If you're having a bad day on a ship, it's hard to get away from anyone. That being said, you have to be strategic about knowing just who to go to in order to get OUT of your bad mood. For me, it's Bagus, the Indonesian crew bartender. The thing about the bar is that it's ridiculously cheap to buy good alcohol. We're talking $1 Jack and Cokes. Needless to say, the man's a genius. While having a particularly rough day a couple days ago, I went to sit with Bags in the OB and wind down with a drink. He decided there was no sitting and moping in his bar (especially when he was bored) and proceeded to teach me to play darts. Hours later, many drinks later, and several rounds of darts later, we switched to throwing his paring knives at the dart board. He was amused and slightly scared that I did better at the knives than I had at the darts. The tip of one is currently stuck in the door that holds the board. Whoops, my bad. I was in a far better mood than before, despite maiming one of Bags' knives.
Life tends to be slightly surreal living on a ship. The water is an otherworldly blue, it's sunny and in order to create a relaxing atmosphere for vacationers, there are no reminders of the days on the ship. This creates massive confusion for me. I know that we're in Florida on Sundays. Other than that, I really have no gauge for what day of the week it might be. The days are referred to by either their port destination or the lack thereof (simply a sea day). As such, I apologize now for randomly calling someone and having no idea what day is.
I just settled into life on this ship and now have to transfer on Sunday. I'm sure it will be fun once I actually reach my next ship, but I have a total of two days worth of travel from Florida to Mexico before I actually reach my destination. All because of the fact that I'm American. And only Americans can be photographers in Alaska. The ship I'm on now goes to Europe and South Africa.... I get to go to... Alaska. Dammit. Thus far being the only American has had some humorous advantages and I'm sure Alaska will be alright, it's just that it's Alaska. This ship is going to Europe. Which one sounds more fun to you?
Being around Brits constantly is confusing and enlightening all at once. The other day, Lauren asked me if someone had 'tried me on.' I was so confused and my mind took that a totally different direction that Lauren had intended, but apparently that's how they say 'hit on.' I honestly think trying on is more relevant in that situation, but it makes me think of socks. Which when applied to people is just plain weird. I should make a notebook filled with the random phrases that these guys have taught me in just two weeks. Last night at dinner while listening to them talk, I realized that 90% of it or so was way over my head. I have no idea what they're talking about the majority of the time, let alone actually understanding them. It's a constant guessing game for me, and I sort of just fill in the blanks. Which has landed me in hot water before, but it's comical.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Curacao
I feel like I’ve made a whole new family already. And I’ve learned more English words in the last few days than probably the last year of my life. For example, “peckish” is when you’re feeling slightly hungry, but not famished. “Feffering” is when you lollygag and really don’t have the time, but continue to take more doing useless things. Half the time I just nod and smile when my friends talk because really, time is the only that will really help my understanding of their crazy assed version of the English language.
Yesterday we were in Curacao, which has the seventh most difficult port to dock in. We entered in a small channel and docked right in the center of town. After doing a couple hours of work, I was free to wander the town, which Natalie and I did for a few hours. The town itself is really quaint, a small colorful Dutch town in the middle of the Caribbean. Though it was warm, it was ridiculously winding toward the end of the afternoon so I spent the latter half of our day either holding my skirt down or hopelessly flashing tourists when it flew up. My manager will probably forever remember me as the girl holding her skirt in place; he kept making fun of me about it. For pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2094403&id=28201959&saved#!/album.php?aid=2094403&id=28201959
We left Curacao at about midnight and because of the small nature of the channel, we backed out of the port. I’ve never seen a cruise ship back out of anything before, but it was a surreal thing to watch from the bow of the ship. With drinks and some pilfered pizza, three of us sat on a large metal box at the very front of the ship and watched Curacao get smaller and smaller. Even at night the weather is balmy. Oil platforms were on the island and one produced a small continuous flame that illuminated the entire night sky. The trip to Aruba that night was relatively short as the islands are very close, but the ship was put out to see to avoid extra port fees.
Apparently cartoons are a common form of escape for those on board. So last night Natalie, Arron and I all curled up on Natalie’s single bed and watched cartoons until we were all so curled up and entangled and warm that we fell asleep. It’s very cozy for having just met them a couple days ago, but the speed with which you get to know someone’s character in such a tight spot is remarkable. The strange thing about being around other photographers is that more pictures of me have been taken in the last three days than in the whole of the last four years.
