grrgoyl | Entries tagged with photo series

Updatey datey:

Working out is going well, now that Ryan and I uncrossed our signals. He had a membership with John that had lapsed. He wanted to renew but said he couldn't afford to. Assuming he went to a different location (even though he lives 5 minutes away from me), I sadly signed on for a one-club membership ($50 cheaper than all-club). We exchanged emails where he repeatedly expressed interest in renewing. I would say the same thing: "I can only use the one near me." He would say the same thing: "I would only ever use mine anyway." We seemed to be at an impasse, until the day he used slightly different wording to clarify that he was talking about my club the whole time. OH. I don't know why communication is so difficult with him.

So we've been working out every other day if not more. We've tackled the girlier weight machines (Nautilus, etc.) and the cardio (ellipticals). In the middle of the floor are the free weights, and beyond that are the massive circuit training frames where the ripped, tattooed bad-asses hang out. All the while Ryan will point out men who have his goal body type. Then he confessed he'd like to try the circuit training someday. "Ryan, no!" I whispered frantically, "Not the Prison Yard!" Those hulking monsters would eat scrawny little Ryan for breakfast.

So far my plan is working -- the days I don't work out I feel restless, like I can't wait to get back. I also don't want to push myself too hard, since I did last week and spent the entire weekend barely able to move my arms. That was a mistake. It definitely makes a difference having a friend there, and I think the benefit is mutual, as Ryan is having a rough time moving on from John.

~*~

Funny tale from the kennels: Last weekend I was washing dishes when I heard what sounded like a phone ringing, though not the hospital line, followed by what sounded like someone talking. My first reaction whenever I hear a strange noise is to freeze in place with my heart pounding in my ears. I eventually had to move though, and traced it to Rica, an African Grey boarding with us. This bird had a whole routine, impersonating first a ringing phone, then an answering machine beep, and finally a creepily uncanny human voice saying, "Hello?" I wanted to record it for possible posting, but she clammed up the minute she saw me. However, when I covered her cage for the night she said, again in that near-human voice, "Goodnight cuckoo." I would trade her for our stupid screaming Amazon any day.

~*~

"Battlestar Galactica" is over. I think it suffered from this new trend in TV shows, to ramp up to the end by suddenly beginning all these exciting, complex new storylines with only three episodes to go. It makes you wonder, "How on earth are they going to resolve all this in such a short period of time?" Answer: They aren't. The "finale" will have so many plot lines left hanging it will be the narrative equivalent of a threadbare shawl, all for the remote possibility of a mini-series or even a movie in the future which will be the REAL finale. I say this after being severely disappointed by both BSG and "The L Word." I'm starting to fear that no finale will ever top "6 Feet Under." 6FU has RUINED me for all other finales. Though I suspect even people who haven't seen 6FU will agree that these finales sucked balls.

~*~

I had another run-in the other day on the transcriptionist board I hate so much. I hate it so much but it's incredibly helpful at times, if you can avoid the flame wars that is.

I had a stupid, simple formatting question, I won't bore you with specifics. I had found the answer in my AAMT Book of Style, the problem was the wording of the rule for some reason sounded like it only applied to one number rather than all. So I asked what I knew might be a stupid question, but I also figured it would be simply and quickly answered -- which is the only kind of question I ever ask anymore because people are so freakin' touchy there.

The first two people gave me straightforward, sensible answers. The third was a very sarcastic, "Did it ever occur to you that the #4 was only an example?" There was just no call for that. If you can't keep a civil tongue in your head, you're better off just keeping your mouth shut, and on this board most of all so. I answered politely but coldly, "I wasn't sure, which is why I asked. Sarcasm isn't really appreciated." Never heard back from that one (to my knowledge. The board makes it far too easy to post anonymously).

Then someone else chimed in saying they'd always wondered the same thing. This was very soon after Ms. Snarky, so I responded to them, "I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one who doesn't know it all : )." Please take note of the big smiley face because it's important.

