My very own titan of industry

The Husband has been asked to speak at a conference next year in New Orleans. He keeps conveniently forgetting when it is exactly, and I keep nagging reminding him that if said conference takes place anytime on or near mardi gras, he will most certainly find himself sharing a bed.

WITH ME.

Ain't no way I'm sending the man I love into that den of iniquity all on his own. All those hoochie mamas and their beads.

Nasty.

ANYhoo, he has needed an executive portrait for the speaking engagement, which is something he is absolutely loathe to do. It is a torturous event each year just getting him to pose for ten minutes in the obligatory family Christmas card photo. Getting him to voluntarily submit himself to a portrait session in a suit and tie?

Probably as awful as having to go to mardi gras with your hag of a wife, I'm sure.

But he finally acquiesced and I am happy to show you the results of his my hard work. I give you the Husband, a titan of the health care industry:

(Note the absence of a wedding ring on that left hand. It was lost years ago while he was coaching gymnastics and I've never replaced it. I think it's time I did, don't you?):

(Want to see the same picture straight out of the camera? Taken in my ghetto basement studio, you know, with the un-ironed white muslin backdrop and the un-photoshopped face? Amazing what a few clicks in Photoshop will do for even the best looking face.)

While dashing and handsome even still, he lacks that certain luster that pretty lights and a good photoshop edit can give you. (And he also now realizes that every picture in the magazines is not remotely the straight-out-of-camera shot. Yes, we all CAN'T be expected to look like Elle McPherson. Even Elle doesn't look like Elle, if you know what I mean.)

Here is another of the finished ones. I tell him this is his "Happy-going-to-lunch-executive-look."

Much less stoic and boardroom-like. It's kind of what he looks like if you're sitting across the table with him having a casual conversation.

See, honey? The photo shoot wasn't really that painful.

And I'd say that one of the perks to having your own in-house photographer is getting to wear your plaid shorts instead of slacks, all the cookies you can eat while shooting, and not having to pay your photographer in dollars.

Brilliant, I tell you. The man is brilliant.

And also pretty dang cute, if you ask me. Look out, Na'Orlins. Here he we come!

Some beautiful people for you to oogle

A few weeks ago, I was extremely honored when I was asked to photograph this handsome devil:



I mean, hello? Who wouldn't jump at the chance to shoot this?



This strapping young man has just joined the military and was home after basic training to visit his mama. Yes, ladies, he loves his mama AND he is single. But not for long, I'll wager.

What is it about a man in a uniform? Of course, I'm old enough to be his mother, so I say that in the most maternal, non-creepy, non-cougar-like manner.

Ahem.



A bonus in this photo shoot was turning my camera on his gorgeous sister and her (pretty-much-already-is-but-soon-to-be-official) fiancee. I've waited to post these until I was sure I could say that without blowing the whistle on them, but I think the date is now set. They are going to be a darling family.

Someday to have the most darling babies.







It was one of the funnest shoots I've had in a long time. Beautiful, grown-up people who love their mama and love each other?

Photography heaven, I tell you.

P.S. I crop all my pictures to a square for blog posting, so some of the edges of the photos get cut off in the process. I assure you that all heads and backgrounds are intact when pictures are handed over to the clients. In case you were wondering.

Some good advice for any age

A few days before school, we sat the kids down - as we do every year - and talked about the upcoming challenges and exciting prospects of a new year. Especially with Mack starting middle school this year, we felt it was important for them to be aware of those around them. We want our children to be friendly and inclusive - to notice that lonely soul off to the side and find a way to broaden their circle. They've been the new kids more times than not, and I don't want them to ever forget what that's like.

At these talks every year, we also stress the importance of doing their best. Sure, second grade isn't exactly the pinnacle of academic achievement, but we feel they need to learn to try their hardest, no matter WHAT level they're on. We constantly remind them that their only job right now is to do well in school.

Which really cuts into Chase's hopes and dreams of playing his ukulele on the street for cash, right next to the crack dealers and homeless shanty towns.

I know, we're just cruel like that.

But when I found this list in Hannah's backpack the other day, it really made me smile.

What can I say? Girlfriend likes herself a good list.

I find them often on her nightstand - lists of what she needs to do the next day, lists of books she wants to read, and even lists of outfits she plans to wear.

Clearly, that nut didn't fall too far from the tree.

