Have you ever analyzed the type of pictures that you tend to take? I think most people have a picture-taking style or interest. Some people’s pictures will consist primarily of their kids, pets or themselves. Some like landscapes, signs or food.

Do you know what I discovered when I was skimming through all my iPhone pictures? I take a lot of amazing pictures of my wonderful children and the only pictures I have of myself are ones I should not even be taking.

I can’t help it.

When I pose for a picture I make a face, because that feels more normal than smiling. I do a lot of really jackassy things I feel the need to document and share with friends to give them more ammo to make fun of me.

Plus, I figure if I am finding myself doing something that makes me laugh why not share it with others?

Yellow Teeth are Better Than Tasting Bleach Buttpaste

I drink a lot of coffee and red wine and my teeth are a nice shade of yellow. I decided I wanted whiter teeth and shine. The problem is that those home teeth bleaching strips taste terrible! I frightened my children walking around with them because I would drool on myself. I actually dug out baby bibs from the garage!

You Wish Your Morning Hair Was This Sexy

Sometimes I wake up with scary hair! I’m not exactly sure how it happens. While I enjoy having bangs sometimes they have a mind of their own.

Nostril Plugs Are Sexy and You Know It

I have a small nose and tiny nostrils so blowing my nose can be difficult. I’d much rather walk around with tissue up my nose than blow it constantly when my allergies are acting up.

What are some of YOUR shamelful self-portrait poses?

RT @Lizpe: Awwww :) Thanks @Photojojo for the post! http://t.co/WofwycKJ

Well, the results of the world’s most “Duh” survey are in–Thin Mints are the most popular Girl Scout Cookie. Which is why the Jehovah’s Witnesses should sell them door to door.

Let’s face it–no one wants strangers to come a-knockin’. You hide from the PSE&G guy and wave away Greenpeace hipsters. Teenagers with snow shovels get a smile and a mouthed “No, thanks.” You’re already registered to vote and you don’t want to shake hands with their candidate. A representative for the Census can take a look at your human form and count it, but they ain’t crossing the doorjamb. Mailman? Slide it through the slot. UPS? Leave it. There is only one sight that can unlock the doors to your heart. That green box. Or heck, even a green-and-white order form, conveying the sweet promise of Cookie Goodness To Come.

And thus, the most wild-eyed Jehovah’s Witness with Watchtower magazines spilling out of his clothing and wearing a sandwich board inscribed with “ARMAGEDDON TOMORROW” only need take up a Sacred Box of Thin Mints for immediate entry through your Pearly Gates. Or screen door.

Okay, obviously this is not a slam against the Witnesses. I use this hyperbolic example to make my point. People are crazy for Girl Scout Cookies. Wild. Psycho. Wack. Ga-Ga. I’ve had people run up to my seven-year-old daughter on the street and try to talk her into selling them the boxes she’s carrying to a paid customer. There was a torches-and-pitchforks uproar in my town because some woman snuck in from another town where the cookies were going for 50 cents cheaper and was making a killing selling them in front of our A&P. I literally had someone wave me down in my car; I thought she had been robbed. No, she just saw the GS Cookie crates in my hatch. I’ve seen troop leaders have screaming arguments over prime Cookie selling real estate in front of the subway station and tearful begging for a “good table” at the Cabin Fever Fair. And let us not forget the most vile Girl Scout Cookie crime of all time, the woman who grabbed a pair of scissors and chased her roommate through the house because she suspected her of stealing her Do-Si-Do’s.

I am able to tell you these shameful tales from a first-person perspective, given my unique position. My unique and honored position as a Girl Scout Troop Leader. Today is the first day of sales in my Service Unit (Scout speak for “cookie selling area”) and I’m already fearing for my life. I hope the Witnesses swing by tonight, because it very well may be ARMAGEDDON TOMORROW for me.

