It's All Fun & Games Until Somebody Puts an Eye Out.

I, apparently, have lost a shitload of childlike wonder over the course of my life.

This was confirmed by watching The Last Mimzy with the offspring the other day. It was a wonderful, magical movie. Any of you who don't agree, please note that I make no claims toward being a good movie or book critic. You want a comprehensive review, you'd best check in with Lorraine or Eric or someone. That is not what this post is about anyway. It is about my reaction to the film, in particular, the aforementioned loss of childlike wonder.

I mean, it's no newsflash that I tend toward the cynical, that sarcasm is actually in my DNA strands, on both sides of the family. I've passed that shit on, too: the offspring are all about a well-timed sarcastic remark.

Little smartasses.

So I'm no Pollyanna. Like I need that warped reality in my life.  Even so, I had a decidedly grown-up reaction to the film. And not in a good way. It seriously annoyed the hell out of me that those kids did not go to an adult, namely their parents, for help. I mean it pretty much pissed me off. I wanted to slap the nincompoopery right out of their heads. I couldn't keep my mouth shut about it. I kept making all kinds of sarcastic comments, like "Dude, it's called a seizure, go get your friggin' MOM!" My kids were like, "See, you're like one of the grown ups in books who can't see magic anymore."

Oh.

This sucks, because when reading books of that nature, don't we all still identify with the protagonist? Don't we all still believe in magic, at least for the time we're lost between the covers of the book? Who wants to identify with the parent who can't see the magic? Or worse, the parent who won't even believe the kids?
Nevertheless, while watching The Last Mimzy, I kept bouncing back and forth between "Ooh, cool!" and "OhmyGAWD, will you go get your friggin' Mom before you put out an eye with that thing?!"

I mean, I'm sorry, but you find something washed up on the beach that is obviously behind some seriously supernatural shit, you don't just slide it under your bed and figure that you, out of all people in the universe, a five- or ten-year-old child, have a handle on that shit.  Please.  These are the kinds of the kids who will be reaching into bonfires to rescue dud firecrackers in a few years.

Still.  Even the knowledge that I am, of course, absolutely right, did not stop me from being disturbed by my strong reaction. So much so, that I later tried to psychoanalyze myself, with the help of a generous glass of cabernet.  I came to the conclusion that I was basically projecting the Mimzy kids and their safety onto my own offspring. If my kids had also been saying things like "What the hell is that kid doing sticking her arm in there?! Does she want to lose a friggin' hand?!" I probably would've felt better. I could rest comfortably in the knowledge that my own offspring, upon finding some crazy, supernatural shit on the beach, would come to me and say,

Hey, Anyu, come check out this crazy, supernatural shit we found washed up on the beach. It looks kind of cool, but it could be dangerous, and if I disappear through a wormhole or something, I want someone to know what happened so they can bring my ass back. And look, I've put on my helmet.

They would say this, because I've done a bang-up job in raising the little hellions and they are on a bright and successful path to the future, unfettered by the peer pressure of their clueless little friends or the influence of the media.

So not a Pollyanna here, people.

Parenthood drives us out of the magical realm. It transforms us from adventurer to protector. It shows us danger where we once saw only excitement.

Hey, we rationalize, somebody has to watch out for the little angels' best interest, somebody has to safeguard their future, because they're sure as hell not doing it for themselves. They're too busy atomizing body parts in a magic sphere because a magic toy told them it was okay.

Can grownups really not see magic? Is it just the parent thing that does it, or is it all of us? And does it come back, like when we're grandparents, once the protector role has fallen to the parents who were our children? Actually, is that why aunts and uncles and grandparents are "the cool ones", because they can leave the protecting to the fun-sucking parents, and still see the magic?

I wasn't always a grownup.

When I'm with my friends, or lost in my own book, I'm not a fun-sucker. If my kids could've known me as a kid, we'd have had a blast. We could've sneaked down a manhole cover, or climbed out of an elevator between floors, or flown down the steepass hill that was Winding Way Road on a tandem bike with no hands.

It must start with that first, "Hold on tight!" when we reluctantly release the big-girl swing and let her fly out alone, unprotected. The magical realm slips farther away until, by the time she's in another city, riding the metro alone at night, magic is barely visible at all, beyond the threatening mist that surrounds it.

I wasn't always a grownup. I hope it comes back when I'm old.



Mimzy photo credit: popmatters.comGrownups Are Obsolete photo credit: John Tsombikos (graffiti artist, Borf)

A Tribute to My Camera

He was loyal, dependable and sleek. My constant good companion, always at the ready. He loved long walks on the beach, sunsets, dogs, and the open road. He saw the best in everyone, and deleted the worst. He could coax a smile from a surly teenager, and make sure fat pants were never, ever in the frame.