For the last two days of the cruise were at sea going back to Fort Lauderdale. I’m told that formal night and the last day of selling is chaos, according to Natalie, though chaos seems to be one of her favorite words. That and the phrase “that’s the way!” in her English and slightly South African accent. It applies to everything apparently and I start cracking up when she says it to guests because I know it’s her standard go-to answer for everything whether or not she’s paying attention. So far I like the job, though my feet have been killing me since we’re on them all day long. I’ve gotten so used to the rocking of the boat that I was having problems walking in Aruba today and once I got tired, I found myself rocking just slightly. It was ridiculous and I’m going to look like a total loon once I’m back on land.
Yesterday we were in Curacao, which has the seventh most difficult port to dock in. We entered in a small channel and docked right in the center of town. After doing a couple hours of work, I was free to wander the town, which Natalie and I did for a few hours. The town itself is really quaint, a small colorful Dutch town in the middle of the Caribbean. Though it was warm, it was ridiculously winding toward the end of the afternoon so I spent the latter half of our day either holding my skirt down or hopelessly flashing tourists when it flew up. My manager will probably forever remember me as the girl holding her skirt in place; he kept making fun of me about it. For pictures: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2094403&id=28201959&saved#!/album.php?aid=2094403&id=28201959
We left Curacao at about midnight and because of the small nature of the channel, we backed out of the port. I’ve never seen a cruise ship back out of anything before, but it was a surreal thing to watch from the bow of the ship. With drinks and some pilfered pizza, three of us sat on a large metal box at the very front of the ship and watched Curacao get smaller and smaller. Even at night the weather is balmy. Oil platforms were on the island and one produced a small continuous flame that illuminated the entire night sky. The trip to Aruba that night was relatively short as the islands are very close, but the ship was put out to see to avoid extra port fees.
Apparently cartoons are a common form of escape for those on board. So last night Natalie, Arron and I all curled up on Natalie’s single bed and watched cartoons until we were all so curled up and entangled and warm that we fell asleep. It’s very cozy for having just met them a couple days ago, but the speed with which you get to know someone’s character in such a tight spot is remarkable. The strange thing about being around other photographers is that more pictures of me have been taken in the last three days than in the whole of the last four years.
For the last two days of the cruise were at sea going back to Fort Lauderdale. I’m told that formal night and the last day of selling is chaos, according to Natalie, though chaos seems to be one of her favorite words. That and the phrase “that’s the way!” in her English and slightly South African accent. It applies to everything apparently and I start cracking up when she says it to guests because I know it’s her standard go-to answer for everything whether or not she’s paying attention. So far I like the job, though my feet have been killing me since we’re on them all day long. I’ve gotten so used to the rocking of the boat that I was having problems walking in Aruba today and once I got tired, I found myself rocking just slightly. It was ridiculous and I’m going to look like a total loon once I’m back on land.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Off the coast of Venzuela
So I’ve been aboard a ship for four days now. And despite no motion sickness, the constant rocking is a little wearing. I’m told you start to ignore it and soon don’t even notice. Supposedly. Getting to know the guests is quite entertaining, they’re from all over the world, but the majority are from America. I’m a oddity as an American on the crew that is not in the stage productions, so I can’t even count the number of people that yell good morning saying “It’s the American girl! Good morning American girl!” or every now and then they specify the state I’m from, though half the time it’s wrong. This morning I got “Good morning Michigan girl!”…. I just nod and smile. I can be from Michigan temporarily, just don’t ask me any local questions.
Crew life is really interesting. I don’t think the guests even realize what goes on at night. Last night, I and three of my other photo friends curled up together on a single bed bunk with a pilfered computer screen and watched a movie while we drank and ate chocolate. While not all that exciting, the crew bar is a place that is only rivaled by the most excessive clubs in the states. The drinks are dirt cheap and it’s always good liquor. My Jack and cokes the other night (two of them) cost me a grand total of $2. And the amazingly gifted bartender remembers your name, room number and drink preference after only one meeting. There’s close to three hundred people that frequent that bar. Tomorrow there’s a rave in the engine room that includes all 1,000 crew members. I’m told to watch out for the guys that pretend to not speak English. They’re a little touchy feely.