Lovely lovely portraits shot by Amanda White in the Hoh Rain Forest, Washington State. http://t.co/T4nIVfzL

RT @CorrinaJo: I'm excited to put this beast together this weekend - and hopefully shoot with it! http://t.co/nORNqDNq @Photojojo

You're green with envy over how sexy I am, aren't you?

About a year ago, I was a bridesmaid in my brother-in-law’s wedding. The weeks leading up to the event were filled with a mild sense of apprehension on my part. I was honored to be included, but the vision that the bride-to-be painted for her big day made my non-girlie-girl knees shake. I was sure that this was going to be one of the most ghetto-fab weddings in the history of all nuptials. 

I was apprehensive when I went to be fitted for my gown. Strapless and long just didn’t bode well for a woman of my broad-shouldered, chesty proportions and clumsy gait. I felt like a linebacker for a football team called the Free Willy Whales.

And for the love of Rainbow Brite, the color. Of all the colors in the spectrum, my future sis-in-law chose one of the most gawdawful shades of green that could possibly exist. Naturally, the groomsmen–my hubs included–were to wear matching “clover green” vests and ties and white tuxes with long-tailed coats and shiny white shoes. I feared that when paired, we would look like a 1up.

Then, I got really scared when the bride called to let me know that she was having a meeting with her bridesmaids to discuss the finer details of hair and makeup. Because we live a couple of states away, she said that she’d send me an email with an outline of the meeting, including a picture of the hairstyle she wanted us to have. I was even more afraid of the hairstyle than I was of the dress. I kept having frightening visions of hairstyles like this:

When I received the email, the hair issue was still being decided, so she didn’t have a picture to include. However, she did send along the “guidelines” that she had discussed with everyone. I shit you not, folks; this is the actual cut and paste directly from my inbox:

Wedding  Bridesmaid Meeting

1. Everyone needs to try on their dress to make sure it doesn’t need alterations
2. Discuss hairstyles–opinions needed
3. Discuss shoes, must not be visible if they’re not silver
4. Jewelry… I will provide, no additional accessories allowed except rings
5. Be on time at LaQuinta Inn at 12:30
6. Everyone’s makeup must not be dramatic, no extreme colors
7. Shave your armpits please
8. Nails must have silver tips, toes silver or natural colors
9. Please do not come to the wedding high or drunk
10. We need volunteers to help set up on

Oh, hell to the yes, I was afraid.

I’ll be back with Part II in a couple of weeks.

In the meantime, do tell: what is the most horrific wedding experience that you’ve been a part of, witnessed, or heard about?

Photo 2 Credit, Photo 3 Credit

MELT. @pauloctavious ' book heart photo print comes in 2 frames that connect. http://t.co/6stfJJvM

These guys made Pentax 67 helmets to wear around the house & stuff. Our new favorite people: http://t.co/1oaoC68V

Let me guess, you forgot about the thing. The thing where you NEED a quick gift that looks and feels like you put a lot of effort into it. Either it’s Valentine’s Day or it’s your lover’s birthday or you just need something sexy yet funny and not awkward to take to a lingerie shower.

That happens to me all the time. The image to the left could be me. ALL THE TIME. Actually, if it were really me it would look a lot more like this…

Yep. That’s more accurate. My nipples don’t look like gum balls though. Thought I’d clear that up just in case you wondered.

Alright, here’s what you do. File this away in your brain for when you need it.

Run to a drug store. Grab some lube and 3 gift bows. You can color coordinate your bows to your particular celebration.

If it’s for a lingerie shower, get the white bows (for purity, duh), shove that shit in a gift bag and BOOM, you’re done.

The idea is to gently place the bows over your nipples and crotchal area. Like so:

Here you see a silhouette modeling the pink color combo which can be used for Valentine’s Day, Easter, a birthday, or perhaps Squirrel Appreciation Day. Extra points if you use the long curly-cues to cover the cooter. It’s just funnier that way. And let’s be honest–some of the best sexual intercourse starts with unrestrained laughter. And libations.

