Why is it that when I went out and bought $150 dollars worth of groceries yesterday, I still seemed to have nothing to make for dinner? The first mistake was that I went to the market after teaching a spin class followed up by 45 minutes of running. I did my best to not gnaw off my arm out of hunger  during the drive to the market. I fantasized of eating everything on the menus as my car passed Wendy's, McDonalds's and Burger King on Route 66. I thought to myself, if i could just make it past these establishments, I could withhold a weeks worth of fat and calories. I can't be the only one that struggles with this temptation sometimes. Moral of today's story is NEVER go to the supermarket when your hungry. Like a starving child you see on a poster, I walked right by the nutrition rich fruits and veggies and headed strait to the stuff that puts meat on your bones. I could also swear that the check out guy was evaluating my purchase choices with a bit of an eye roll. I came home with enough schools snacks to provide the entire lunch room with a snack.  I went hog wild in the ice-cream department. I thought purely with my empty, unfulfilled stomach and threw out everything I ever learned about the food pyramid. At least I didn't forget to buy the milk. I got the second eye-roll when I got home and Chris helped me put the groceries away. He suggested that we go up to the orchard and buy some apples. Lesson learned. Dinner came around and of the $150 dollars spent, all I could show from the market outing was a pound of hamburger meat, clearly born of the desire stemming from my fast food drive by. I thought of going into the pantry and pulling out one of the thousand single serving snacks that I bought and attempt to make them into a side dish somehow.  But supermom strikes again. To make up for my poor decisions, I went into what remains of my summer garden and pilfered it finding a sad tomato, a softening cucumber and our very last watermelon. I really think I need a personal shopper in the future. Next time you wander through the market take pity on the lady filling her cart in the snack isle, especially if she looks sweaty and hungry. Someday it could be you. 

In my life of absurdity and chaos today, I must have walked by the couch 50 times. Resting in various forms of repose sat the king purring. Little did he fret about my list of things to do, little did he care. All at the same time, the joker would sit by my feet. Every minute or so I would hear the undeniable sound of a ball dropping to the sound of bum, bum, bum. It would go on for hours while I edited. The routine became laughable as I would edit a photo, chuck the ball, wipe the slobber off my hand and repeat. All along, the joker (or jester) would entertain the king as he clumsily chased the ball around the king's throne. The entertainment would come to an abrupt stop when the jester would jump for a ball and land on the king. The hiss and swipe of the king's claw would act as a reminder of the proper pecking order in this fiefdom. While the roles we play in this house are often undefined, at least two of us know of their capacity as dwellers of this old home. It's good to know that despite the disorder we may find in this house on any given day… our unfolded laundry, un-emptied dishwasher and other undone deeds, they know their jobs. Gunther (the king) is to kill all fairy woodland creatures entering the abode and to keep warm the beds of the house until someone returns to sleep in them. Mile's(The joker) job is to produce as much dog hair as possible and test the limits of the shopvac. As their humble servant, I provide these masters with kibble, treats and ball throws on demand. If your anything like me, you may not feel like royalty in your home but somehow you find your place. If I were to guess, my job is to keep all of the eggs(that would be the humans) in the carton without cracking. I'll keep wishing for that and hope for the best. 

A few days away from this blog feels like a lifetime. This little vacation of sorts was really no vacation. For two weeks, entire lives revolved around the Durham Fair. Not only myself, but a big chunk of most that live in Durham and Middlefield. The list of to do's was relentless: Choose photos, processing photos, print photos, buy materials for kid projects, getting them to follow through with the projects, help create a classroom fair project, cleaning the Photo Dept. building, organize photos for the fair association, getting to the fair(not fun this year), doing your shifts, dealing with rain and a camera, dealing with wet kids, climbing the damn hill 100 times, doing "Drums Alive" on stage, trying to find the pumpkins(how could something so giant be hidden so well), trying not to go broke, trying to decide on what to eat, shooting a wedding on fair weekend… really, I could go on forever. Awards were garnished with ribbons. Peter continued his lego winning streak with his super cool Tour de France design. Kate won on her colorful drip candle.  Perhaps the award for the most perplexing aspect of the weekend goes to my Lightroom program that lost all of Thursday's and Friday's photos. Demoralized by this, I have so little to share with friends of the fun times (I think) they were having at the fair. I tried my best yesterday, to capture a few photos, but after Saturday's wedding shoot, I could barely hold up my arms to take a shot. Maybe next year's motto should be "Say yes to less", but I know that wont happen because we all seem to get swept up in the tidal wave. Life is short and if I'm lucky, I'll only have 60 Durham Fair's left to capture and enjoy. If this is the case,  I shouldn't sweat losing my photo files from this year. Next year's probably wont be very different anyway. While I wait for my photo recovery miracle to happen, There are a few things that I did see this weekend that would fit the miracle genre. I got my car out of the muddy parking field! I watched a little girl sing a song with the voice of an angel, I watched Michael Hayes (patch editor) take more photos than me for once, I managed to resist temptation to gobble up the giant fluffy donut(and now i regret it). The biggest miracle of all was that I reached into my bag pocket  last night and pulled out a $100 dollar bill that I had put there in case I need to pay ransom to get Peter back in case of kidnapping. Good thing he was covered with so much sweat and sticky ice cream that any kidnapper would think twice. Now we wait for the crisp days of fall to sharpen the senses as we say goodbye to the hazy memories of summer. The seasons help us say hello and goodbye with regularity. Durham Fair, we'll see you again someday.

