How To Be Self-Taught at Anything.

Thank you, everyone, for all the birthday wishes. Nothing like a birthday to make me feel like everybody loves me. On a birthday, I have no enemies. On a birthday, I'm everyone's favourite person. Updates of the day will be coming next week.

But until then, I'm trying to learn the ever-so-complicated art of Photoshop CS3. [What? They have a CS4 now? Shoot.] It's not an easy task. Poor Kyle taught me what a layer was and how to use one, and Ree Drummond taught me everything else.

I don't want to take any classes or any true tutorials, because I would very much like to go around smugly telling people that "I am a self-taught Photoshop extraordinaire." There's something about being self-taught [at anything!] that makes me feel really vain.

So far so good. I know I like how this one turned out. What a cute little tongue my nephew has. All the better to exploit him with--that's what I say.

But when it came to this photo, I couldn't decide if I liked Option #1 or Option #2 better...

On the one hand, in the above photo (Option #1), Inquisitive Baby's eyes are bright and crisp, and his face looks soft and fluffy.

But on the other hand, in Option #2, my Inquisitive Baby's background is dark, and there's just enough contrast to provide visual stimulation.

Visual stimulation? I don't even know what an aperture is--how can I possibly talk about visual stimulation and get away with it?

So it's up to you, e-friends. Should I like #1 or #2 better? The differences are subtle, but I feel like I should have an opinion either way. And you are going to form that opinion for me [please, that is]! You can vote in the poll to the right, or comment on this post if you'd like to expound your reasoning. Also, if there are any amazing photography sites that make your world go round, please let me know of them.

I'm in the market for some inspiration.

I've Dropped the Ball...

I've not been irate about anything lately. My best posts happen when I'm irate, and so I've hesitated to post anything new. We're headed off to the sand dunes this weekend, where I'm sure there won't be internet connections, so I'll just have to take this time to really reflect--hopefully there will be something new and exciting to read by next week.

Until then, entertain yourself by looking at these photos of my nephew. He's cute--and that's a fact, not an opinion. See for yourself:

North for the Winter

I'm apologising now for the fact that will soon be made known to you:

This is going to be a short post.

It is so draining to say goodbye to people I love. In the words of my mom...I can't hardly stand it.

I never knew I could love a human child like I love that boy. Truth be told, his was the hardest goodbye. My parents' was sad, too, as was my sister and brother-in-law and grandma.

After that, I gave up. We just skipped town without saying goodbye to anyone else. So if you are in Mesa and saw me there just a few days ago, now you know: I'm gone.

We've just spent 15 hours on the road and have stopped over in a quaint new hotel that has eight fluffy pillows on its king sized bed. In other words, I've died. And gone to Heaven (despite what my heckler might have wished upon me).

And to anyone who lives, has lived, or ever will live in Utah: I just want you to know that I am impressed at how well you all are keeping the billboard business alive and thriving--this stretch of I-15 has been fascinating. I put away my Real Simple magazine and read the side of the road. Truly.

Should Have Knocked on Wood...

...when I titled that last post, "R & R."


I'm on baby duty tonight. Preston is so soft and round. He's got a double chin and dimples. He's quite a lovely child. And, yet...so stressful.

It just goes to figure that Adell would bear a child who doesn't know what to do with his hands; so he has to be wrapped up tightly all the time. Swaddled, they call it. Otherwise he smacks himself in the face. And sometimes at night he cries just to cry. Not hungry, not stinky, not anything but just...kind of belligerent. Of course babies can't really be belligerent, because that would mean they could feel spite, and I won't believe that he's spiteful. I think he just doesn't quite know--well, anything. Yet.

Anyway, Preston doesn't like me as much as he likes his Grandma. But that's okay. I wasn't expecting him to love me straight off the bat, like I did him.

It's strange, that. I can spend lots of time meeting new people at church, or school, or anywhere, and maybe--maybe--a fourth of them I end up loving. But this little guy? Absolute, unconditional love. Immediately. Most strangers I meet don't poop their pants; Preston does. Most strangers don't totally ignore me when I'm talking to them; Preston does. Most strangers don't scream in my ear for extended periods of time; Preston definitely does. But despite his unfortunate quirks, I feel like there's nothing this boy could ever do to make me love him any less. Weird.

Must be because he doesn't have any cats.

He's sleeping now. I wish I could, too. But every noise he makes draws my attention. I'm afraid he's going to choke on his spit-up, or turn his head the wrong way and not be able to lift it and then he'll suffocate. He's stressing me out.

Which is why being Auntie 'Mille is far superior to being "Mommy." In my {ahem} humble opinion.

R & R

Here I am. Home again.

I've been gone three months, but really it feels like I have never left.

I met my new nephew. He's nice enough. Kind of finicky. He expects a lot of the people around him. Likes things just so. I think the general idea of his child rearing experience (i.e. his life) is for everyone in his vicinity to dote on him. Completely. He doesn't fancy me. I'm not the doting type...not yet. And it's true what Adell said about the French. He doesn't fancy that either. He'll learn what his Auntie 'Mille (pronounced "ant-ee meal") is all about, though. We'll get through this phase together.

I'm staying at his house, though, and I'll be honest--tonight's my first night; I'm not fancying waking up every three hours when he does. Go figure. So we'll see how it goes. I might move back to my parents' house before long.