You can also switch it up for the holidays.

Accompany your fleshy present with some pie on Thanksgiving. Your lover will be giving thanks for the cornucopia of sweet, sweet blessings.

This is also a fantastic option for when you need an extra special “stocking stuffer.” This little get-up is guaranteed to jingle their bells. Especially if the cookie is warm. No one likes a cold cookie.

I promise your sexy time sidekick will appreciate the gesture. After all, YOU are the perfect gift. YOU and your gum ball nipples.

P.S. Make sure you don’t press down too hard with the sticky side. Treat it like a Band-Aid. If you do happen to experience bow burn, just rub some butter on it. Margarine will also work. Don’t ask me how I know.

.@edwardcbear made a DIY Canon EF lens mount for his Nokia N8 camera phone! Hero. http://t.co/BEom4L9P

I'd rather be eating SOS. You don't want to know what that stands for.

I grew up in an Irish-Catholic, meat-and-taters family. When I met my future sucker husband, the list of foods I WOULD eat was much shorter than the food I WOULDN’T eat. The first time he brought me home for dinner they served these bizarre foods like zucchini and chick peas and olives and herbs and spices. I mean, can you believe that?

And when his family took me to their favorite Moroccan restaurant, complete with lentils, baklava, pastilla and lamb, I nearly passed out. Luckily, Moroccan food is very aromatic (and delicious! YUM! Where have you been all my life!) and it brought me back to life when they waved some chicken tagine under my nose.

Fast forward twenty years. I eat just about everything. While I have some food allergies, I haven’t met many vegetables or grains I won’t eat. I’ve been to a few neat places and sampled some not-so-ordinary fare (for this Irish girl). I like to think my food repertoire has been expanded. Heck, I’ve become quite the epicurean. Some of the things I’ve eaten? Don’t say I didn’t warn you:

1. Scrapple: This pork scrap/cornmeal loaf is a staple in the City of Brotherly Love. YO! ADRIENNE!
2. Souse: Also known as head cheese. But it contains no cheese. Yes, I was confused, too.
3. Duck: I know. Many people eat duck. But I had never tried it before and it isn’t on most people’s dinner tables every night. Now? I’m hooked. It’s what I order when we go out to dinner. Cute barn yard animals… yum.
4. Buffalo: It was technically bison carpaccio. As in, raw, pounded, seasoned bison meat. It tasted as awesome as it sounds (not). I’ve had buffalo burgers, too!
5. Ostrich: It tastes like vealish beef. No, really! Except gamier. Is that a word? Is now.
6. Pate (foie gras): Ground barnyard fowl livers. Reminded me of scrapple, but way more expensive and didn’t taste better with ketchup. Just sayin’.
7. Alligator: Kinda like chewy, old fish. But tasty chewy, old fish. Doesn’t that sound appetizing?
8. Poutine: It was… well. I’ve got texture issues, so I’m not the best judge. But gravy stuff and taters? What’s not to like?
9. Venison: In our family it is called vbeef. We eat it often. It’s yummy, even if I do think of Bambi every time I eat it.
10. Haggis/Tofurkey (tie): I have nothing to say *shudder*
11. Spam: Not the relentless emails. The food product. Why is this food? Kinda reminds me of dog food. *hork* I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

Strange… most of the list is meat, or could be classified as meat. I make a lousy former vegetarian, huh?

#fromwhereistand skyscraper edition! Dennis takes awesome aerial photos from rooftops all over Detroit. http://t.co/YHi01wrS

When I was younger, I was wise; I knew exactly what I wanted. I was a planner; I had things mapped out. It was reassuring to have things all worked out… except when things didn’t work out according to my plan.

The first ginormous deviation from my “plan” came when I applied to college. I only applied to one–you can see where this is going–and I didn’t get in. Well, that’s not actually true. I did get accepted to the college of my choice, but not to the program of my choice. I had auditioned for the acting conservatory and did not get a spot. To say I was devastated would be putting it mildly.

