It’s true: we photographers are an overly trusting sort with an unbridled optimism that includes a belief that most strangers will not kill us in our sleep.

The reasons she had invited me to shoot with her are unclear but one thing was certain: she was under the mistaken impression that I was not, in fact, semi-retarded and possessed some rudimentary ability to operate a camera.

Boy was she in for a rude awakening.

So there we were, before the famed Loretto Chapel in Santa Fe, New Mexico, waiting to shoot what was sure to be one of the most beautiful weddings either of us would ever attend. We were both thrilled to be there despite the fact that we had passed the prior three and a half hours roasting in a truck in the New Mexican heat waiting to take “getting ready” shots that never happened. Or that the bride was stressed to the max and in dire need of whiskey or Vicodin or pretty much anything that would deaden her sensibilities. Forget the fact that – after having waited for three and a half hours in the baking heat – we engaged in a high-speed race to the chapel that ended with us becoming lost in the maze of kitsch Santa Fe boutiques and ended up parking roughly six light years away from where we wanted to be or that said parking location necessitated a last-minute sprint to the wedding location whilst carrying camera equipment of a not-insignificant weight. Did I mention that Santa Fe is a city that rests among the New Mexican mesas at 7,000 feet above sea level? Because that detail should not be left out as I admit that I did indeed moan for someone to administer bottled oxygen while limping down some adobe-lined avenida.

Anyway. After all that we managed to make our final approach to the Loretto Chapel, conveniently located a minimum of ten miles away from any available parking. And we were happy. Because we were not – for the moment at least – required to run anymore.

So when we arrived at the church – which had been cordoned off to tourist traffic on account of the wedding – the first thing we were greeted by was a gaggle of camera-wielding tourists who were very clearly pissed off that they had been denied entry. One man in particular was registering his displeasure at a decibel level that surely had reached China and that nation’s environs. His state of vexation was not helped by the taut-lipped wedding planner who released the chain at the entrance long enough to usher Angela and I inside.

“Oh, oh! So I get it! Theeeeeey get to go in while the rest of us are stuck out here…” The man began to bray in a very good rendition of Self-Important Tourist Asshole. While Angela and I worked our way to the docent-guarded door the tourist’s diatribe grew louder. Apparently the interlude at the gate was a simple warm up. My heart sank as I realized that he must be a fellow Californian.

At any rate, we made it in and immediately got situated in the back of the chapel and by “situated” I mean “we threw our camera bags down in despair” because the chapel was NOTHING like the photos we saw online in which the abundance of natural light and windows had been highlighted. What we were greeted with a scant ten minutes before the wedding ceremony was indeed ornamented as the online brochure had promised but light-filled it surely was not.

“Holy shit.” Angela whispered.

Holy shit indeed. The rest of the wedding went downhill from there with us scrambling to get a handle on how we were going to cope with the available light deficiency, her running to the back of the chapel swearing under her breath as she realized that she had put a memory card that include her last shoot – a boudoir session in which tits and ass played a large part – into her camera, fielding odd instructions from a creepy priest and the never-ending litany of indignance that emanated from Mr. California who was being kept at bay outside the churchyard.

That’s when Angela emerged from an ante-chamber to the south of the church holding the shattered remains of a 70-200mm telephoto lens.

Let me re-phrase that for those of you who may not be camera geeks: Angela walked into the main part of the church holding the shattered remains of a lens that cost $1,700.

She had tears in her eyes. Once I surveyed the damage I had tears in my eyes too.

“Can I borrow yours?” she asked. Of course she could. I grabbed her 24-70 and positioned myself at the back of the church while she took up the front with my 70-200. The ceremony started, and for five minutes everything went fine.

Then the third photographer walked in. And his rig was better than ours.

WTF? I thought to myself. They hired a third photographer and didn’t bother to tell us?

I was ready to kick the guy’s ass. Angela signaled that I should refrain from my murderous intentions and do something else. I positioned myself near his kneecaps for maximum pain.

As it turned out, the 3rd photographer doubled as the deejay and only wanted to take photos for practice on an actual wedding. (“I checked out his work and his photos are crap.” Angela stated, “and besides… he’s shooting with a Nikon. Hang up your irritation, he deserves our pity.”)