Were going to the fair, rain or shine. Living in this town, you mark your year as the year that it rained at the fair or didn't. Either way, we still have fun. The kids woke up this morning and it was reminiscent of Christmas morning as they buzzed with excitement. I'm tired already. I have come to realize that the Durham Fair is a homecoming. It truly does have something for everyone. My kids love to see their exhibits, I love the photography.  My parents come to experience the feel of a small town and what a town showcase it is. Everyone shows up. High school kids treat it like the prom. College kids reunite with friends they have missed. Even older ex-townies trek homeward to reunite with friends of the past. So in essence, it's not the food, or the entertainment, the exhibits or the rides that make the fair. There's is no one thing were drawn to more than the people. The fair is built on volunteerism. Every person that puts time into the event cares about our community and making it a better place to live. That's why you'll see us there despite the weather. This town depends on its people.  So as we get rained on this weekend, enjoy it because we're all there to see each other.  While this is the case I do have a secret reason for showing up. There is a giant sugar donut with my name written on it. Check out last years video.

When opportunity calls, you need to take it. Yesterday when a friend called for an impromptu visit to New York City, I just couldn't say no. She is an amazing treasure trove of information regarding all things especially when it comes to gardens. She was researching a new project that had recently been unveiled along the west side of Manhattan. The High Line was a freight line that was built back in 1929 when interestingly enough, too many accidents were occurring between trains and street traffic. Rather than let 10th Avenue maintain it's nickname of "Death Avenue", city planners created this overhead train-line that would travel thirteen miles. It would serve it's purpose for sometime until train service needs fizzled and the weeds began to grow.  It began to look much like an abandoned Chernobyl as  nature overcame man. Then in 1999, two locals who perhaps were inspired by the greenery growing within the steel girders, rethought this area. The High Line was slated to be demolished unfortunately, but preservation efforts prevailed and the project came into being. The steel work throughout is intricate but somehow blends in well with the grittiness of the meat packing district of New York. The project progressed with the mindset that this would become a self sustaining green-way for all New Yorkers to enjoy. Clearly, they succeeded. As one walks up the stairway , you're greeted by a birds-eye view of Manhattan. With no stop lights or cross walks, one navigates this pedestrian wonderland uninhibited by the rush below.  The path is dotted by kids, seniors, students, tourist, and workers on lunch break all walking blissfully. Many of them could be overheard speaking proudly of their new urban playground. Once again, NY ingenuity at it's best had prevailed despite the odds.  The green-way is not designed for hard exercise, it's designed to get  frantic New Yorkers to slow down.  While a butterfly flutters from milkweed to other flowers, honey bees travel busy routes through yellow and purple perennials. The miracle here is how gracefully the vegetation grows in and around steel and concrete.  A perfect balance is struck between the right amount of room for people and greenery. Descending the stairs back to 10th Avenue, anyone could notice how the vacation had suddenly ended. The concrete jungle would surround you once again and the pace would pick up. This is a new must see location born out of the imaginations of fellow New Yorkers who have a modern vision for an aging city. I applaud the efforts to those that make things happen despite the odds against them. New Yorkers, you should be proud.

