate house of cards upon which B!’s move here has been built, and if I don’t go out there and rent the car how will he get out here, right, because he doesn’t have a credit card and they NEED a credit card, and I can’t take any more time off work and I can’t afford another flight and I’m late for my meeting and I think my old boss thinks that I suck and really, don’t I? Because all this shit is going on, and it’s all important, but the most important thing should be family but that’s not what I’m thinking about because it’s all really LOGISTICS, and my LOGISTICS are FUCKED.

All of a sudden, just like that, I’m totally weeded.

What’s the Mystery?


After my hectic week of yore, I was kind of glad that the only thing on my agenda was a Keynote tutorial at the Apple store. (And an oil change. And a realtor meeting. And a ton of editing, researching, and emailing. Calls to Canon tech support, calls to accountants, calls to agencies, whatever, but it was the Keynote tutorial that really had me stressed.) I thought it would be something really high-level, and, having never used the program before, I was a little concerned. Visions of a dozen Mac freaks looking down their black-rimmed glasses at me, as I held up the session with my stupid questions about Inspector. I also thought I was going to be late, and am presently paying .20 a minute to blog from Legal Seafoods while my car is parked in the Prudential Garage. The garage is a total ripoff, but I couldn’t bear to tell my new boss I missed the Apple tutorial because I was too cheap to pay for parking.

So I get in there, all frizzy-haired and sweaty, toting my unsheathed mac in one hand and my iPhone in the other, and there’s only one other woman there for the class. And she’s, like, never used a mac before. All of a sudden, I’m feeling high and mighty. We went slowly through the basics of slideshow creation, I learned how to do cheese wipes and motion effects, and then I got bored and then it was over. I’m not saying Apple ran a bad tutorial, but it gets back to my initial point about Keynote and Power Point and all this shit.

What’s the fucking mystery?

Like, people put Power Point on their resume as though they created their own new operating system, and every time I go to use it it’s just so insanely dumb I can’t believe it’s even real. Like, using Power Point is about as difficult as washing your face, or drinking a glass of water. Keynote’s no different. I can’t believe they even offer a TUTORIAL on it, like any moron with two thumbs couldn’t go in and click and drag their way into something that looks remotely professional. Unless I’m missing something, slideshow presentation software could be the biggest hoax pulled on American society since the red scare.

Power Point users! Keynote gurus! I beseech you: tell me your secrets. Show me how I’m oversimplifying the issue. Make me feel as small as a grain of sand. Tell me.

Why Weddings Make Me Happy


I kind of feel weird about being almost-divorced when I meet with some of these brides. I worry they’ll think I’m some bitter old hag who’s just in it for the money. But the truth is, I love shooting weddings! I’m rarely happier than I am driving home, exhausted, after a night spent shooting someone else’s magical day.

I have such great memories of my own wedding – my sisters’ toasts, so much family, our very last dance. We stayed up until 3am in the hotel lobby, drinking and eating pizza with all of our friends. We’d planned to stay at a different hotel, but decided at the last minute to ditch our room and party instead. Despite what happened to my marriage, I still look at March 17, 2007 as the best day of my life.

What a gift to have the opportunity, week after week, to join in the happiest day of someone ELSE’s life. To capture it on video, to set it to music, prune out the part where my camera’s aimed at the floor, and make it magic all over again. I just love it. Seriously. I do.

Y’all are assholes.


Not a single comment? I NEEDED you guys. That’s what I get for leaning on the internet.

To make matters worse, my shrink forgot to fill my Abilify scrip.


I had a dream last night that I was engaging in my old favorite activity: breaking shit. Then I woke up to find an email from Pusser, not saying much of anything really, but about a half hour later I really started to feel like crap. My mind went in all different which ways, with a this-sucks-but-that-sucks-more kind of trajectory, inevitably ending up at the conclusion that I myself suck most of all and should probably just crawl in a hole somewhere until this all blows over. The email was a trigger, I realized, about halfway through my commute, and so I decided to make a flow chart of my mind. Here’s what it looks like.


Fun, huh? Send me nice thoughts to replace all these shitty ones. Please.

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