The rest of the wedding went ok, given the lack of light, Mr. California’s never-ending bitching outside and the fact that I received a text from my husband between the ceremony and the reception in which he highlighted his concern over the fact that our 3-year-old daughter had discovered the self-gratifying aspects of her vibrating electric toothbrush: OUR DAUGHTER WAS SPREAD EAGLE IN HER ROOM… started the text.

And through it all? I kept thinking to myself, “RIGHT ON!!! THIS IS THE KIND OF SH** I LIVE FOR! BRING ON THE CHAOS! I’M LOVING IT!!!”

Of course this giddiness at the business of the affair was tempered by the fact that it was not, after all, MY lens that was shattered on the marble floor of the church.

Yes my dear readers, for those of you who still check back here on occasion and are left wondering if I’m lying dead in a cyberspace ditch somewhere or perhaps even hoping that I’ve finally given up the blog for the good of mankind, I am alive and well.

I stopped posting a while back partially because I was constantly overwhelmed with wave after wave of to-do lists: my mom to-do lists, PTA to-do lists, husband to-do lists, the take-photos-for-me to-do lists, help-me-with-my-resume to-do lists. It seemed silly to set aside time to post on the internet when the internet wasn’t potty-training, the internet didn’t need me to show up for a meeting, the internet wasn’t particularly interested in having me take photos of it’s kids and was most certainly not going to fail me in Embalming I.

The other reason I stopped posting was because of the content of the site. In the interests of getting along, preserving relationships and maintaining some semblance of dignity among the people I see every day, I found myself self-censoring to the point where writing seemed like an exercise in fluff-manufacture.

For instance, I didn’t write about diving into the one of the deepest depressions I’d ever experienced earlier in the year. Why would I? It’s embarassing. Especially when you consider how blessed I am in life. It seems incredibly ungrateful on my part that, with everything good and wonderful in my life, I can’t seem to pull it together for more than a few months at a time. 

I didn’t write about the decision to stop taking my anti-anxiety meds. Or the predictable return of the anxiety attacks that I’ve experienced since I was a little kid. Or the fact that I have embarked upon a new coping strategy that involves jumping off of boats in San Francisco Bay and swimming for shore, and jumping out of planes and cage-diving with great white sharks. Because my goal is to drown out Mr. Anxiety and the pansy-ass bullshit he thinks I should be afraid of. Because Mr. Anxiety can’t throw any fear my way that will be more frightening than the situations I can put myself in.

…and yeah. I realize that totally doesn’t make any sense.

I never write about running or the fact that the reason I’ve slavishly dedicated to the sport is because – for whatever reason – running is the only activity that keeps the depression at a manageable level.

I don’t write about how I’m really confused about school and whether it’s good for me to continue or if I should drop out for the sake of familial harmony. I’m also confused about what my husband likes to call The Photography Thing. And that I feel like I’m getting mixed signals with regard to my worth as a stay-at-home mom. It’s good that you’re with the kids. No wait, you should be making money. No wait, stay home. Wait, no go out and make money.

I never write about the overwhelming confusion in my life. Or my inability to focus. Or the fact that the confusion is really quite confusing. And it keeps me from focusing. Or the fact that the confusion has me confused about the confusing nature of confusion. Or, that - hey – check out that shiny thing!

I never write about politics anymore. Mostly because there is a dearth of informed people who seem capable of discussing politics in a respectful, rational and dispassionate way. On the flip-side there are a whole lotta people out there who are ill-informed and possess second-hand opinions borrowed from entertainer-assholes like Keith Olberman and Bill O’Reilly. And that these ill-informed twits weilding other people’s opinions are willing to test the limits of their lung capacity to prove that they’re right and you’re wrong.

The English language doesn’t have words to describe how much I can’t stand these people.