But this list particular list takes the cake:


In case her little handwriting is hard to read, here is the translation:

• Try my best on every test
• Introduce myself to a lot of people
• Never say anything roude (rude)
• Never swear
• Don't do anything that is mean just to be funny for your friends
  

Excellent words to live by. Can you imagine what the world would be like if everyone followed that advice? MTV might actually play music again. You could walk the halls of any high school in America without an assault on the auditory senses. And reality television, as we know it, would cease to exist.

I'm pretty sure she just might be on to something.

Trading in those three minutes

Do you hear that?

It's the sound of silence in the Casa de Stie. The little people who have been such good company all summer long have loaded their backpacks, donned their new clothes, and took happy steps onto the big yellow bus which steals them from me each year.

The younger two are still in elementary, but the biggest boy is making the leap to middle school this year.

Honestly? I am more terrified than he ever will be. Not because I think he will be bullied or will struggle with the course work. But because these little lives of theirs seem to keep marching by at an ever-increasing pace. I mean, wasn't he just born? Wasn't that like, um, 47 minutes ago?

How is he in middle school now?

It makes me angry a little bit, how fast it all goes. I feel gypped. I want some time back, to make sure I memorized her baby smell or the sound of his toddling voice cheering with glee as he knocked over YET ANOTHER tower of blocks. I want to pinch those chubby cheeks in the highchair and run my fingers through her hair after the first big-girl haircut. I want to play with that excited three- and one-year-old in the park again, only this time, I'll not sit exhausted on the bench. I'll get up and chase them. I'll hug them tight through their laughter, and tickle those round bellies with kisses when I catch them.

I'll forgo the Disney babysitter just this once and cuddle them to my chest, breathing in their sweaty sweetness, and make up story after story about princesses, dinosaurs, and firetrucks. I'll not make such a fuss when their little muddy hand prints appear on the wall. I'll bend down and look at more ladybugs in the dewey grass.

I'll hold them tight. And never let go.

Because you know what? They really don't stay like that for more than a minute. I never would have believed you if you had told me that when I was counting the minutes until they were out of diapers or putting them to bed early so I could have JUST THREE MINUTES TO MYSELF ALREADY.

Well, I've got those three minutes now. And then some.

And I think I'd happily trade them if I could.

Take care of my babies today, please.

Meltdowns, love machines, and things to look forward to

Last week, I had the mother of all meltdowns. I was overwhelmed by all that I had to get done, and was finding myself choked with panic at the lack of time to do it all in. I was exhausted and beat up. I found myself in tears on the phone with the Husband, and later that day with his mother. I had reached my breaking point and knew something had to give.

So, what did I do to deal with the crises?

I threw my hands into the air and took the week off.

I know. How very adult of me.

But I have no regrets, you see, for I played with my babies in the sunshine, soaking up the last few hot days of summer. I laid on the couch and held my (big and jointy) little girl in my arms. I watched movies. I finished a book that was started far too long ago (and LOVED it so much that I am planning to re-read it). I actually cooked dinner a few times, and did not have laundry blocking the mudroom walkway every night.

And, I won't lie to you, it felt damn good.

But I would be remiss if I didn't share with you a couple snapshots from the previous week when we got some time with these delicious people:

Sam, the undeniable Love Machine

Luke, the self-proclaimed Hurt Machine

Emme, the long-lost sister Hannah's been waiting her whole life for

Jake, the Nerf-wielding, wrestling, boxing, sword fighting pal that fit right in around here

We felt so lucky to get a few days with our cousins from the east. The girls took to each other like long-lost sisters and we only saw them emerge occasionally from Hannah's bedroom to grab snacks before they were off to swap clothes and write plays together.

The big boys bonded instantly over our vast arsenal of Nerf guns, prompting Gabi's oldest to immediately rush to Target and spend his savings on a whale-sized Nerf gun of his own. Chase and Jake spent their waking hours traipsing through the woods hunting squirrels and jumping endlessly on the trampoline. It amazed me that they never seemed to get tired.

The little twinks, well, they had each other and big cousin McKay for entertainment. I will forever think of them as the Love & Hurt Machines, and will always regret not snapping that photo of Sam and his hilarious naked typing. (there's one for the wacky google searches, eh?)

But most memorable for me were the poolside chats with Gabi and late night pontificating about all things related to life. She is one of the wisest women I've ever met and I will forever value her thoughtfully rendered opinions. She makes me laugh like nobody else I know, and she has a knack for making you feel beautiful, smart, and put together.

Which my meltdown last week clearly proved otherwise.

But it truly was a magical few days, and we were definitely wishing for more when they pulled out of the driveway to head for home. Luckily, we've conned them into Thanksgiving at Amish Country again.