Type A…yup, thats me. I just proved it to myself. Based on a yahoo personality quiz, I confirmed what I think I already knew. Apparently type A's are impatient, aggressive and competitive.  Type A-ness runs in my family. In fact, my entire family is so type A , that family gatherings are like putting a bunch of pit bulls into a room with only one chew toy. As I have aged, I have learned to cope better with this diagnosis of sorts. I know when I am acting like a caged animal, I can even feel it in my blood. While A's are always trying to achieve success even during well deserved rest time, we contemplate what comes next. Nothing hit the nail on  capital "A" head more than turing 40 this week. 40 became a wonderful opportunity to take note of the achievements and failures that comes with a landmark birthday. But after all of the contemplating I realized it's just to damn exhausting; so I decided to give Type B a try. To do this, I drank a lot of wine. We gathered around an outdoor fire pit with some good friends on Saturday night. The kids ran around with reckless abandon as I parked it. Fire would help build the kids into a frenzy but feeling it's warmth would seduce me into submission.  My friend kept pouring the wine and soon enough it became clear that I wouldn't be getting up for a while. 8 became 9  and eventually midnight closed in. After the first glass, I would no longer check my watch like a good "A" girl normally would. As time ebbed by we would listen to Styxx and we would be transported to what felt like a summer night or our youth. We would shoot balled up papers into the fire making mini-fireworks as we vetted out our stresses. Both young and old could meet eye to eye here in the dark and enjoy each others company. Who knew that the lyrics swaying overhead, "the best of times" would truly become just that. When I woke the next morning, I would fall back into my A-ness, but not without the a sense that there is another way to look at things.  Perhaps this time without the vino.  I would put it to test by canceling all of the next days appointments to hop, skip and jump my way around my self inflicted responsibilities. Do I really need to move  mountains today as i went through the to-do list in my head? ...Do I really need to go to Kate's Open House? I could send my husband. Surely his presence in the school would make my friends think I had dropped dead. By Tuesday I'll pretty sure I'll return to the hand I've been dealt, but I will have enjoyed my little mini vacation from myself. I encourage all you type A's out there to give it a try despite your hesitancy to do so. A mental vacation could be just as worthy as a more expensive one that requires airline tickets. The hardest part is just telling yourself it's ok to relax. I am pretty sure that if you do, the sun will still rise tomorrow, earth will stay in orbit, and the massive pile of laundry sitting on the bedroom floor will remain. 

When a woman looks upon 40, some really strange things can happen. We can just accept it and get on with life or we can fight it. After a couple of tumultuous days, it's become clear to me that I have chosen to do both. Strangely enough, 40 is just a number. Some say it's the new thirty, but clearly it isn't to me. Over the weeks that led up to 40, I have spent time in a hospital, been swamped with photography, felt the residual effects of 9/11, felt kid stress that I never really felt before, felt disheartened by our inept government, wanted to start a fist fight with a guy from CL and P and just generally felt overwhelmed. Life has moved so quickly that when visiting Stew Leonard's supermarket yesterday, the sound of the repetitive mooing animatronic cow made the hair on the back of my neck stand on edge. Holy cow, is this what it's come to?  As the "big" day came and went, I can say that I feel truly relieved that it had passed. A woman builds herself up to the reality of 40. You wonder if your face will fall off from the wrinkles and skin damage as the day approaches. But when it does, you look in the mirror and find yourself  just at the beginning of this stage. No extreme measures need to be taken just yet (just slight photoshopping), but you sense that a storms coming down the road.  Thinking of this, on the morning of my birthday, I set the timer on my camera, looked directly into the lens and accepted who I am. No hair brushing, no make-up, no nothing. This was done considering the notion that i've looked better in the past and will look worst sometime ahead. Why not capture myself today and be at peace with it. After all, Oprah and Martha Stewart grace the cover of their magazine every month, why not give it a try. Somewhat relieved that was done, I would spend the rest of the day trying to tackle other mid-life responsibilities. God there are a lot of them. You can't even count them on two hands, you need to take off your shoes and count with your toes too. As each episode plays out, there is a feeling that I just want to get things right.  For some reason this feels like it's my time to shine and I wont be getting any mulligans. Not since my rowing days, have I felt this so strongly. Really, it's now or never.  In so many ways, I have been given fantastic opportunities to get it right recently. So perhaps this is why 40 came so hard. I have high expectations. I feel potential energy ready to be driven into motion, not just fall silent. To add to it, I carry with me the hopes of success for my children and husband too. In the same breath, I wish the people and friends that surround me can set their pace and find their way.  Were all have to navigate this heavy traffic together.  I guess the miracle here is that although 40 years have come and gone, life feels like it's just getting started. I think I'm fortunate to feel this way. With this milestone, I'm reminded that I don't have the luxury and invincibility of youth. So, I look forward. Someday, I'll look  back when the time is right.  Luckily, Ill have a hard drive full of photos to do just this. For now though, it's about making hay while the sun shines and capturing life one frame at a time. 