Mostly I stopped posting because The Photography Thing has been taking up a lot of my time and energy what with launching a website, shooting weddings, editing photos, learning all I can about my camera and shooting tons of photos in the process. This week I am shooting a couple while the husband is on leave from Iraq for a few days, creating cover art for a soon-to-be-published novel and then making a television appearance with the author of said novel this Saturday. Next weekend I’m flying out to New Mexico to play assistant to a much more accomplished and experienced photographer at a wedding there. I have a stack of CDs with photos that need editing as I type this. It’s been busy. It’s been really good.

So I guess this is a really long-winded way of saying that I am going to post when I can but the opportunities to do so are drying up quickly.

As always, I have a pretty good list of reasons I haven’t been posting as much as I’d like and at the very tip-top of that list is “Sculpting a replica of a deceased human’s head for my restorative art class”. And if you know me in real life then you can probably understand why attempting to sculpt a human head? Out of wax? Might take so much of my time.

This is partly because this is my first attempt at sculpting anything ever and partly because I am less artistically inclined than the people responsible for creating the “art” that hangs in places like dental offices and having less talent than someone who makes a few pastel-colored swipes on an otherwise bland canvas is really saying something.

As if my own insecurities about my profound lack of ability weren’t enough, I have friends who feel the urge to nudge me over the proverbial edge. For instance, a girlfriend stopped by the other day to pick up a lens she had left in my camerabag. On her way out she gazed at the progress I had made and declared, “It looks good.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Yeah. It’s your friend’s head your creating right?”

“Yeah.”

“The black girl?”

“My subject’s Filipino.”

“Oh.”

Sound of running. Front door slam. Tires squealing.

I can’t wait for this semester to be over.

Dear Fellow Elk Grove Citizen:

As all of you know, we lost one of our own with the death of Sgt. Bryan Hall who was killed in Iraq.  CCSD Fire Chief Steve Foster is coordinating a tribute as Sgt. Hall comes home and has asked that we help him get the message out into the community.

The CCSD Fire Department will transport Sgt. Hall on a fire engine from executive airport on Sunday morning. Chief Foster is asking that, we as fellow citizens, line Elk Grove Blvd. to pay tribute to Sgt. Hall. The procession will on the Elk Grove Blvd. near the fire station by 11:30 a.m. on Sunday, April 19th with a 50 vehicle procession. Chief Foster will be also be coordinating the flags that morning.

Please forward this email on to everyone on your email list and let’s do what we do best in Elk Grove, come together to honor one of our own.

Sincerely,
Connie Conley

If you are in Elk Grove or the greater Sacramento area, please join us tomorrow morning at 11:30 on EGB near Elk Grove-Florin Road for the procession to the Elk Grove Mortuary. This family has expressed an interest in having their son’s sacrifice acknowledged publicly and would be comforted by the hero’s welcome that both they and SSG Hall deserve.

Then we went to the state capitol.

I’m sorry if you were trying to have a conversation Mr. Yelling Into His Cell Phone. Apparently my son disrupted your ranting as he ran past you on his way through the ironically named “peace” garden.

Hello homeless man! Were you sleeping on that there bench? No longer! Meet my daughter, the one who has never met a stranger, as she awakens you with a hearty “HI! MY NAME’S SOPHIA! WHAT’S YOURS?!?! ARE YOU CAMPING MISTER?”

Hello Mr. State Trooper! I bet you were hoping that today might be the day the capitol building finally gets taken over by terrorists or that, at the bare minimum, someone gets mouthy enough for you to remind everyone that you do, in fact, carry a sidearm. You live for that stuff don’t you? Too bad! You get the Matulich Clan instead and while my children won’t do anything that would come close to justifying your sixteen hours of annual pepper spray training they will most certainly make you wish that I’d updated my birth control. It’s ok, admit it. I don’t look like I’m perpetually on the verge of tears for nothing.

…and that’s how we spent most of this morning. I tried to take photos on the grounds of the state capitol while my children tripped over homeless people and ran screaming into traffic. Once we got inside I tried my best to pawn them off on a few of the guided tour groups but the staff proved a little too adept at finding me – which made me realize that what this world needs most are incompetent docents.

Anyway. Here are the results of our little trek. And now I’m off to have a drink, or ten.

Rose sculpture at the capitol “peace” garden that was anything but so long as we were there.

Monument to Father Junipero Serra.

