43 Ideas for Birthday 43: Tiny Transportation

The rest of this post is pending....

But it will focus on trains, accidents, sadness, and transportation alternatives that look like, this:

Stay tuned.

Dreaming Out Loud - Photographer Phantasies

Image from here

Given last month's installment of Dreaming Out Loud re: my phobia of being photographed, not to mention my track record with cameras, this month's installment might seem strange to those people who are acquainted my oh-so-Graceful self. But, this is a Dream List, so I am putting this out there.

Stranger things have happened -- especially lately.

The whole area of photography has changed dramatically since I was a child. I grew up in an age when pictures were still taken with film and printed on photographic paper. The cost of the film, processing and printing it was what kept too many people from venturing beyond family, vacation, and holiday pictures. It was expensively prohibitive to start "experimenting" with artsy shots, and you weren't always sure WHAT you were going to get on film until it came back from the processors.

Now, growing up with a father who worked in the audio-visual medium, it is only natural that we kids gradually took an interest in photography. (But given the fact that we're all a little competitive ... it's better than some of us haven't really pushed to make a profession out of it.)

I still have prints from my high school pin-hole camera experiments. I actually miss the smell of the dark room and the chemicals. I miss having the knack of loading my film in a camera, by winding it manually onto the gears, or hearing the whirr of the automatic winding process. Until a few years ago, I had canisters of super old, probably expired and exposed, black and white film in my fridge, and I still can't give up my hard-earned, vintage third-hand, battered film Pentax and equipment. They are buried behind things by my desk in the Attic, but I can get to them in a hurry. It may be one of the five things I grab in the case of an emergency.

Digital photography has opened a whole new world of possibilities. There are cameras ON PHONES! Something that not more than 10 years ago would have been unimaginable. That those phones take better pictures than some of my old 35mm cameras? Even more remarkable. (Has the ease of digital cellphone photography made some people go too far? Yes. HELL YES. See any starlet with a scandal lately. And the selfie craze? ... Really people!)

I tend to stay behind the technology curve, due to an abundance of caution and a lack of funds. But once I did officially, finally, switch to digital point-and-shoots? Sometimes I have to remind myself that some of my shots are actually pretty good.* (Again, read over-saturation of images, everywhere, all the time, by all kinds of amazing friends and family, and inadequacy and competitive issues).

I would love to move beyond a point-and-shoot and see what else I could do when I was the one in charge again, and not using the albeit wonderful settings.

But ... I have a mixed success rate with keeping cameras in my hands. Two recent cases in point:
 

Nikon Coolpix 

2007-2011 RIP

Ms. Ruby Nikon 2.0 

2011-2012, RIP

And ... I have other funding priorities, like:
- paying the rent,
- paying the bills,
- paying off my graduate school student loans and other debts,
- affording trips to see the family and/or far-flung friends, and
- living in one of the most expensive areas in the country ...

And ... "write" now, this is just a hobby for me. I'm not the type of blogger who has sponsors sending her all over the country, or a semi/full-time photographer who takes pictures that are licensed for use elsewhere or used to make prints, cards, etc. that are sold through her etsy.com store, or as a (fill in the blank)

So...

I can't see spending the equivalent of upwards of 1 to 3 months worth of rent money on a piece of equipment for a HOBBY, even if it was an investment to move that hobby into a money-making venture. I am serious: 1-3 months of a NYC-adjacent studio apartment (studio even) rent, for a new DSLR BODY. If you add on lenses and flash packs and batteries and other accessories ... It adds up. Even checking out the used sections of camera stores like B&H Photo and Video in NYC (where all the following photos come from, except where noted), finds that used cameras cost almost a month's rent.

Thus, I'm Dreaming Out Loud.

I would love a DSLR - but they are so large, heavy, expensive,

and then they have various lenses that are also large, heavy, and expensive.

Most come in a generic black color, which is fine for most people, especially New Yorkers, 

but look! Some come in this pretty blue. 