Someone responded, "Wow. Unbelievable!" Someone else said something about "the rudeness" and "I'm glad I'm not you." Others trickled in to join the crowd. The way the page is set up it's really not clear who is responding to who exactly, which is why it took me about 15 minutes to slowly realize they were all castigating ME for my incredibly rude comment. What??

This is WHY I included a big smiley face, the only way to express friendliness or positive intentions. If I could dot my i's with hearts I would. Because this damn board is FULL of these people just WAITING for an excuse to take offense, whereupon everyone circles in like vultures to carrion, and like vultures will pick you dry until not a scrap of flesh remains. Even without the smiley face I didn't see how my comment could be so grossly misinterpreted, but there we are. An entire industry of internet users who haven't graduated AOL IM Etiquette 101.

I ignored all the Nosy Nellies and instead engaged the one person struggling to maintain civility, and eventually the original person I had supposedly slammed so harshly. I was able to clarify that I was grateful someone else shared my question and there was no insult or irony intended, hence my BIG SMILEY FACE. They were both glad to hear it and everything was peaceful again. Do you think any of those people who were so quick to swoop in to attack me bothered coming back to apologize? Nope, all suddenly too busy to waste time on a message board.

~*~

Tery Tivo'ed a documentary for me, "The Most Hated Family in America." You'd think it would be the Mansons, but no, it's Pastor Fred Phelps and his incestuous little clan. I've heard of them, but this was the first special I'd seen devoted exclusively to them.

They run the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, KS, and their favorite word in the entire world is "fag." As in GodHatesFags.com. As in "Fag Priest" and "Fag Soldier" and "Fag Jews" and "Fag Enablers." It's just about the worst insult they can imagine, thus they apply it to everything and everybody.

See if you can follow this logic: America supports and embraces homosexuality (bear with me). Hence America is going to hell. Hence US troops fighting in Iraq are all fags for defending fag-loving America, and deserve to die. In fact, any misfortune that happens to anyone, anywhere, is evidence of God striking them down because they love fags, and makes the Phelps satanically gleeful. Your grandmother is dying of leukemia? Good, she's a fag-lover. Your church was struck by lightning and burned to the ground? God obviously hates it. 9/11? The best thing that ever happened to America. If you think I'm exaggerating just check out their website.

Don't try to point out to them that, while America might be slowly becoming more permissive of homosexuality, we're still a long way away from feeling America's unconditional love. Don't try to tell them that Jesus, in addition to being a Jew himself, preached mostly about love and probably would take a dim view of the message they're sending out. In fact, don't try to argue with them at all; they're unshakeable in their belief that pretty much everyone who doesn't belong to their church is a fag (either in actuality or sympathetically) and is going to hell.

I'm telling you, even teh gays aren't as obsessed with homosexuality as these people.

They routinely picket military funerals because, well, the soldiers are all fags. They stand on a distant corner (court-ordered) with bright neon signs screaming how you are going to hell. People drive by and curse them, make rude gestures and even throw things (their small son was hit in the head with a soda cup -- no rejoicing when bad things happen to one of THEM, I noticed); the response rate is 100% in the negative, which they consider a success. It perplexes them why people are so mean, though -- doesn't everyone LIKE being told their souls are damned and God hates them?

What is most terrifying is their cult includes children, tiny children, and don't ask me where they come from because the ratio is about one man to ten women in their God-fearing, devout and completely insular society. Tiny children wearing GodHatesFags.com T-shirts. When asked if they know what the sign they're holding means, they smile shyly and hide their faces. No, they don't. The brainwashing (and alleged abuse) will begin in earnest at the earliest opportunity though.

It's totally infected Bekah, the 19ish-year-old who tells the documentarian that yes, even he is going to hell, following it with a completely inappropriate schoolgirl giggle. She also has no plans to marry, since "we're in the end of the end times" and she'll be far too busy serving the Lord to worry about things like the future and having a life of her own.