Fountain with palms.

Capitol dome.

State assembly floor.

As if there’s a difference.

Stairs.

State senate gallery.

#1 – This morning, printed on a side of a cereal box:

What are GDA’s?

My answer, made for my own benefit (and possibly my dog’s, if he counts, which really? He probably doesn’t since dogs have neither the ability to roll their eyes or tell their owners that they’re acting very scary? So please stop cracking yourself up?):

“G-Damn aardvarks!”

#2 – Upon setting my coffee on a desk filled with bills, cancelled checks, years worth of tax returns and basically every document that we would need to prove our laughable net worth:

“Awesome! Let’s spill some coffee ’round here! Woo hoo!”

#3 – To my dog, whose inability to register concern for my deteriorating mental health I’ve taken as permission to talk – alone – as much as I wish, resulting in my reading passages from Alan Greenspan’s book The Age of Turbulence. I don’t think he understood very much of it which, I suppose, puts him in league with about 98% of the American public.

…and now I shall turn off the computer and ponder what comes first: loneliness or depression?

We have been told that it is the sincere hope of our department’s instructional staff that – upon completion of our restorative arts coursework- we students will be capable of repairing the remains of deceased individuals in such a way that would make them acceptable for viewing… axes to the face, head-on collisions and self-inflicted shotgun wounds to the head be damned.

We’ve been given tools: 

…and wax: 

…and have also been instructed to make our very own human heads. To wit:

This is the start to my human head. I am modeling it after my friend Cindy, a delightful gal who is a mother, research scientist, medical doctor, triathlete, hates big meanies, loves her mother, enjoys long walks on the beach and prefers puppies over kittens. Cindy’s being a doctor meant she was delighted to have her likeness rendered in wax. This is, of course, is a welcome reprieve from several of my other friends who regularly put their hands over my mouth and say things like, OH NO NO NO… STOP RIGHT THERE whenever the subject of my current romp through education comes up.

At any rate, if you look at the photo above you might be tempted to think that it’s an ok start for a freshman attempt at molding a human face so long as the face in the photo above belonged to someone who wore their sweater tied around their neck, considered polka a legitimate form of music and had all the rhythm of a seizing epileptic. Unfortunately for me however, Cindy’s not white and my project is hopelessly hee-haw and all this means that I get to experience the joy that is scrapping the whole thing and starting from scratch which makes me use long run-on sentences about how I would really, really like to make some statement about suffering for my art but I think you all know me enough by now to realize that I don’t suffer for my art so much as get cranky when my homework cuts into the all-important Cocktail Hour.

We’ve been acquainted with one another for quite some time and even though nobody had ever gone to the trouble of formally introducing us, I felt like you kind of knew me. I mean, I liked the fact that I could visit you at any time – day or night – and you would be there for me.

When I wanted a place where I can buy my favorite running shoes for less than a gazillion dollars, you came through. When I needed a wetsuit that would keep me snuggly warm in the middle of kelp bed you totally delivered. When I was asked to shoot photos of jewelry and needed a macro lens you were all over it. In fact, so gratified was I by your ability to furnish me with running, photographic and swimming stuff that I developed a bit of a crush on you. I felt like we understood each other. You really “got” it when it came to my needs.

Therefore E-Bay, perhaps you can imagine my disappointment when I received an e-mail from you today that contained enticing images of products that not only do I have no interest in owning, but have an irrational aversion to.

Look at that list above. Running. Photography. Swimming. Is there anything in that list that suggests I’m interested in becoming some pain in the ass yuppie princess? Because that’s the impression I was left with when I received an e-mail in which you tried to draw my attention to the fact that you can sell me Kate Spade, Manolo Blahnik, diamond tennis bracelets, Steve Madden and cosmetics of a variety that I had no clue existed until I opened your e-mail.

I didn’t wear make-up at my own wedding. Save a few tubes of lipstick I don’t even own any. In fact, I think the closest I’ve come to wearing make-up was sometime during the Reagan administration when I snuck into my mom’s stash and fed her foundation to the family dog.