(Any bets how many times the Husband pleads to go off the grid before we even get there?)

Stay tuned for a busy upcoming week: I've got photoshoots galore to show you. The new business seems to be off and running with a bang, which makes my heart so very happy. Plus, school starts on Tuesday for my babies. (As does my new career as a lady who lunches and sees a lot of movies.)

I am sad, yet I am also secretly excited.

Taking that leap of...I don't know what

One from my most recent shoot with two beautiful people in love

Well, I am doing it. I am hanging up my shingle.

Over the past year or so, I have been so busy with photoshoots, that I decided to give it a go professionally. Pete at Aspen Digital created my beautiful website, and I am now officially open for business.

For you, my best internet peeps, I send you to my new site for a sneak peek.

And when I stop chewing my fingernails, wailing on the floor in a ball of anxiety, and pulling my hair out in droves, I will come back here and tell you all about the fun I had last week with Gabi, and the fun I have in store next week for myself.

I'd like some condiments for this foot in my mouth, please

This weekend, we attended the baptism of a very good friend's daughter. This dear friend had family coming from all over the country for this special event - family of hers that I was reacquainting myself with, and family that I was meeting for the first time.

So I am sitting in the chapel, waiting patiently for the event to commence. I am thoroughly enjoying myself as I make small talk with those around me.

I turn when I notice a tall, handsome man approaching the pew where I am sitting. He starts chatting with the family on the bench next to me, who I know to be relatives of my good friend.

I reach out my hand to this tall stranger and say, "Oh, you must be Stuart's Dad. It's so nice to meet you."

He smiles, chuckles and says, "Um, no. Actually I'm Craig, his brother-in-law."

HOLY. FRICKIN'. CRAP.

I cringe and felt the oxygen sucked from the room as I realize that I have just mistaken a man in his early 40s FOR ONE IN HIS MID-70s. I reel with horror at my most ridiculous mistake yet, and immediately look to see if it would be noticeable if I crawled under the bench to hide. Better yet, I think, would be a shovel with which I could dig my own grave, and hide in my shame for all eternity.

The Husband, ever on my side, leaned over and told Craig that the only fitting rebuttal is for him to turn and ask me when my baby was due.

Touche, dear Husband, touche.

The very youthful victim of my verbal faux pas

Honestly. How did I mistake him for a man in his 70s? I don't know what I was thinking at the time those awful, irretrievable words came flying out. I have no excuse but my own stupidity.

Fortunately for me, Craig has a sense of humor. Throughout the rest of the day's festivities, he joked and laughed about his old and infirm state. He even smiled and posed the next day while I took some pictures of his darling - AND VERY YOUNG - family.

I think from here on out, I will keep my big yap shut.

These feet of mine don't taste as good as they used to.

Stealing Opa's most excellent idea

My middle son, Chase, has a slight obsession with all things military. And when I say slight, I mean he would literally sign up and head off to war today, armed with his vast knowledge of weaponry and battle, if the armed forces would let him.

When we see soldiers anywhere in uniform, he immediately runs up to shake their hand, and almost tearfully thanks them for their service to our country. I've written before about how he wanted to donate all our money to the marine corp veterans outside the grocery store. And he gets giddy with excitement when he sees recruiting centers and it's all I can do to keep him from just asking if he can sign up.

Because, "You never know, Mom. They might have changed the age limit!"

Heaven help me.

So you can imagine what Pearl Harbor was for him, then.

When he saw this vintage poster in the gift shop, he knew he had to have it.

My problem was how to hang it once we got it home. I did not want the four-thumbtacks-in-the-corners-approach, as I knew within weeks it would be shredded and warped.

Also knowing how my boys play in their room at night, the last thing I would allow was a giant-sized piece of glass hanging over their beds, just waiting to be shattered with a football. A traditional frame would never work.

So, what to do?

Thankfully, I married into a resourceful family. Opa had the idea in years past and we successfully adopted it here. You get a piece of foam board about the size of your poster (or larger, and just cut it down with a t-square and box cutter). Mount your poster ever-so-carefully using spray-on adhesive. You need about six pairs of hands for this step, as you want to ensure it lays smooth and flat without any air bubbles or premature adhesion.

Once that is done, wrap the edges in black tape, and voila! A gorgeous piece of military history that makes my little soldier so very happy.

I think it actually looks pretty cool and am now wishing we had picked up a few more.

Wait! I will volunteer go back and get them. Yeah, that's it. Send me!