He never missed a milestone: birthdays, graduations, recitals, karaoke nights, he was there. He was there when Teen Demon launched herself over a 5'1" high jump bar. He was there when the Male Offspring tied that snotnosed kid up like a pretzel, and slammed him down on the mat in 30 seconds. He was there when the eldest played Tzeitel in Fiddler on the Roof.

He was there when I saw that UFO off the coast, and even though everyone else shook their heads and called me a crazyass bitch, he believed me.

He was the only one in his class with an ISO option of 50. When I wasn't sure what options to use, he quietly and automatically set things up, and never rubbed it in my face. And quick! A frame a second was nothing to him. He could catch a shot of a fineass man before you could say Who's Your Daddy?

Oh, Camera -- you met your end on a blue metal banister at the community pool, thanks to a rudeass Barbified teenbrat with right-of-way entitlement issues. It was Friday the 13th. Even in your last moment, your selfless devotion saved my hip from a nasty purple bruise. I should've stood my ground for you, Camera, I should've made her go around.

I should've bitchslapped her ass to the cold concrete floor.

I'm sorry, Camera. I will always remember your bright and shiny ways and your can-do attitude. I will miss your cheery demeanor. You live on, in my heart, and in your photographs.

And I caught you then in your moment of glory
Your last dramatic scene against a night sky stage
With a moment so clear that it's as if you're still before me
My once in a lifetime star of an age

So fare thee well my bright star
Last night the tongues of fire circled me around
And this strange season of pain will come to pass
When the healing hands of autumn cool me down

Fare Thee Well, The Indigo Girls

Click. No More.

UPDATE: Sling, owner of a fancy new camera [impatiently brushes tear away], has reminded me that Friday was, in fact, Friday the 13th. Not normally one to go in for superstitions, I am rethinking that shit now.

I'm really sad and upset today. (Warning: Downer Blog Post to follow.)

Yesterday my camera got broken.

I am just sick about it.

I loved my camera. I bought it two years ago, right before going to NCORE (National Conference on Race & Ethnicity) in Manhattan for work, my once-in-a-lifetime trip to New York. I was so excited! I'd been wanting a camera for ages, but there was always something more important in the budget. I researched for months. (I am my father's daughter; I never make a major purchase without research overkill.)

I dickered between photographic control (as opposed to auto-everything), or compact size. With my schedule, and the fact that I do not earn a living shooting pics, I decided size was important (hello!) and tried to get the best quality, tiny digital available at the time.

Anyway, I learned more about cameras and specs than I ever wanted to know -- white balance, ISO settings, apertures, barrel distortion, you name it. I spent hours on dpreview.com. Okay, okay, there is a point here -- it's just that I put so much into choosing this camera. I don't buy things for myself all that often. Especially big ticket items. Anyway.


I chose the Canon SD500. At the time, it was the shit among ultra compacts. 7.1 megapixels. Faster than Clint Eastwood in a shootout. Sharp images. Cost me about $450, if I remember right.

Yeah.

I loved that camera. It went everywhere with me, fit right in my purse. And my purse is small. Being an ultra compact, it didn't offer a whole lot of photographic control, but I learned everything about that camera, and could work the hell out of its features. It took fantastic pics. Two people I know actually bought this camera for themselves after seeing my pics, and asking about it. My camera rocked. I appreciated the hell out of it.

This is my camera today. (courtesy of my son's camera. -sigh-)

That is not an artistic image on the back, it is my LCD screen.

Cracked.

Broken.

It happened at the annual bellyflop/cannonball contest at our local pool. (No, I was not a participant. Nothing so exciting as that to this tale.) The eldest daughter doesn't often get her athletics on, but she and the male offspring love this contest. She took 3rd place in the adult cannonball competition this year, btw. Whoot whoot!

Anyway, I wanted to take her glasses to the car before she hit the diving board. Because they are expensive. Because I didn't want them to get stepped on, sitting there with her towel and flip-flops. Because I didn't want them to end up broken.

Now, I always, always, always keep my camera in its little case. Always. Yesterday, though, I idiotically decided that a quick 50 meters to the car didn't warrant all of that. Fool! I put my camera in my pocket and headed for the stairs. Some blondified teenbrat came flying down the stairs at me, because of course, the world revolves around her, so why would she show a modicum of respect for her elders and let an adult pass first?