This is the week that many of the folks from Durham and Middlefield begin to fray at the edges. It never fails.  The thick newspaper styled magazine full of fair entry opportunities beckons at us. Good thing because entry forms are due tonight.   Despite the fact that it has sat in the junk pile for 2 months in the kitchen, the day has finally come to take a look at it.  We have had two glorious summer months of nothing to do with the kids. Over the summer, the thought of doing a fair project would prove to become just that…a thought. As parents, we know the pride of a having your child see his or her work displayed at the fair.  As we sit at the table deliberating the possibilities, it’s clear we’re in trouble. No one has a clear thought of anything crafty meandering through their mind.  It’s hard to fathom that we can’t think of anything. No one likes being put on the spot so I suggest we start with the annual camera hand off. The photo category is one thing I know I have the materials for. This is when perhaps foolishly; I offer my kids the opportunity to use my good camera and lighting equipment. I tell them to meet me back in the dining room studio in a half hour with an idea and some props. They both bolt to their rooms and to the computer to get some ideas.  Peter comes back dragging the cat along with his Playmobil crane in tow. My eyebrows raise up. He suggests that he wants to get the cat to chase a pom pom dangling from the end of the hook off the crane line.  We plop the cat down on the backdrop then proceed to blind him by the studio lights.  I chuckle under breath as Peter lay on the ground doing his best to hold the monster camera up, until the cat starts biting me. Clearly, Gunther cat wants no part of this torture and he jumps away. Back to the drawing board, Peter now drags the dog on to the white backdrop.  Miles, being just smaller than Clifford the Big Red Dog will  do anything for a treat as we realize we have found the more willing model. Peter hooks the tiny Playmobil crane hook on to Mile’s collar and with this second model it becomes clear that this pooch has got what it takes. After very few frames, Peter gets the shot and I send him off to edit with my software. He comes back with the above photo.  Now Kate shows up with matches and a candle. My eyebrows begin to rise once again as I now am worried about my house burning down.  She wants to get a photo of the smoke line that leaves the candle after it’s been extinguished.  As her assistant, I light the candle and extinguish it countless times.  She moves lights and takes shot after shot after turning lots of dials. Much like myself, she takes photo after photo until she can breath easy knowing she got the shot she was looking for.  After experimenting with every funky filter my hard-drive holds she produces the shot below.  I realize after all is said and done that the while the fair has parents pulling our hair out, it’s a great opportunity to share what we love to do with them and visa versa. Whether it be gardening, canning fruits, baking, carving or whatever, it’s an opportunity to hand down traditions.  It’s a chance to learn something that can’t be learned in school.  The learning environment stems from your family’s experiences.  So as you curse the projects messing up your kitchen this week, let it be a reminder that these little messes are helping mold your children’s future while possibly creating a family heirloom.  Next year though, could someone remind me to start this earlier?   