Oh, all right. I'll stop.

Maybe.

Last trip post, I promise

I know you are all probably so sick of this vacation that you saw the title and clicked off to hunt for free porn. Nothing like days and days of someone else's boring vacation pictures, right?

Right.

Well, too bad. At least for one more day anyway.

I end the Seattle/Hawaii Trip '09 with some stats and (of course) more pictures. To give you an idea of our endeavors over the last 13 days without writing down every detail, here is some data that is pretty representative of the fantastic experience we had:

• Total number of flights: 7
  
• Total number of bags checked on flights: Zero, thanks to my awesome packing
  
• Total number of hotels we stayed at: 5
  
• Estimated caloric intake per day by me alone: 9,678 thankyouverymuch
  
• Pounds gained while on this vacation: I am sure at least 8.
  
• Number of fish viewed while snorkeling: 756 or more
  
• Number of bloody wounds received from jagged coral while snorkeling: 2 (both mine)
  
• Bottles of sunscreen used: 4
• Number of people in our family who took hula lessons: 2 (all female, naturally)
  
• Number of people in our family who swam in a cage with sharks all around: 3 (all male, of course)
  
• Total number of days before I adjusted to the time difference: 9
  
• Number of days it will likely take me to adjust back: 14
  
• Dollars spent shopping: Much, much less than it could have been, dear Husband. Remember that in the days to come when you look at the bank statement, mmkay?
  
• Pounds of sand washed down our hotel shower drain per day: 3
  
• Number of former KSL weathermen seen at the Hawaiian Temple: 1 (bonus if you guess who it was)
  
• Number of times the natives called me 'Cousin': At least 27
  
• Minutes until I am ready to go back again: I'd say less than one. It actually hurts a little bit to think that Hawaii is still out there in this world, existing, without me in it.

And finally, because my little i-phone picture posts were so tiny (a pet peeve of mine), here are a few of my favorites so far. I have yet to barely wade through the hundreds and hundreds of shots I took, so these will have to do.

Aloha and mahalo

I can hardly bear the thought of getting on a plane and leaving this place, but the time has come.

My face is puffy and swollen from all the sun, my skin is pruned from all the water, and my pants are pinchy and tight from all the food.

Oh, I could write for days about the gluttony alone.

Instead, I will pack our bags and head for home with the memory of a fabulous trip and the relief that no one got sick (except for those few unmentionable hours on the Road to Hell).

Aloha, Hawaii. Mahalo from the bottom of my heart.

--Kiliki (Christie in Hawaiian)

Note to self

When your children want to buy ukeleles for souvenirs, it is a good idea to make them wait until the last day of the trip.

Instead of when you have FOUR DAYS LEFT for them to pleasure you with their plinking and plucking.

Oh the joy.

Giving up halfway to Hana

Let's just say the Road to Hana (or Road to Hell, as we are calling it) is now paved with something other than good intentions.

It is paved with the vomit of all three of my children.

It is a winding, one-lane recipe for car sickness with no room on either side to even stop and puke.

Solution? Let the poor babies hang their heads out the window and let loose on the side of the car.

Please don't tell the nice people at Hertz.

I am pretty sure I deserved this for going on about the blissful trip I was having.

That karma is such a beyotch.

Hate me yet?

Because I totally would if I were you.

We are here on Maui and cannot get enough of the beach that is right outside our room. The boys are snorkeling so much they have started to grow gills.

Hannah keeps picking flowers for me to tuck behind my ears. I'm pretty sure the hotel isn't liking that, but it makes her so happy that I am powerless to stop her.

The husband is totally off the grid and loving it.

I honestly do not think there could possibly be a more heavenly place on earth. Pinch me, please.

Good morning, indeed

It's five a.m. here and for the first time in my life, I don't mind getting up to see the sun rise.

I may never come home.

Aloha, internets

And we are off...will be posting from the road via the wonderful people who invented the i-phone.

In case you were wondering how the pre-trip diet went, I am happy to report that through a combination of near-starvation and strenuous exercise, I dropped four pounds in four days.

Which will probably be put back on at breakfast tomorrow morning.

Which I am totally fine with. Just don't tell my thighs. They will not be thrilled one bit.

Selfish, chubby thighs. Always thinking of themselves.

Don't have too much fun without me.

"Ugh, I think I can actually hear you getting fatter"

[Anyone know the classic movie where that line comes from? I do. And every time I watch it, it makes me laugh so hard a little pee comes out.]