My roommate is absolutely hilarious. My first night, after being completely overwhelmed, I wake up at 5 a.m. to her screaming “NO NO NO NO! Don’t spill that!” Apparently she was dreaming that someone was going to dump a tray on a guest, but of course realized after she hit her head that she was still in our cabin and decided that she probably needed a vacation desperately. She and the other photo crew made a bet on what I would look like. They’re conclusion? I’d be a voluptuous Southern belle with brassy red hair, a loud demeanor and annoyingly high maintenance. Needless to say, they’re excited that I’m chill, though Aaron decided he wanted points for the slightly auburn hair color.
Speaking of spilling on guests, we had our first formal night photo session last night. Everyone is dressed in their finest, wandering around regally with glasses of wine. I was working right outside the jazz bar where everyone was congregating for pictures in their finery when I was posing a group and backed up to move to the camera and totally mowed over this slightly larger man. Larger in the sense that he was very tall and very broad. Me? I weigh a grand total of 120 pounds. However, I managed it, I backed into him, he dumped red wine all down his nice white formal shirt and the glass falls to the floor and shatters into more pieces than I have ever seen a wine glass shatter. It was less than ideal for my first week, but several guests who witnessed it told me later that it was not my fault and that the man was steamrolling through the crowd at an alarming pace. Other mishaps since I’ve been here? I broke the elevator door, tripped over a lighting set up, and got sunburned in the oddest places. I was taking pictures on the beach of a completely manufactured island and I had my flip flops looped over my wrist… which left a lovely lined tan along my arm. My roommate can’t stop laughing when she sees it. This island, though, I swear, is the ship, but on an island. It’s owned by the company and had a gorgeous natural quality to it, was it not for the raked sand beaches and “fort” that apparently has a grand opening every week. The water is so warm and is this unnatural color of cerulean blue. The whole trip has seemed surreal and I’m told will never actually seem real until I go home, and even then the pictures won’t do it justice.
Crew life is really interesting. I don’t think the guests even realize what goes on at night. Last night, I and three of my other photo friends curled up together on a single bed bunk with a pilfered computer screen and watched a movie while we drank and ate chocolate. While not all that exciting, the crew bar is a place that is only rivaled by the most excessive clubs in the states. The drinks are dirt cheap and it’s always good liquor. My Jack and cokes the other night (two of them) cost me a grand total of $2. And the amazingly gifted bartender remembers your name, room number and drink preference after only one meeting. There’s close to three hundred people that frequent that bar. Tomorrow there’s a rave in the engine room that includes all 1,000 crew members. I’m told to watch out for the guys that pretend to not speak English. They’re a little touchy feely.
My roommate is absolutely hilarious. My first night, after being completely overwhelmed, I wake up at 5 a.m. to her screaming “NO NO NO NO! Don’t spill that!” Apparently she was dreaming that someone was going to dump a tray on a guest, but of course realized after she hit her head that she was still in our cabin and decided that she probably needed a vacation desperately. She and the other photo crew made a bet on what I would look like. They’re conclusion? I’d be a voluptuous Southern belle with brassy red hair, a loud demeanor and annoyingly high maintenance. Needless to say, they’re excited that I’m chill, though Aaron decided he wanted points for the slightly auburn hair color.
Speaking of spilling on guests, we had our first formal night photo session last night. Everyone is dressed in their finest, wandering around regally with glasses of wine. I was working right outside the jazz bar where everyone was congregating for pictures in their finery when I was posing a group and backed up to move to the camera and totally mowed over this slightly larger man. Larger in the sense that he was very tall and very broad. Me? I weigh a grand total of 120 pounds. However, I managed it, I backed into him, he dumped red wine all down his nice white formal shirt and the glass falls to the floor and shatters into more pieces than I have ever seen a wine glass shatter. It was less than ideal for my first week, but several guests who witnessed it told me later that it was not my fault and that the man was steamrolling through the crowd at an alarming pace. Other mishaps since I’ve been here? I broke the elevator door, tripped over a lighting set up, and got sunburned in the oddest places. I was taking pictures on the beach of a completely manufactured island and I had my flip flops looped over my wrist… which left a lovely lined tan along my arm. My roommate can’t stop laughing when she sees it. This island, though, I swear, is the ship, but on an island. It’s owned by the company and had a gorgeous natural quality to it, was it not for the raked sand beaches and “fort” that apparently has a grand opening every week. The water is so warm and is this unnatural color of cerulean blue. The whole trip has seemed surreal and I’m told will never actually seem real until I go home, and even then the pictures won’t do it justice.