I really love blue.

And then some of the DLSRs need external flash packs, 

which is MORE money and stuff to lug around.

So let's be practical, these can get heavy and when you are already schlepping around, you want something lightweight to sling around your neck.

This Canon EOS Rebel SL1 Digital SLR Camera is new to the market, and is supposed to weigh in under a pound, before battery weight, and is smaller and less bulky. The price seems about on par for other smaller DSLRs on the market. With an existing flash plus mounts for more, hand grip, auto functions plus some manual ones, ability to switch out lenses, and both the traditional eye view-finder and digital screen, ... it's where I'd like to go on a camera, eventually.

From the Press Release photo kit

One day.

You know, since I'm Dreaming Out Loud and all.

By the time I save up - something smaller, faster, lightweight, and most importantly, DROP RESISTANT will be on the market.


*Thus, some of this week's upcoming Photo Flashbacks.

Cape Cod Girls Weekend 2011 - Biking Bites

In addition to hanging out, going to the beach, playing games, and lots of eating, one of the activities of our road trip involved ... hitting the road. Now, I am not athletic. I am seriously accident prone. I have not been on a traditional bike in 20 something years, but for some reason, NO one listened to my dire predictions about this outing*. Little did they know...

Cape Cod has transformed miles of an old railroad right of way into bike trails. We put in near Nickerson State Park, after finding a bike shop that was open. I immediately saw a few potential problems. They did not have an adult tricycle, adult training wheels, or helmets. Although there was a wide selection of bikes, somehow I didn't realize until after our ride that I was on a mountain bike and not a regular bike. This would prove to be a fateful decision.

Signs and smiles

My ride and the view I was afraid I would be my last ...

The first leg of the trip was interesting as I tried to get my balance, learn the whole gear shifting thing, and remind the girls that for their own protection, they needed to stay ahead and clear of me. (I veered wildly every time I had to shift gear and push off.) I was fine going ... stopping would prove to be my downfall. We pulled over a few times to enjoy the view and to rest.

Unfortunately for me, all the reclining stationary biking in the world for 15-30 minutes at a gym (months ago) did not prepare me for the hills and the fact that we went about 4-5 miles before the girls decided to turn around. Then the return journey was uphill. They got ahead of me without realizing that I was walking the bike up the hill, and then, as I was trying to balance after mounting to coast down the hill ... well, let's just say: There was a choice between me propelling over a wooden barricade down an embankment and a highway, or letting the bike fall while I braced myself on the barricade. I can truthfully say that I did NOT fall down on the ride. The bike did. But it took a serious bite out of me on the way. I didn't really know how bad it was. I knew it scraped the back of my right calf and had nicked my left ankle, but didn't look to see. I finally caught up with the girls and we headed back to the pond to "rest" and "assess."

It wasn't until we returned the bikes (I walked a lot of the rest of the way -- How sad is it that I walk faster than I bike?), and headed to lunch when I really saw how gorey it was - I discovered the bike had taken chunks out of my right leg too. Not to mention, that stuff on my ankle? That's not just blood. My ankle leaked water for the next 2 weeks. I'm going to have scars. I actually still have healing scabs. I have decided to tell future generations that these things on my legs? They are tiger shark attack scars -- that I battled nobly in the surf to save my life and that the shark decided I just was to tough to tackle.

While we enjoyed the scenery at the Breakwater and waited for our highly fried, highly carbed lunch, I tried to clean up a bit with water and hand sanitizer. Once lunch arrived, it was time for us to tuck into sweet potato fries, calamari, oysters, clams, a lobster roll, and fried scallops and fries for me -- with a nice accent of onion rings. (The Shushing Librarian tried to snag one, but I don't share well with others.)

Like my improvised bandage? Painters tape really does have many uses! Sunset on the beach and lots of Advil helped with the aches and pains, mostly in my neck and arms from where I was hunched over and bracing myself on the handles. My legs, even with the scrapes, felt fine.