When my plane landed and I debarked, my dad met me at the gate [one of the many perks of a parent who works at US Airways]. It was good to get a few one-on-one minutes with him. Then my mom and my Grandma picked me up, along with Preston. What fun it was to see them all! It's lovely here in Mesa. It's like I never left. The only thing different is that Bath and Body Works had its huge sale, and all my relatives consequently have Wallflower air fresheners in their homes. Mesa smells better than I remember.

I've had my first Super Burrito Carne, and my first Diet Doctor Pepper** from QT. We're well on our way.

As it is, I'm quite fatigued, but in keeping with my 5-days-a-week resolve, I thought I'd better post. So here is the post. Tomorrow I'll write something better. Promise.

Oh, and post script: Thank you to all the people who came out of the shadows and let me know they're reading my blog--what a thrilling surprise! Also, thank you to the 16 people who've voted so far. And whoever said I should never. ever. post on this blog...are you the same person who told me I could just go to Hell? Just come out with it already; I'm really curious to know who you are, and what you have against me!

**I read and re-read this sentence. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with it. Finally, it hit me like lightning: I spelled out "Doctor Pepper." Who does that? It's Dr Pepper (with no "." at the end of Dr.). I've been away for far, far too long.

Goin' Home...

I know, I know. I live in Canada now. It's my home. Well, "They" say that home is where the heart is, and so in my case, I have homes all over the world. I'm quite divided as to where "home" is for me. Torn, really. I mean, my heart is here in Canada, of course, but still...so very much in Mesa.

But let's not think about sad things like leaving home. Instead, let's think about this: I'm going to Arizona soon! I knew I would not get to be there for Christmas, and I was kind of hoping Gwidon wouldn't exit his mother's womb until after I got there. Little punk that he is, he squeezed out all early on me. And now I've missed his first growth spurt, and his mother doesn't know French, and I think she has plastic bottles in her house, which--aside from causing the child to have cancer--aren't green. So I gotta get down there. I mean...I just have to.

Aside from being Preston's new (and very temporary) nanny, there's lots of other things I plan on doing when I get home to Arizona. Namely...

-Dragging Broadway and reminiscing about all the good times we used to have breaking into this abandoned warehouse.
-Eating Super Burrito carnes (if I have to explain what these are, you don't deserve to know).
-Shopping at Target. Oh, Target.
-Hanging out at 5 E. Hillside.
-Visiting my grandparents. Maybe even the Texas ones...
-Going to the Scottsdale Fashion Mall, just for kicks.
-Buying 25 cent magazines at the Mesa Public Library.
-Renewing my Arizona tags on Tamra Camry.
-Going to Costco to look at the cheap cheese. And the cheap meat.
-Going to Costco for any reason at all, really.
-Spending a great deal of my time at the neighborhood QT. I really miss it there.
-Eating fresh, ripe, free (free!) citrus from my backyard. Okay, fine, it's not my backyard anymore...but I'm pretty sure my mom and dad won't mind.
-Going to church at the Westwood Ward.
-Staying up until 3 a.m. just so I can go shopping, and remind the Canadians how useful a 24-hour Wal-Mart really is (it's one of the selling points for my "America-is-Slightly-Superior-to-the-Rest-of-the-World" campaign).
-Roller blading on the blissfully bare (read: snow-less) sidewalks.

Can you tell? I'm pretty hyped about this. I'm only packing one sweater, too. Out of spite. I figure one good thing about living in this frosty country is that when I go home to Arizona I might never--ever--need to wear a sweater.

**P.S. Preston made Jenny Biggs' blog! Check him out here...he's quite handsome, and it will be worth your while.**

Pre-Meditated...

I've been a frustration to my older sister pretty much all my life. I don't eat right; I don't exercise; I'm not motivated and am not fulfilling my *amazing* potential; I leave the same song on my blog for too long, and it drives her insane. I misspell words and can't remember the "punctuation before quotation" rule [or is it after the quotation mark???]. For these--and a myriad of other reasons---Adell gets on my case...constantly.

Of course it's because she loves me. Of course I know that. But the little sister inside me can't resist getting her goat every now and then. Purposely.

And then there are times when I get her goat without really intending to at all. Like now. Nobody in my family would ever email me a decent photo of my nephew--you remember? The one who escaped that nasty womb just last week? My own flesh and blood, and I've only seen snapshots held up to a webcam... {Yes, that's right. My mom and dad can work a webcam but can't import photos to iPhoto, or email them any other way...good grief.}

So I am taking matters into my very own hands and being the first to debut his newborn photos (courtesy of Jenny Biggs, of course). I hope someday my big sister can find it in her heart to forgive me for what I am about to do...

Ladies and gentlemen of the blogging universe, please welcome to the world...Preston Durrant Atwood, fondly referred to as Gwidon (GWEE-DUHN):

I know. I can hardly contain myself either. If I could describe him in one word, it would be "serene." Don't you agree?

They all told me he looked like an Atwood, but now that I have seen a high-resolution photo of the little tyke for myself, I say he's got quite a lot of Adell in him. Maybe someday I'll find a baby photo of her to prove my point. But that's not the point--the point is, he floats my boat.

Every time I call to talk with her, she holds the phone up to Gwidon's ear so I can speak French to him (since we all know babies who hear French grow into adults who speak French...[and we want her kids to be better than everyone else's kids, so it's necessary for them to be bilingual.]) The only problem--and what we did not foresee--is that Gwidon doesn't like French at all. He scowls and pushes the phone away every time I try...little uncultured scoundrel. A week old, is all!

But he'll learn. They always do.