Monday, February 15, 2010
New Job
So this will no longer be Molly’s bitching blog that she constantly forgets to update, but instead her adventures working aboard a cruise ship blog. I recently got a job working as a photographer on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, and made the trip from Portland to Miami yesterday. The trip itself was relatively uneventful, but once I hit Miami, I discovered that people from Miami love to fuck with you. The guy who checked me in at my hotel decided half way through our conversation that he no longer spoke English, but instead would only communicate in Spanish. Really? Any other day, when I hadn’t been traveling for 10 hours, sick and really really freaking tired, I may have thought it was moderately charming, but instead, I wanted to stab the guy. I finally get to my hotel and order delivery sandwiches and the delivery guy, a chatty fellow with an overactive imagination, showed up to deliver the sandwich and just didn’t want to leave. Despite the fact that I had tipped him and tried to push him out the door, he kept right on a talkin’ until I shut the door in his face, no longer caring that I was being rude.
My only instructions for this morning were “find the boat.” Instructive, yes, but helpful, no. So find the boat, I did. It’s a massive thing, you can’t really miss it. Except that there are about 30 others like it in the Fort Lauderdale port. Good thing they have names on the side, or I’d be screwed. I told the security people that I was joining the crew and instructed to “go around the back.” Again, instructive, but not helpful. I found the ‘back,’ which was not the quite the back, just a random side door where a random Filipino man checks your luggage for contraband items. I have no idea what is actually contraband since I made it through with a pocket knife, matches and plenty of food. Maybe I just look like I won’t use them. Don’t underestimate my temper.
I arrived on the boat to a maze of doors and corridors that led to other doors, corridors and staircases that all look alike until you make it to the passenger area which suddenly looks super nice. You know on Titanic when they steal through the crew areas that are all stark white and totally indefinable? That’s how it is. I had 3 hours to acquaint myself with the area, and with my chatty coworkers. Don’t get me wrong, they were a fount of information that I could badly use. However, I realized quickly that British English was not the same as American English. Now, three hours later, I’m still trying to process what he said to me. I’m working with three British citizens, a Romanian, a South African and a Peruvian. And me. The random American. Truth be told, I’ve met one other American crew member so far, and ironically she is from Washington as well. Though the Bremerton area. She was a bit…. bouncy. Apparently my coworkers were told to expect a Southern Belle. I have no idea where that idea came from, but they quickly realized I wasn’t even close to that stereotype.
There’s really no easing you into this job. Instead, you’re just sort of thrown in. Without a life jacket. Already, after only 5 hours of being on the boat, I have worked an hour and a half. I had to interrupt guests’ dinner in order to ask if they wanted Valentine’s pictures done. Stupid Valentine’s Day anyway. I had a very strange moment when my 4th or 5th table turned the tables on me and caught my attention to take MY picture. Who would want a picture of a random photographer wandering the ship? They won’t remember me tonight after drinks, let alone once they return home.
Food aboard the ship is relatively good, though I’m told that it can be a bit ‘dodgy’ at times. Oh, by the way, I’m allowed to have a blood alcohol level of .04 while working, .08 while not working, which is available for free in the crew bar, and available with better liquor in the officer’s bar for $1. Technically I’m an officer. Why would someone trust me with that title? Though the way the ship rocks, there’s no reason to need alcohol in order to feel tipsy. Despite it being a rather large ship, the rocking is still quite noticeable and I have finally realized that there really is an adjustment period in finding my sea legs. I just need to try to not puke in the meantime.
And back to work I go… hi ho, hi ho.
My only instructions for this morning were “find the boat.” Instructive, yes, but helpful, no. So find the boat, I did. It’s a massive thing, you can’t really miss it. Except that there are about 30 others like it in the Fort Lauderdale port. Good thing they have names on the side, or I’d be screwed. I told the security people that I was joining the crew and instructed to “go around the back.” Again, instructive, but not helpful. I found the ‘back,’ which was not the quite the back, just a random side door where a random Filipino man checks your luggage for contraband items. I have no idea what is actually contraband since I made it through with a pocket knife, matches and plenty of food. Maybe I just look like I won’t use them. Don’t underestimate my temper.