Injuries and embarrassment aside (I was lapped by senior citizens on oxygen tanks and little girls on bikes with training wheels!), it was a beautiful day with some lovely and unique sights.

What is a cowboy doing this far East, at a seafood place? Even the shark knows that this is wrong.

*When I called my brother 10 days later to get medical advice about my leaking ankle, his FIRST reaction was: "Whose stupid idea was that? You shouldn't be on a bike!"

Hello!? That's what I was saying. I was more than willing to be the designated driver and documentation for the Vineyard and Brewery tours. That's MUCH safer. Incriminating, yes. But safer.

Letters from Ollie J - Feb. 4, 1984

Apparently the trend towards accidents runs in the family, skipping a generation or two along the way. I hope that means that Amber and Elle drive like Grandmary and not like their Auntie Nettie.

4 Feb 1984

[The Farm
Pikeville, NC]

Dear [Auntie Nettie],

Here goes your long awaited letter. I did appreciate the one you sent me. Thanks so much-

Grandma hasn’t been her self in a few months. Just felt bad (cold) then the accident – So please forgive me for not writting[sic].

I am here at home all alone now. All are gone to town or to Carl’s house. Don’t think they will do much there as it is raining.

My ribs are too sore for me to do much so don’t go down there – only to look.

Uncle Hyrum lets me keep his car but haven’t used it must. Just plain haven’t felt like it.

Hope you are fealing[sic] good. Cheerfull[sic] and Happy. Smile and the world smiles with you.

Grandma loves you

Thanks for the gifts you made and sent me

Went by and looked at my car yesterday. Yes it is in the shop. Took broken pieces off and wating for new parts to come. Looks bad but hope it will soon be OK again.

Tell boys I love them too.

By[sic] for now

Grandma [Ollie]

Safety Reminder from "Crash"

As someone whose life was saved numerous* times thanks to wearing my seat belt, I strongly encourage you to buckle up -- always wear your seat belt.

This is probably the most beautiful safety reminder I've ever seen.

Please share this message and help save lives.

Courtesy of the Sussex Safer Roads Partnership out of the U.K.

*Sadly, I'm not exaggerating.

Getting Goosed at Work

As has been documented on this blog, there are some strange sights to be seen when working at the Big J. One never quite knows what is going to appear when one walks down the halls. You expect it near the prop shops and in the halls near the Drama Studios. You don't quite expect it when walking past I.T. -- though, I seriously should know better by now.

One day I went to consult with a colleague in his office and was confronted by this sight.
Directly over his desk, and taking up a prominent place in the office, was a paper-maiche piñata of a Canadian Goose, with multi-colored streamers and lovely gossamer foil highlights.

The belly of the beast showed evidence of a massive beat-down, with one remaining treat -- an airline snack. Keeping watch out the window and over budget numbers, was the carcass of its mate ... looking to exact some revenge upon an unsuspecting number cruncher's elbow.

Closer examination of the fowl beast's head showed a very desirous autograph.

As it turns out, these are two of the piñatas that were created to help celebrate the one year anniversary of the "Miracle on the Hudson," aka Flight 1549, and were later auctioned off on ebay. According to the description:

The piñata was created by Tony Dominguez and served as a centerpiece of a passenger-organized celebration on the one-year anniversary of the January 15, 2009 Hudson River landing, where the passengers and crew playfully turned the tables on the Canada Geese that crippled both engines of US Airways Flight 1549. This piñata is one of three that were custom-made for this celebration. One of the three piñatas was destroyed by the passengers at the celebration, and the other two are being auctioned for earthquake relief in Haiti. ... It is currently stored in New York City."

Lucky me ... I found out where it was being stored, and got to have some fun with it before it was delivered to the ebay auction winner.

Here's another view of one of my colleagues getting goosed.

Seriously, you just NEVER know what you're going to see when you go to work.