I moved to the side -- one step -- to let her by.

I stepped into the metal corner of the banister. It didn't hurt. It felt "soft" though.

My camera's LCD screen had taken one for the team, saving me from a nasty bruise.

I was instantly heartbroken. Damn it!!! NO! GodDAMNfuckitallSHITmonsters! Scheisse! Faszféj! Elbasztam! Shit.

It felt like when my Honda CRV got totalled. OK, smaller scale, but both were things that I'd saved for and researched. Things that I loved, that I felt proud of because I'd bought them myself. Things I took care of and appreciated. I didn't WANT a new car. I liked the one I had. I don't want a new camera. I liked this one just fine.

I'm just sick about it. The fact that my financial situation is different than it was two years ago makes this even more of a goddamnfuckitallshitmonsters type of event.

Oh! And what the fuck, people, I venture into Blog Land this morning to peek into others' worlds and forget about my camera, and what are the fucking odds? Three of my cyberfriends, the first three I click on, no less, are posting about what? Cameras. Photos. WTF? Seriously, what the fuck? Your pics were beautiful, by the way; I'm not so fucking pissy so as not to recognize that, although I am feeling hella bitter and jealous and crybaby about it, but seriously what do you expect? I'm just tripping out because come on, what are the odds? Just weird, no?

I'm pretty sure my camera has been reincarnated as Sling's camera. (Sling: he likes it if you give him a pat every now and again, and tell him he did a great job, especially on the sports setting.)

Also, I have a grim task ahead of me. I plan to look at my memory card, to see the last pictures taken, especially the ones taken posthumously. Well, I wanted pics of the belly flop contest, and thought it might still actually take pics, even though I wouldn't be able to see them or get to any menu items with no display screen. I had no idea what the flash or lighting was set to. I used the "viewfinder", which I'd never used before. and am pretty sure I got the flash turned off. Anyway, we'll see if anything registered.

I bet my brave little soldier took some hellacious pictures anyway. A last hurrah. We'll see. I plan to post some of my past photos, in honor of my camera's short life.

I'm going to play a dirge and light a candle now.

I should've tripped that self-absorbed little teenage twit. I hope she drops her cell phone AND her iPod in the toilet. I hate her.

The Tattoo Didn't Exactly Work Out So Well.

You can tell I don't exactly have any hot dates for the weekend. So, I'm farting around on the Internets today, when I see this Official Seal deal over at Sling's Domain. Hey, that looks fun. I've got nothing better to do -- let's make a seal!

I wasn't actually going to make a seal, for real, until I saw that little sunshine emblem. I have a tattoo that IS this sun. (Twilight Zone theme song, fade in) Well, it was supposed to look like this sun, anyway.

I still have the sketchbook where I drew it for the tattoo artist, a sexyass Hungarian flesh artist with long black hair and an intoxicating sort-of-smile. Sensual doesn't even begin to cover it. Puts me in mind of Johnny Depp, actually. We had this weird chemistry thing going on the whole time I lived there. Story for another day. Anyway, Smoldering Tattoo Guy does a beautiful job with the tattoo -- I mean I was practically ready to sign up for some sort of piercing -- when I decided that I couldn't see it well enough. I thought it needed something else.

STG: This? No. Perfect.

Me: But it's not really showing up. I think it needs an outline.

STG: No. No outline. Trust me. I know what is good for you.
(half-smile. suggestive, sidelong look.)

now at this point, I should've shut the hell up and let him tell me what
was good for me.

Me: That, I'm sure of. Don't you think it should be brighter... maybe more ink?

STG: No. No ink. This is the summer skin, brown skin. Wait some months. The ink must living with your skin. If you don't like it, you come back to me, I'm gonna fix it, make what you want. Trust me.

But I didn't. (Fool!) I insisted on an outline. Just a little skinny one. To "define" it. Why oh why, did I not listen? The man knew his inks. I insisted. He outlined it.

My sun turned into a spider. Fuck!

I tried the whole "living with it" thing, but the outline pretty much ruined that. So I went back. He didn't say a word. Just half-smiled. Covered the spider with his whole hand. Shook his head.

He suggested making it into something completely different. But noooo, I didn't want anything bigger. I asked him to add some sun-colors to the tips of the rays, so it might look less like an arachnid. Maybe bleed the yellow outside the goddamn outline. He wasn't so sure. "How can it be any worse?" I asked.

It's now a spider with painted nails.

Anyway, I guess I made an Official Seal. Since the tattoo didn't exactly work out. Amazing what memories come up whilst a-farting around on the Internets.