I arrived on the boat to a maze of doors and corridors that led to other doors, corridors and staircases that all look alike until you make it to the passenger area which suddenly looks super nice. You know on Titanic when they steal through the crew areas that are all stark white and totally indefinable? That’s how it is. I had 3 hours to acquaint myself with the area, and with my chatty coworkers. Don’t get me wrong, they were a fount of information that I could badly use. However, I realized quickly that British English was not the same as American English. Now, three hours later, I’m still trying to process what he said to me. I’m working with three British citizens, a Romanian, a South African and a Peruvian. And me. The random American. Truth be told, I’ve met one other American crew member so far, and ironically she is from Washington as well. Though the Bremerton area. She was a bit…. bouncy. Apparently my coworkers were told to expect a Southern Belle. I have no idea where that idea came from, but they quickly realized I wasn’t even close to that stereotype.
There’s really no easing you into this job. Instead, you’re just sort of thrown in. Without a life jacket. Already, after only 5 hours of being on the boat, I have worked an hour and a half. I had to interrupt guests’ dinner in order to ask if they wanted Valentine’s pictures done. Stupid Valentine’s Day anyway. I had a very strange moment when my 4th or 5th table turned the tables on me and caught my attention to take MY picture. Who would want a picture of a random photographer wandering the ship? They won’t remember me tonight after drinks, let alone once they return home.
Food aboard the ship is relatively good, though I’m told that it can be a bit ‘dodgy’ at times. Oh, by the way, I’m allowed to have a blood alcohol level of .04 while working, .08 while not working, which is available for free in the crew bar, and available with better liquor in the officer’s bar for $1. Technically I’m an officer. Why would someone trust me with that title? Though the way the ship rocks, there’s no reason to need alcohol in order to feel tipsy. Despite it being a rather large ship, the rocking is still quite noticeable and I have finally realized that there really is an adjustment period in finding my sea legs. I just need to try to not puke in the meantime.
And back to work I go… hi ho, hi ho.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Creative... ness?
I'm having a hard time believing that it's Christmas next week. Even though I take pictures of little kids in their Christmas dresses all day long, in my mind, Christmas is still months away - these people are just crazy early and well prepared. Of course, my mind does not always work properly, as has been seen, heard about, and demonstrated time and again. In my mind, Christmas equals snow. Even though I moved to Portland to escape the snow, the snow means that Christmas is here. I walked by Trader Joe's the other day and smelled the Christmas wreaths only to think to myself "god, they're early about that shit this year." Yeah, a little not with it.
As I walked home tonight, I realized that I've never thought of myself as an artist or a creative type. My walk down the trendy part of town was accentuated by the odd, drunken footsteps of my own feet that would not work properly. The soft scrape of my jeans that were so waterlogged that they were falling off my ass marked one footstep while the other had the soft scrape plus a loud 'thunk!' of my shoe falling off my right foot every step. The only sound on one of the trendiest streets in town is my own drunk ass stumbling home. Classy. I told a friend tonight that I may not feel temperature in my feet, but the moment they stop working is the moment they're too cold. I hit that about 3 hours ago. I somehow made it home, stumbling like the drunk ass I was. I'm not sure why this whole debacle made me think about the fact that I've never thought of myself as creative, but it sure did. I think it was the fact that I'm such a loser I could never be considered cool.
I've been asked to put up more photos.. I'm not sure what I think about that other than the fact that they better be damn good photos. Do I have any of those? In my opinion, anyone could have taken the photos that I have, they're snapshots of life as I see it, not anything special. I'm currently working as a photographer, but it's almost a joke because there is virtually no creative aspect to it - people want good pictures of their kids in their holiday gear, not a creative shot that I may have decided might look good but they don't fully understand. My photos, much like my writing, I have decided, is a window into who I am that many people never get to see. It's not that I'm ashamed of it, necessarily, but rather that I'm just not sure about that side of me - it's part of me, not something I work at or organize, but rather some I am compelled to do. I can go months without taking a single photograph, and then one day feel pulled to wander outside and get some good shots. Writing is much the same way, most of my poems or stories are jotted down on scrap paper that I may have had handy at the time, not in a notebook organized and ready to view. My school notebooks hold a large number of my writings as well as my photos, thrown in, jotted down, and promptly forgotten until I randomly run across them again. I often wonder if I'll look back at them and chastise myself for never actually taking the time to organize them.
Let's be honest though, I'm not really the organizing type. I have a memory problem, for god's sake, I can't remember my own organization system. This can be evidenced most often by my panties. I have three bins, one for t-shirts, one for socks and one for underwear. That system lasts maybe two weeks before I have to pull panties out of the sock bin and socks out of the t-shirt bin. This usually happens around laundry time, which is few and far between due to the high cost of laundry (high cost is measured in the amount of quarters necessary per load, not the actual dollar amount). Instead, laundry is piled into two loads and shoved in the largest washer I can find. It is then moved to the dryer, which never dries clothes to my satisfaction and I end up hanging it around my 400 square foot apartment, looking like a homeless woman airing out her goods.