Kitchen catastrophes

You never know when the lessons from your youth are going to come in handy. Take this weekend for example …

I have never been known for my gracefulness. It can be said (and there are police reports and facial scars to back me up) that I’m more than just a little accident prone. There was no point sneaking into my house as a teenager because I would inevitably stumble over, or drop something, to give it way. To this day, my parents SWEAR they’ve never heard so much noise as when I visit, because I’m always knocking something over in the kitchen or bathroom. (I say the latter is because I’m used to my own stuff in my own tiny space. There’s more walls and stuff at their house that gets in my way!)

In an earlier stage of my life I worked for a major fast food chain, where I got a thorough education in many, many things (some not suitable for innocent nieces and nephews to ever learn about.) In addition to learning that “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean,” I got the first of my marriage proposals (more on that MUCH LATER). One of the oddest things I remembered from my time in the grease pit came back to me in a big ol’splash one day this past weekend.

It was one of the first autumnal days we’ve had this season, with tropical rains and winds making it seem like it was late November instead of mid-September. I got in the mood to cook, so I was spending time in my teeny tiny kitchenette. On the stove top I had a large cauldron of black bean soup bubbling away, and the oven was full of scarily spicy peanut butter cookies. Since my minuscule sink was full of dirty dishes, I was bustling around to put things away to make room. As I blindly reached down to put pots and pans away on my rolling shelves/counter top, I wasn’t really paying close attention. Suddenly I heard a large splat and saw that somehow I’d managed to knock over the gallon jug of olive oil … and it was glooping and glopping its contents across my kitchen floor and onto the walls … and the puddle was getting bigger and bigger! Hysterical panic set in, as my paper towels ran out and no newspapers were to be found. I just wanted to scream “CLEAN UP IN AISLE 1!” and let someone else deal with the mess. Alas, no one rode their mop to my rescue.

It was in that instance when the lessons learned at the fry vat suddenly came to mind. In case of major grease spillage, look for the salt box! Not the salt shaker, but the large container of salt that hides in the recesses of every pantry or kitchen shelf somewhere in most of the world. Grab it, open it, and spread the content around on the spill, very very liberally. Not only does the salt seem to absorb the oily mess, it adds some traction to your shoes while you run around and try and contain the rest of the disaster. (This is akin to using sand and/or kitty litter to get traction in the snow in the winter.) It also buys you a moment or two to take stock of the situation.

As I was contemplating the cleanup of my kitchen catastrophe, the perfect storm of conditions continued to hit critical mass. With one hand dripping in oil, the other caked with salt, and me trying to figure out how to get the almost burning cookies out of the oven or how to get the pot to stop from boiling over, wouldn't you know it? The cell phone rang. Rather than let it go to voice mail, I just had to answer it. (You know, ‘cause I’m conditioned that way. D**n it PAVLOV!) I believe that’s when the hysterical laughter--AT MYSELF--began to emerge. [Sorry about that, Jenn. Thanks for understanding and for calling me back.]

Once calmed, I managed to find a way to gloss over the situation. I rescued the cookies, turned down the soup, and then turned to tackling the huge salt and oil slick on the floor. I also very carefully put the gallon of olive oil BACK in the pantry … on the floor … away from the ministrations of my bumbling self …. .

Plus I took pictures to remind me of the mess, though they don’t quite capture the Technicolor wonder of the olive oil contrasting with my nasty linoleum.

After many minutes making salt "castles" on the floor, followed by the services of my Dust Buster sucking gross stuff out of crevasses and grooves, and lots of scrubbing with Lysol wipes, the floor has a nice sheen to it. Is it me though, or does everything taste oh so slighty ... salty?



Nah. You’re imaging that Auntie “Grace,” along with the phantom grit that you’re feeling when you walk across the floor …

Lousy Legal Limbo

Any letter with the words jury selection, subpoena, testimony, and trial date does not make for a happy holiday. Just saying ...

Dear Santa,

I'd like to revise my Holiday Wish List. While I'd like an adjournment, what I'd really like is a dismissal.

Thanks,
Auntie Nettie