Meanwhile her mother's mature retort to the documentarian's attempt to get reason to penetrate her thick dogma was, I kid you not, "Not a chance, poopy pants."

The documentarian tried several times to get an interview with Grand-daddy Fred Phelps, each time being treated with open derision and hostility. He called Reverend Phelps "a wellspring of anger," and isn't anger one of the Big Seven?

Tery predicted the show would make my blood boil, but it really didn't, I think because these people are so insane and so extreme that no one takes them seriously. Much less dangerous than the moderate radicals whose equally homophobic (and less nonsensical) message is heard and believed by thousands. Mostly I just feel sorry for them, because I know from experience that hating someone, actively and with the passion these people feel, is exhausting. Imagine hating the entire world and how much energy THAT takes?

~*~

Time to wrap up the Kitten Mitten series, I think. ( ::In here, because I'm thoughtful:: )

Finally, perhaps my favorite thing about any cat:

The ability, at any given time, to look equally silly and regal

~*~

I won't cut this because it MUST be seen. OldFriendBear took my Strawberry Series to the next logical level:

If I had nightmares about fruit

( ::Artsy Photo #2 and a little surprise:: )

Current Mood: snowing

My tax refund arrived, just in time for the realization that Depeche Mode was coming to Red Rocks Arena. Have you seen their new video for "Wrong"? Me likey. Me hopey stupid record company doesn't take it down before you get to click.

I agonized for a couple of hours over whether should I or shouldn't I. The problem is a.) concerts are no fun alone, and not something you can invite just anyone to (which has been covered previously in this blog) and b.) cheap seats evidently START at $100. Eek. Hey, DM? Did you hear we're in a recession? c.) I've been to a show at Red Rocks once. If you aren't seated just right, all the sound is literally blown away on the Rocky Mountain breeze. Like in the $100 seats.

I don't know what made me think of it, but I cruised by the 24-Hour Fitness site. Wait, I do know what made me think of it. A bunch of people from my hometown have appeared out of the woodwork to find me on Facebook, and some of them have gotten, well, kind of LARGE. Not that I can really point fingers, hence the 24-Hour Fitness drive-by. We've always had one across the street, a five-minute walk away. It's one of the few useful things we have in that plaza (half of it is a Furniture Row, not helpful in the day-to-day), but I've always had the Bowflex. I started thinking that the Bowflex, whether I use it consistently or not, doesn't really provide terribly dramatic results for me, and certainly nothing cardio, which I definitely need with my clerical job/DVD-watching hobby.

It turned out 24-Hour was featuring a promotion, ending naturally in just three days, $200 for a year -- $16 a month. How could I ignore THAT? Hell, for $16 a month I could just walk around with a water bottle and a towel, pretend to be working out and still feel better about myself.

My sister, who I can always count on to talk me into spending money, was in full support of it. The idea had way more pros than cons. For me the biggest pro was the money. Money is a BIG motivator for me (despite my lack of ambition career-wise), and spending it on a gym membership, even as little as $16 a month, might get my ass moving across the street the way I couldn't get it to the foot of the bed every morning.

My sister recommended I pop in and visit before making a decision, which I did Friday afternoon. I was paired with Aaron, a gung-ho salesman who took me on a whirlwind, 3-1/2 minute tour of the facility. He wanted to sit down and talk numbers immediately, specifically $600 for 3 years, and thereafter only $100 a year for life. A great deal, but I wasn't exactly ready for that level of commitment before having set foot on a single machine. They offer 7-day free passes, which didn't do me much good considering the promo ended on Sunday. I could check it out that night and Saturday, if I weren't about to embark on my 2-job work weekend. My timing is in all things outrageously off.

So instead I spent the whole weekend fantasizing about the way my life would change with this decision. The way I might finally have the energy, strength and body shape I've always wanted. No, I'll never be petite, but that doesn't mean I can't make some improvement. The way I might get some routine back in my life besides working, lounging around and sleeping. Big changes were coming. I could feel it.