So, I may take the Egyptian up and post more pictures, I may post shit I've written. I'm not really sure how to go about being the creative type. I know Kaci would love it, she steals photos off my damn walls. Actual walls, not Facebook. I would call her a jerk, but I'm oddly flattered.
I'm rambling nonsense at 1:36 in the morning of my first day off in months. I should go to sleep, but I'm a little too drunk still for that shit. On to the book anyone? The awesome thing about a memory problem is that 20 books becomes a library since you can't remember the plot of any of them. It's a surprise every time! Sort of like the Crackerjack box. While I'm spewing nonsense, I figured it was time to explain my title. Barefoot comes from the fact that I hate shoes, I can't stand the bastards. Punk is simply the nickname my father gave me when I was young, not in the common sense of 'you punk' but just as it is. Punk. Sometimes reverted to 'punkinhead' or 'punky'. But never in the modern sense that holds connotations about the person, just punk. Therefore Barefoot Punk describes me best, wandering through life, milling about smartly (as I have often been accused of doing) and keeping the attitude that I frequently have, trying not to get down.
As I walked home tonight, I realized that I've never thought of myself as an artist or a creative type. My walk down the trendy part of town was accentuated by the odd, drunken footsteps of my own feet that would not work properly. The soft scrape of my jeans that were so waterlogged that they were falling off my ass marked one footstep while the other had the soft scrape plus a loud 'thunk!' of my shoe falling off my right foot every step. The only sound on one of the trendiest streets in town is my own drunk ass stumbling home. Classy. I told a friend tonight that I may not feel temperature in my feet, but the moment they stop working is the moment they're too cold. I hit that about 3 hours ago. I somehow made it home, stumbling like the drunk ass I was. I'm not sure why this whole debacle made me think about the fact that I've never thought of myself as creative, but it sure did. I think it was the fact that I'm such a loser I could never be considered cool.
I've been asked to put up more photos.. I'm not sure what I think about that other than the fact that they better be damn good photos. Do I have any of those? In my opinion, anyone could have taken the photos that I have, they're snapshots of life as I see it, not anything special. I'm currently working as a photographer, but it's almost a joke because there is virtually no creative aspect to it - people want good pictures of their kids in their holiday gear, not a creative shot that I may have decided might look good but they don't fully understand. My photos, much like my writing, I have decided, is a window into who I am that many people never get to see. It's not that I'm ashamed of it, necessarily, but rather that I'm just not sure about that side of me - it's part of me, not something I work at or organize, but rather some I am compelled to do. I can go months without taking a single photograph, and then one day feel pulled to wander outside and get some good shots. Writing is much the same way, most of my poems or stories are jotted down on scrap paper that I may have had handy at the time, not in a notebook organized and ready to view. My school notebooks hold a large number of my writings as well as my photos, thrown in, jotted down, and promptly forgotten until I randomly run across them again. I often wonder if I'll look back at them and chastise myself for never actually taking the time to organize them.
Let's be honest though, I'm not really the organizing type. I have a memory problem, for god's sake, I can't remember my own organization system. This can be evidenced most often by my panties. I have three bins, one for t-shirts, one for socks and one for underwear. That system lasts maybe two weeks before I have to pull panties out of the sock bin and socks out of the t-shirt bin. This usually happens around laundry time, which is few and far between due to the high cost of laundry (high cost is measured in the amount of quarters necessary per load, not the actual dollar amount). Instead, laundry is piled into two loads and shoved in the largest washer I can find. It is then moved to the dryer, which never dries clothes to my satisfaction and I end up hanging it around my 400 square foot apartment, looking like a homeless woman airing out her goods.
So, I may take the Egyptian up and post more pictures, I may post shit I've written. I'm not really sure how to go about being the creative type. I know Kaci would love it, she steals photos off my damn walls. Actual walls, not Facebook. I would call her a jerk, but I'm oddly flattered.