As It turns out, 9/11 happened just 3 days before my 30th birthday. Since then, it's not without a heavy sigh I begin my birthday week every year. With every new decade, I will also be reminded that another decade has passed since the tragedy and I am in fact another decade older.  It's hard to turn the tv on because every time I do, tears fill my eyes. So rather than watch tv on the eve of this sad day, we spent time as a family on the porch of our home finding solace in each other. We mention nothing of the family friends we lost, yet they weigh quietly  on my mind. My brothers lost two of their childhood best friends. They were good kids that would show up at your home like the friendly neighbor kid, looking to pass the time.  I would think of my father, the 4o year Wall Street veteran, forever changed that day as he came home covered in ashes. He like so many others would find solace in fellow New Yorkers as they made their way to safety.  In a heartbeat, he had lost his neighboring coworkers. They (seven of them) had gone out for a celebratory breakfast at Windows On The World and were not fortunate enough to return. My father worked so close to them in their little trading booth that he could touch them. He came home a changed man. Despite all his efforts throughout his life to provide and protect, he felt helpless as the world came down around him. We all felt helpless that day.  Strangely enough, I would hear about it from Howard Stern while driving Kate to a Gymboree.  His usually sarcasm and lewdness was replaced with shock and distress. I stopped the car and as time stood still, the heaviness of the situation was suffocating.  We waited anxiously for phone calls from my brothers, three of four of them working only a stones throw away from the ill fated area. One had only changed his job from the massive tower weeks before but I hadn't been sure if the job change had occurred yet.  One by one, I would listen through the receiver as my mother would say "he's OK" and I would be able to breathe again. The pain would stay with me. Peter would come into the post 9/11 world one Oct 31. The usual late pregnancy sleeplessness was acerbated by my anxiety of raising a new baby in this troubled era. 9/11 had changed everything, even the way mothers raise their newborns. We would surely keep them closer and be sure to raise them never to forget.   Much like the space shuttle disaster marked the end of my childhood, 9/11 marked the true beginning of my adulthood.  The memory of 9/11 brings profound sadness and reminds me of yet another year of my life passed. With this double whammy of sorts, it does bring clarity to the everyday miracles around me. No longer do I take any of these miracles for granted. I laugh at the silly ones, cry at the emotional ones and marvel at those I find beautiful. We must do this to honor their memories.  I encourage you to embrace your own miracles you see  because collectively we can make this world a better place. 

My blogging fingers sent out the SOS this week, " Houston we have a problem". Not only has it rained every day virtually making photography a washout, but there really hasn't been a whole lot to say or a whole lot of time to say it for that matter. We're all running around trying to get some order back into our lives as the school year begins. Since day one of school,  I can already sense some unraveling of our well intentioned plans. Life feels much like the chocolate packing episode from "I love Lucy", where we feel like things are coming at us at warp speed despite our best efforts. Like Lucy, "I think we may be fighting a losing game."But like the clown in this picture I say,"c'mon, Hit me with your best shot!"  Strange things happen when kids are left to their own devices in middle school. My daughter finds herself never opening her locker and lugging 60 pounds of books and such because she truly cant seem to figure out her locker combination. I have offered to arrange a late night meet-up in the school hall way so I can show her the ropes. Peter on the other hand has mastered his lock.  Rather than leave all the school supplies that he carried to school on the first day in the locker, he has somehow managed to bring it back and forth every day forgetting what the actual purpose of the locker really is. By year's end, if we stay on this pattern, both Kate and Peter will have the strength to move mountains. Peter has decided to run and bike to school this year. Following in his fathers footsteps, his self propelled commute has caused me to spend more money on lights and reflective material than the cost of filling my daughter's wardrobe with enough clothes for a millennium. Who would have ever known that "don't hit me yellow" could become a middle school trend. To all those driving around Memorial School, remember that my kid is out there (lit up like a Christmas tree), so please try to slow down.  Last nights dinner table shocker was that my son signed up for chorus. This is coming from the boy that barely opened his mouth during choral shows in the past and would rather make farting sounds. We're thrilled!  I attribute it to the reputation of the coolness of the music teacher who's (abbreviated) name is Mr. Shue, just like the guy from Glee! Chorus has also wooed him in that he has reluctantly become a fan of Glee, a requirement dictated by his sister. I hope that he realizes that the Glee singers are all paid millions to sing with such glee and that he'll have to find his own glee from deep within. As the kids have charted their course around the rocky waters, I too have set sail into the abyss. I have managed not to sleep through one alarm despite my body's willingness to do so. On the first day of school, I sent in lunches that were by my standards, practically gourmet . But even as the week wanes, I looked questionably at the near rainbow colored meat as I deliberated it's risk to my minors. Foreign languages have also plagued me. Since Kate was told has to take French despite her wishes to learn Spanish, I have been sent on a wild goose chase trying to find a French/English dictionary. Unable to find this dictionary has made me realize that higher institutions like Walmart sadly don't even know what French is and that real book stores no longer exist. As a culture, I think were screwed.  But all is not lost. Since our return from Ireland, I have happily been bombarded by photography inquires hoping it's a sign of good things to come. I have come to realize that balancing what is motherhood, Go Far, and photography along with the smaller "hats" I wear, may have me stuffing chocolates down my shirt, much like Lucy. At least life will be sweet.