Sunday I jumped out of bed, ready to change my life. I walked in and asked three times for Aaron (he had mentioned they worked on commission). No, that's okay, the young punk currently behind the desk would be more than happy to ~~make the commission without doing any of the leg work~~ help me. Young Golan, who could hardly bear to make eye contact with me and seemed more eager to get me back out the door than anything. He took my money, announced, "You're all set!" and that was that. No suggestion of how to get started, etc. The only way my life had changed was that I was now $200 poorer. Not as exhilarating as I had imagined. I must have missed the commercial where the vivacious young woman (you know, the one who's already slim and sexy and really doesn't need a gym) pays for her membership and leaps off like a joyous gazelle with all her newfound energy.

Fortunately our neighbor Anna has been going there for almost a month, and offered to bring me in Monday. Thanks to her I felt comfortable, and once I started using the machines I felt instantly like I'd been assimilated into an exclusive club, which I guess in a way I had. Maybe someday I'll work up the courage to try the Nautilus equipment.

~*~

Speaking of 2-job weekends, in Alexandra Pelosi's documentary about the 2008 presidential campaign trail ("Right America: Feeling Wronged"), she asks a typical redneck rightwinger if America is engaged in a civil war. "Sure," he twanged. "There's the homosexuals and then there's the hard-working Americans!" Evidently "Middle America" thinks teh gays just spend all day and night having teh gay sex. No wonder they're so jealous. But what about us bisexuals? Are we all only employed part-time?

The movie is worth a watch, if only so you can see grown men weep because they're so convinced that Barack is a terrorist and will singlehandedly destroy America.

~*~

As part of my big life change, I also got my hair cut on Sunday. Since I usually avoid most places of business on the weekend, I'd never met the young girl who drew my name off the computer, Tracy. She was nice enough. The first half of the session was spent discussing my exciting new lifestyle. The conversation took a turn for the worse when I admitted I worked at a vet hospital. Tracy politely asked if I had any pets, so I told her. Then we had this exchange:

Me: Yeah, the vet job isn't bad, except I don't especially like dogs.
Her: Oh, I HATE dogs. I've been bit like three times by dogs.
Me: Wow. Well, that would make me hate them too.
Her: I hate cats too. I'm more scared of them than dogs. They're SNEAKY.
Me: O....kay. I can understand that. How do you feel about ferrets?
Her: Ooh, they're UGLY. I wouldn't get close enough to one to know if I liked it or not.
Me: Fair enough. I hate kids, so we're even.
Her: What??! You don't hate kids. How can you say you hate kids?

This is what I can't stand. People are free to spout all sorts of vile prejudices against animals, fair or not. But if you say anything bad about kids, you're a monster. You'd think I said "I hate kids and want to make them all into sandwich meat."

Anyway, it was really funny when she noticed me playing the "pronoun game" about Tery, "my partner." As soon as I dropped the first "she," she blurted out "Do you watch The L-Word?" She gets an A for effort, F+ for subtlety.

~*~

If cats are guilty of sneakiness, it's sneaking their way into your heart. At least in the case of my Mitten. I give you more in the photo series. The two visually interesting ones as appeteasers:

The ever-precious head tilt

Head tilt and a "here, move that camera closer so I can rub against it"

( ::+3 more abstract:: )

I promise the next installment will be the last.

Here are some attempts at being artistic.

My sexy new water bottle for my sexy new lifestyle

I picked this mongo huge strawberry out of the pack. I knew some people would never believe the size without some scale for comparison. Then I gave up getting a good shot with my face and instead ended up with this series of shots.

The Strawberry Series

1) Hello, Strawberry 2) I like the way you look, Strawberry 3) I REALLY like the way you look, Strawberry 4) I eat you, Strawberry. No hard feelings.