I'm rambling nonsense at 1:36 in the morning of my first day off in months. I should go to sleep, but I'm a little too drunk still for that shit. On to the book anyone? The awesome thing about a memory problem is that 20 books becomes a library since you can't remember the plot of any of them. It's a surprise every time! Sort of like the Crackerjack box. While I'm spewing nonsense, I figured it was time to explain my title. Barefoot comes from the fact that I hate shoes, I can't stand the bastards. Punk is simply the nickname my father gave me when I was young, not in the common sense of 'you punk' but just as it is. Punk. Sometimes reverted to 'punkinhead' or 'punky'. But never in the modern sense that holds connotations about the person, just punk. Therefore Barefoot Punk describes me best, wandering through life, milling about smartly (as I have often been accused of doing) and keeping the attitude that I frequently have, trying not to get down.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Brain? What Brain?
This week is finals week. So of course that means I have the first two consecutive postings in over six months. That's just how it works with me, I'm a procrastinator. Let me tell you a little about the last week for me.... I've slowly been losing my frickin mind.
I've worked 52 hours in the last week. Count 'em, 52. I'm working as a photographer, trying to tell children sit on their ass while their parents yell or criticize them constantly and to look pretty while doing it. Ill behaved kids are bad, bitchy and rude parents are worse. Seriously, can't you see the mob in the waiting room? I can't fix ugly, lady, you're not going to like these pictures no matter what I do or how many I take. Some of the people I see in there are contradictions in themselves. An 'alternative' family who hates the man and professes to thinking corporations are the root of all evil came in the other day. Seriously? Isn't just entering the studio a contradiction to your core beliefs? But who am I to say that, I'm just a lemming pushing a button, right? WRONG! Assholes I have years of experience, and despite working for the root of all evil, I'm a human being that would enjoy some basic respect. Human decency, I've decided, has gone from the world. Not to mention effective parenting.
So while working all these hours, I've been attempting to get graduate work done. This has been especially hard, considering I've already decided I'm not coming back next semester. I'm not a quitter, so I hate the fact that I'm pulling out of the program, but I'm just not happy and I have zero time, I'm running myself ragged and I'm not getting much out of life. No bueno. I don't like that. So, I'm going to start living life a little, work to pay rent and bills, have a little fun in the mean time. Just as an example of my craziness, I got home from work the other night and decided to have some spaghetti O's. I turned on the stove, I kept walking over to stir them... and after stirring them twice, I got up, walked to the kitchen and realized that there was nothing on the stove that I had just turned on.... the pot was still on the counter, sitting there cold, with a spoon. I'm awesome. There was just no excuse good enough for that one.
Can you say.... NUTTY?
I've worked 52 hours in the last week. Count 'em, 52. I'm working as a photographer, trying to tell children sit on their ass while their parents yell or criticize them constantly and to look pretty while doing it. Ill behaved kids are bad, bitchy and rude parents are worse. Seriously, can't you see the mob in the waiting room? I can't fix ugly, lady, you're not going to like these pictures no matter what I do or how many I take. Some of the people I see in there are contradictions in themselves. An 'alternative' family who hates the man and professes to thinking corporations are the root of all evil came in the other day. Seriously? Isn't just entering the studio a contradiction to your core beliefs? But who am I to say that, I'm just a lemming pushing a button, right? WRONG! Assholes I have years of experience, and despite working for the root of all evil, I'm a human being that would enjoy some basic respect. Human decency, I've decided, has gone from the world. Not to mention effective parenting.
So while working all these hours, I've been attempting to get graduate work done. This has been especially hard, considering I've already decided I'm not coming back next semester. I'm not a quitter, so I hate the fact that I'm pulling out of the program, but I'm just not happy and I have zero time, I'm running myself ragged and I'm not getting much out of life. No bueno. I don't like that. So, I'm going to start living life a little, work to pay rent and bills, have a little fun in the mean time. Just as an example of my craziness, I got home from work the other night and decided to have some spaghetti O's. I turned on the stove, I kept walking over to stir them... and after stirring them twice, I got up, walked to the kitchen and realized that there was nothing on the stove that I had just turned on.... the pot was still on the counter, sitting there cold, with a spoon. I'm awesome. There was just no excuse good enough for that one.
Can you say.... NUTTY?
My Favorites
Have I mentioned I'm a loser? It's been a month since my last posting. I swear to god I thought it had only been a week. I feel like life is just passing me by and every now and then I turn around and wave at what should have been life. UGH! Anyway.
Life is... life. What do you even say about it? Once again, I'm procrastinating and avoiding homework. Surprising, right? I think what I want to do is put up some of my favorite photos that I've taken. Just for shits. Take a gander.
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