To say the scale has not been my friend the last few days would be a bit of an understatement.

That damn thing hasn't been my friend for a good two weeks.

It really isn't shocking or unexpected. There have been more than a few rounds of cookie dough. There have been cakes and pans of brownies. There have been endless bowls of my fabulous homemade guacamole (a recipe which I really ought to share with you one of these days). And I'm not sure, but I think I may or may not have eaten 1,873 pounds of M&Ms.

I am feeling it and I am not happy with that feeling. To make matters worse, we leave in three days for a little vacay in Hawaii wherein I was planning on looking seductive and trampy on the beach. Not lumpy and fat on the beach.

But, I've not lost heart. I am going to give the next three days my best effort and see if I can drop a pound or two.

Failing that, I'll just drown my sorrows in a super-sized tub of cookie dough, buy a muu-muu, and tell my trainer it wasn't my fault when I get back.

Sound good?

Shut up.

Making peace with my freckles

The other day, I was driving somewhere with all three kids in the car. I listened quietly from the front seat to their happy banter,relishing the back-and-forth between them.

That is, until I heard these words said by Hannah:

"I hate my freckles. I have so many of them and they make me look so ugly."

McKay responded with this:

"I hate mine, too. They make me look like such a little kid. I wish I didn't have any freckles."

Horrified, I realized they were repeating VERBATIM things that have come from my own mouth.

I glanced in the rear view mirror, frowning slightly at my face full of them, and took a deep breath. I jumped in and told them how much I love their freckles and my freckles, and how cute they look on all of us. I told them their freckles were angel kisses from heaven, and that it meant we were special.

That brilliant plan worked well until the one child WITHOUT freckles piped up and asked if that meant he wasn't special.

Crap.

Can't win here, can I?

Anyhoo, I have decided from here on out to publicly embrace my freckles, lest my children develop a complex and feel slightly unattractive all their lives thanks to me. I will stop complaining out loud about them. I will stop whining about them while flipping through People magazine. And I will try to stop comparing my skin to all the non-freckly skin out there.

We are what we are, and that's good, too. (Any one know which old musical that fabulous line comes from? It's a classic.)

It does not mean, however, that I will stop photoshopping them away every chance I get. Like this picture from last summer (when my hair was so gloriously long).

Before:

And after:

(Admit it, the after is so much better. Just don't admit it in front of my kids)

Psychological inkblots or fireworks? You decide

So. I have decided it was wise not to kill my boys over the basement flood, even though they might have deserved it. I also forgave them when, a mere day later, my boys were wrestling in the basement and my oldest child put a giant hole in the wall with his knee. (Yay, Dad! Another hole for you to fix on your next visit!)

I have not ruled out selling them to gypsies, however.

But for fun, I thought I'd show you some of my favorite fireworks pictures from this year and tell you how to make some of your own for next year.

I know, it might have been nice to have this information on, say, July 3rd. But what can I say? This is the best you can expect from me this week.

I love taking pictures of fireworks - it's like distorted, colorful works of art that come out gloriously different every time you click the shutter. You never know what you're going to get. Someday I may mount a few of these on canvas and find someplace cool to hang them.


First, your camera must be set to manual for this. For those of you who waste a perfectly good SLR camera by keeping it on the auto setting, turn the knob to the giant "M."

Also, if the previous paragraph applies to you, stop what you are doing immediately. Log on to Amazon, send away for this book, and pray I forgive you for your ignorance.

For those of you who actually know how to use your camera properly, you will be allowed to move on to step two.

Lower your shutter speed until it says "bulb." This is the slowest shutter speed setting and will allow you to manually hold the shutter open for as long as your little heart desires.

You can put your f-stop (or aperture) at whatever you'd like - I played around with mine and found that the wider apertures (or smaller f-stop numbers) worked better as it allowed more light in. I also had my ISO set to 100.

Then, just point at the fireworks and shoot, holding down on the shutter release for as long as you like.

I didn't take my tripod this year, and I wish I would have. Balancing the camera on my knees while shooting in the rain wasn't ideal.

But they turned out pretty cool - each one more different than the last.

And afterwards, it's totally fun to study each picture and find something in the lines, squiggles, and colors. Kind of like a homemade inkblot test of sorts. You can give them to your family for an enlightening night of psycho-analysis. (Get it, en-LIGHT-ening? Okay. Bad pun).

For the record, my children saw food in nearly every picture. What does that say about us?

Is it just me or does that last one look slightly like Daniel Craig? A little? No?

Fine. Party poopers.