Current Mood: energetic

I'm happy to report a happy (sort of) ending to the Ryan quandary. Friday he was talking "therapy, working it out." Saturday he was suddenly all "fuck this" and had kicked that loser John to the curb. This earned a big "GoooooooOOOOOO, Ryan!" from me. Because John, knowing full well that their relationship was on its last legs if something didn't change, didn't let that put a crimp in his weekend plans for getting trashed (again). Ryan is a great guy and I'm certain can find a man who will try a little harder to respect his feelings.

My biggest concern in the break-up was Ryan not being able to afford his condo, until he revealed that he's been paying his bills all along AND helping John with his credit cards. John is about 40 years old. This makes John a DOUBLE LOSER. As Ryan said (though with considerably less glee than I would have), "He's in for a rude awakening when he starts paying for his own stuff."

We did hang out most of the day Monday, first going out to lunch and then back here for an epic Rock Band session (no video documentation, sorry). I'm sad Ryan is alone again, but can't pretend that I'm not happy to have my friend back.

~*~

That was the happy part of my weekend. This is the unhappy part. ( ::The sad tale of Kane the dog: cut for animal death and bodily functions :: )

~*~

At last "The L Word" is over. God. If "Six Feet Under" was the best series finale we've ever seen, "L Word" had to be the worst. We were thrilled beyond words when the season premiere featured Jenny, easily the most hated character, being found dead in the pool. Until we realized the whole season would be one massive flashback, where every episode gave another person reason enough to want to see her dead, even more than us. Making the finale a big whodunit (with a comically repeated reference to that dangerous railing over the pool they need to get fixed) without ever revealing the answer. COME ON. Our DVR cut off the last 90 seconds, and thank god I just happened to find it at that moment playing elsewhere so we could finish it properly, because those last 90 seconds weren't any more illuminating, and it would have SUCKED to sit through the whole episode a second time hoping they were. Bleah, L Word. You SUCK.

~*~

The next in my popular art photography series:

Series I: Favorite Parts of a Cat; Feet Part Two

One of her namesakes -- her Tufty Toes

She got legs//she knows how to use them

Okay, I promise to move on from the feet next time.

Current Mood: cold
Current Music: When the Zetas fill the skies//it's just our leaders in disguise

This is the luxuriousness of my new schedule -- updating my LJ on a Saturday morning! Can you believe it? But my shift doesn't start for literally an hour and a half, and it was this or watch Flight of the Conchords Season One Tery bought for me.

So, some tidbits, like:

Question: How many strangers in the parking lot do Tracey's stupid dog have to bark at before realizing that none of them are a threat and none of them are particularly intimidated by him?
Answer: All of them.

~*~

I blame

ms_hecubus, who a few weekends ago posted about her overactive imagination thinking a timber wolf was waiting in her garage to attack her. I smirked that she wouldn't last ten minutes in Tery's hospital at night, to which she agreed. Then that weekend in the early morning hours I fell into such a deep sleep that I had a nightmare. I dreamed I heard a racket and walked down to A-ward in time to see a man coming through the window feet first (the window is ground level outside but there are bars on it). We faced off across the short corridor between the kennels. He looked a little like Peter Horton from Thirtysomething, except with wide, crazed eyes and a sadistic grin. Then he reached for me with impossibly long, clawlike fingers and I woke up with a start, sweating, panting, and totally paralyzed. I felt like my spine was nailed to the dog mattress I sleep on now. It was one of the most terrifying feelings of my life. Thanks, Michelle ;)

~*~

Speaking of wolves, last night I had Lakota, who had been spayed that day:

Her cage slip listed her as a "husky mix." Yeah, husky mixed with timber wolf and maybe arctic fox. She was beautiful, but not leash trained and I spent a good fifteen minutes chasing her around trying to get her leashed. Thank god we weren't outside or I'd probably still be at it. She was a nimble one. Beautiful, but that constant (CONSTANT) whining/groaning was all husky. Tery said the day shift were all afraid of her (honestly, why do these people work at a vet hospital when they're so easily intimidated by animals?) but while trying to get this photo my biggest challenge was getting her head out of my lap.