So why are you trying to sell me something I would never use? Why – in a million years – would you throw the term “Kate Spade” in my direction and expect a Pavlovian response from me – a woman who prefers a leap into the ocean over buying a purse that would do nothing but collect dust in her closet?

Also, what’s this business about the stiletto heels? I’m sorry E-Bay, but have you forgotten? I’m six feet tall. I already frighten most men and I certainly don’t need six inch heels to push their terror level to “orange”.

Since I’ve never been one to bitch without suggesting a solution, here’s mine: fire everyone. Hire people who know what they’re doing. Given the current economic climate and the fact that you’re in Silicon Valley it should be too hard. Just take 101 North to Cisco’s headquarters and work your way west toward Intel until you have a full staff of techie nerds. Then instruct them to stop sending me e-mails filled with crap I’ll never buy.

Really, it’s that easy.

Meet Jack.

Jack is a german shorthair pointer we picked up from a gsp rescue near Marysville. Jack is a somewhat odd animal. So far as we can tell he doesn’t bark, whine, whimper or growl. He does make an odd groaning noise when you rub his ears, a sound which usually precedes a graceless flop into your lap. He is socially inept. He loves people in general and kids in particular. He has a habit of walking right into the middle of whatever you are doing. He can, at times, behave like an over-caffeinated monkey. I am totally in love with him.

I wanted very badly to take photos of Jack but it turns out that Jack is terrified of my camera. My husband suggested that this might indicate that the dog had been beaten which, I am sure you will agree, is totally absurd. After all, I can’t think of a single person who would go about beating dogs with a $1,200 camera, can you? Well, maybe Warren Buffet or Bill Gates could afford to go about beating animals with pricey electronics, but neither men seem the type to do so.

Of course, shortly after Jack’s retreat in the face of my camera he cowered when I picked up the remote, my laptop, the playstation controllers and a clock radio.

“See?” I told my husband, “He hasn’t been beaten. He’s just a total luddite.”

Anyway, so what I wanted to say is this: I know I have a few runners that read because you e-mail me all the time and flatter me by asking my opinion about running-related things as if I actually know something about the sport. (I mean, wouldn’t you be surprised if at some point you showed up in Northern California and discovered first-hand that I was just another yahoo in Asics who executed what can only be described as a controlled fall for twelve miles?) But I will tell you this: if you are looking for a good running partner, get a gsp. These dogs can go for days. And when they aren’t going? They’re total couch potatoes. And they don’t shed. And, apparently the don’t bark either. And they’re pretty darned smart. And they can walk on water. And tutor you in math.

Recently, my restorative arts class presented a problem unique to the funeral service major. I needed someone to pretend they were dead. Then, while they were laying around all un-lifelike I needed to take a bunch of photos of them. Then I needed to use said photos to reconstruct their lifeless likeness in wax, all the while convincing them that There Was Nothing Creepy At All About Any Of It.

Identifying an available pool of candidates has been difficult at best. I was lukewarm on picking a celebrity for reasons unclear to even myself. My brother the archaeologist seemed like a natural choice - as his occupation involves digging up dead people and has long since overcome the “ick” factor associated with death. But he lives too far away to make taking photos of him practical. And the though of recreating his viking beard gives me a headache. Also, he’s a goofy goober.

My sisters both looked at me and backed away slowly after the request had been made.

My husband crossed himself and then did some weird thing with his hands to ward off the evil eye.

The neighbors ran into their house, chased me off with a broom and installed new locks on their doors before arming themselves with pitchforks and organizing a torch light parade to my door.

Ok, not really.

Still, picking someone who would be comfortable going along with this project was pretty difficult. Then I remember my friend Cindy. Cindy, the doctor. Cindy, who has a fascination with the coroner’s office. Cindy who has spent a ton of time around cadavers and – in her work with AIDS patients – people on the verge of cadaverhood.

So I asked Cindy if she’d mind being used for my project and she agreed a little too enthusiastically. Now it was my turn to be weirded out.

At any rate, a couple of my classmates and I had the idea that we should document our progress in photos. Therefore, if you’ve ever been interested in how a group of people whose modeling skills barely qualify them to make ashtrays develop the skills necessary to rebuild a human head, stay tuned.