I was hurt, wounded, shocked, angry, scared, jealous, dumbfounded and on and on. Holy crap! What was I going to do? It was the only college that I applied to and I didn’t want to go for their liberal arts program. So I didn’t go and I felt lost and sorry for myself. I worked at jobs I hated and felt lost and sorry for myself.

There was a person in my life, my high school drama teacher, who helped me through that period. My mother was moving to a city a couple of hours away and I wasn’t going with her, so my high school drama teacher let me live with her for a year. She let me cry, complain, eat junk food and make a mess of her home. Then, when a year passed and I was still feeling lost and sorry for myself, she told me I had to leave. Holy crap! What was I going to do?

My teacher went on some sort of conference and ended up settling in San Francisco. She called me from the trip and told me that I should consider going to school there, as she thought it would be a good fit. I visited San Francisco and it fit like a glove! I ended up going to college and graduating summa cum laude, doing some acting, marrying someone, starting a family, and becoming a writer–all in San Francisco.

I tell you this story, not to say, “Oh, things will always work out for the best,” because sometimes things don’t work out for the best. I tell you this story because sometimes you don’t get what you want… and you will be fine. That one moment will not define your entire life. It will just make you look at your options and go after something else that you want–something you just might get.

Photo Credit

My daughter and I recently spent four days at a Caribbean resort, our first mother-daughter getaway. We bonded over frozen drinks, had our toes painted and shared one or two long cries that ended up bringing us closer together. We came home holding hands and giggling over inside jokes.

My husband and son spent the same four days together in Austin, Texas. It was the longest they had ever spent alone together, and I was eager to hear about–or at least see the results of–their male bonding.

On the ride home from the airport, after Emma and I had given a detailed account of our trip, I asked how they’d enjoyed their time together.

“Uhhh… it was fine… I guess,” my son responded. My husband shrugged his shoulders.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I laid around a lot,” Devin said. “I watched the game,” his father added.

“I saw on Facebook that you guys went to a movie.”

They both sort of nodded, sort of shrugged, mainly gave noncommittal grunts. I let it go and went back to gushing about my vacation.

The next morning I tried a new line of questioning during breakfast.

“Did you and Dad get along while I was gone?” I asked Devin.

He shrugged. “Yeah, it was fine.”

“How was the movie?”

“Fine.”

“Did you guys talk about anything while we were gone?”

“Not really.” Another shrug. “I bought a bunch of candy at the movies.”

And then, for the first time ever, my 12-year old son slipped his hands into the front of his pajamas while I was talking to him.

Look, I know guys do this. I know. But my son had never done this before, and I had left his father with clear instructions that he should not ruin my firstborn while I was away. I may have even mentioned the ball fondling specifically as a habit I did not want to see passed on in my absence.

“What are you doing?” I asked, horrified that he was continuing to talk to me while he presumably had his hands on his own crotch.

“Uh… getting breakfast?”

“Get your hands out of your pants!”

“Huh?” he looked down at himself as if he was completely unaware of where his hands were. “Oh. OK.” Another shrug.

“Jared! When I left this boy occasionally scratched his butt, but he never put his hands down his pants in front of me. Never!”

Jared looked at Devin, looked at me, and lifted his shoulders ever so slightly.

“I guess now you know what we did while you were gone.”

Photo Credit: CarbonNYC via photopin cc

Gay parenting is like this. Sort of.

Have you read the news? Gay parents are apparently better than straight parents! As a gay parent, I’m badass, and I know it. But with awesomeness comes responsibility. Because I believe all kids should be brought up by wonderful parents, I will share some of my secrets.

To be as awesome as us, straight people, you have to really want to have a child. “Want” being a euphemism for an obstacle course involving the roller coaster of conception, the awkwardness of adoption, and the storm of public opinion. Now, I understand that some of you became parents by accident; I’ve even heard of one woman who conceived by watching Gladiator. I also understand that you don’t typically need to adopt the children you bring into the world. AND I’m fairly certain that it’s expected of all of you to procreate.