~*~

Speaking of the hospital (oh, I'm full of segues today), one night someone had left a big note in the breakroom, "Overnight Sun-Thurs not cleaning." Which is kind of like saying, "I'm not naming any names, but our current Holy Father the Pope isn't putting the toilet seat down." The description can only apply to one person, so why tiptoe around trying to spare feelings? Of course, overnight Sun-Thurs is J., who hurt her knee again and was taking it easy for a few weeks. Which Tery could have told the complainer if they'd come to her instead of leaving accusatory messages.

Tery tried to ferret out the note-writer, after having to "talk J. off the ledge." Everyone pointed fingers at one person, who when confronted acted innocently appalled, "I'd NEVER write something like that! But if J. was upset, please tell her I'm sorry." Yeah, uh-uh. No one in that hospital is selfless enough to apologize for something they didn't do. No one. Mystery solved.

It turns out the mess that prompted the complaint was one empty box left in Surgery. To which Tery's response was, "A) I guarantee you J. isn't stocking supplies off the delivery truck, and B) It's one damn box. Break it down, throw it out back, and quit whining."

~*~

Finally, a quandary with Ryan.

Back at the Oscar™ party, I said I lurved my boys (Ryan and John). This is only half true. I love Ryan, love him to death. My feelings for John depend on Ryan's happiness, which at the moment is pretty low.

John has a whole entourage of single friends who sound like they're stuck in a permanent frat-boy mentality. Every weekend they lure John out drinking, binges that last literally from Friday night to Sunday afternoon, when he finally staggers home and passes out on the couch.

Ryan is less than pleased by this behavior, and I can hardly blame him. If Tery did this, I guarantee we wouldn't have made it past our first year.

Ryan has begged him to knock it off and grow up. John refuses to see the problem. They've been going back and forth this entire time, and Ryan is finally at the point of couples therapy or adios, John. John is resistant to therapy, and Ryan still thinks he can't live without him, so they're sort of at an impasse. Naturally I'm on Ryan's side. I do my best to offer advice, but unfortunately most of the work has to be done by Ryan.

At the risk of appearing selfish, this will be causing a problem for me very shortly. Ryan had suggested coming over Monday (he gets alternate Mondays off from work) to hang out. I assumed part of his incentive was avoiding John, who of course will be blitzed the whole weekend AGAIN. Imagine my surprise when yesterday he asked if John could come too? In fact John had taken the day off of work just to hang out with us.

WTF???? Ryan's acting like this is totally against his will, that he has no control over it (and neither do I), and yes we'd have more fun alone and yes he'll ruin everything, but what can we do?

It's like he's split exactly in two. Half of him has broken up with John and just wishes he'd disappear. The other half is hanging onto a faint hope they can still work it out. And I can't tell which half I'm talking to at any given moment. Most of the time a pathetic amalgamation of the two.

I followed Tery's advice and texted him to cancel. I feel like a shitty friend, but I just don't see hanging out with John as being anything but unbearably awkward until they figure out where they stand with each other. I apologized, but suggested if maybe John was too hungover to come Ryan was still welcome on his own.

Ryan texted me back: "LOL"

I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that. And it makes Ryan come off like he's in really deep denial (which is entirely possible). Almost battered wife syndrome denial.

So I guess I'll refuse to answer my phone, close the curtains and pretend I'm not home if they come around. Yeah, I know. Great friend, right? What would you do?

~*~

On a cheerier note, the photo stylings of

she_was_stereo have inspired me to do a photo tribute to my favorite subject, Francesca Sofia. I don't have nearly her eye, and of course it's somewhat more challenging photographing an animate object. So we'll start slow and in no particular order.

Series I: Favorite Parts of a Cat