I’ll try not to hold this against you. Let us begin your crash-course in gay parenting awesomeness!

Lesson One: Conception

You don’t have to be a lesbian to partake the high-stakes gamble of artificial insemination! Try conceiving while facing one another on opposite ends of the bed. I think you can find this position in the Kama Sutra. Check the index under “Tantric Tiddlywinks.” Make your near-lesbian experience more authentic by celebrating each failed attempt with a ceremonial flushing of several hundred dollars down the toilet.

Lesson Two: Adoption

Take down all the curtains and blinds out of every window in your house. Have your home outfitted with unflattering lighting, at all times, for a year. This is only sort of what the adoption process feels like, but since I like you I’ll let you wear your clothes. The adoption process costs money, too, but to tell you how much would spoil the fun.

Lesson Three: Public Opinion

Imagine that voice in your head that sometimes calls you a lousy parent, and says you have no business even being a parent. Now imagine that the voice isn’t coming from your insecurities, but rather the mouth of a Presidential hopeful, right there on CNN. Your rights could be revoked if enough people agree with the voice. This tends to make you no fun at parties during an election year.

So, gay parenting is like March of the Penguins without the regurgitated baby food. After you’ve traveled this veritable tundra, you become a gung-ho badass who takes nothing for granted. You don’t “have” to change diapers, or play with your kid, or help with their homework; you GET to.

The only thing you don’t get to do, is bitch. Because you pretty much asked for it.

Photo Credit

Joel's saving endangered animals with his camera. A pretty valiant photo project titled "Rare": http://t.co/0opC6dkH

I love my kids. They can be cute and smart and funny and I relish their accomplishments. I keep their little drawings and progress reports and the cards they make for me. I imagine that, someday, they might mean even more to me (or that they might eventually mean something to them). So, I tuck all of those keepsakes into an accordion file–one for each of my kids–and keep them on the top shelf of my closet.

There’s only one problem: they’ve started bringing home three dimensional “works of art”.

Three dimensional pieces do not fit in my accordion files and I’m left to wonder, “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

What am I supposed to do with my daughter’s cat sculpture? You know… the one with the cracked left foot and ears that broke off while the cat made the treacherous journey from school to home. I can’t put that in an accordion file! I can’t throw it away, either, because my daughter spent several days creating this masterpiece and would drop to the floor and keen if I suggested it go to the great clay kitty condo in the sky. No, I’m stuck with the cat and it sits on the china cabinet, silently mocking my powerlessness.

What am I supposed to do with the “robot” my son created at robotics camp? It is basically a yogurt container with a small engine-like thingy inside and wires all over the place. It moves and vibrates and it will not fit in the accordion file! When I suggested to my son that we throw it away, he said, “But Mom… it’s a robot!” One kid’s “robot” is a parent’s trash. So, it sits on a shelf in his room collecting dust and angry stares from me.

What am I to do with the misshaped “bowls,” “serving plates” and “mugs” lovingly made for me by my kids? I can’t hang them on a tree, and you know what else? THEY WILL NOT FIT IN THE ACCORDION FILE!

It’s like the Island of Misfit Clay Shit up in this joint and I’m drowning in pinch pots.

I don’t know what to do. I could tell my children that they can no longer work with clay, maybe tell them we just found out that they’re allergic to clay and that their hands will fall off. Or, I could sneak into the school in the dead of night and steal all the clay.

What’s a parent to do? Do any of you have an answer, or are you all being mocked by clay sculptures of woodland creatures as you read this?

Photo Credit

Svema was a black & white film made in the USSR but was discontinued in 2006. Beautiful samples here: http://t.co/cmiR9vyo

Facebook will soon turn all profiles into Timeline mode. Choose your cover photo now! http://t.co/rMN0rMKB