The W, Hoboken

More fun with Photoshop. The vignette is less drastic when the image is larger. Whatevs. 

I Fought the Trees...and the Trees Won

Raise your hand if you have seasonal allergies. Keep those hands raised if this year's spawn-of-hell seasonal allergies are beating you senseless. Do you have your hands up? (Why do you have your hands up? I can't see you.) 

Anyways, I typically have one to two weeks of allergies in the spring. They peak on those days that you go outside and everything is covered in a thick layer of green and you're wishing you had one of those face masks they wear around China all of the time. But this year, they didn't subside, quite the opposite, they kept getting worse. Claritin usually does the trick, but this year's super pollen has rendered it useless. So much so, that one Friday afternoon a couple of weeks ago, my face because to itch. I attributed it to the fake earrings I was wearing, which always give me a minor nickel reaction, but they're cute, so I suffer through in the name of fashion. 

By the time I got home, my entire face was red and itchy. This was weird. I washed my face, went to yoga, baffled, but hoping I would sweat it out. I cancelled my plans for the evening, and my face and I sat home and fought with each other. By Saturday morning, my right eyelid had begun to swell. I was starting to look like a leper and was growing concerned. Of course, on a Saturday, the chances of getting a doctor's appointment are probably less than those of being struck by lightning. So I called my doctor friend. She recommended hydrocortisone cream on the face and Benadryl. So, I did as she said and by the next day it had started to clear up. Hooray!

That was, until the following Tuesday. Tuesday night, I went out, and again put on some cheap earrings, and by ten p.m. or so, my entire neck was itching. Eff—it was back. Wednesday morning, I woke up to a red and swollen face, which seems to itch even more than the last time. I called a handful of doctors. One doctor's nurse actually said to me, "I'm sorry, the Doctor doesn't feel like seeing any patients today."

Oh, okay. Well, how nice for him! With little options left, I went to the clinic at CVS. They were unable to help me because they had no idea what it was I was dealing with. She did tell me that I had fluid in my ears and my sinuses were extremely inflamed. So, for that, she prescribed me an allergy sinus spray. She noted I may need blood work, something seemed very wrong. 

I went home, doubled up on the Benadryl and took a nap. I woke up hours later and felt worse. My ears were hot and itchy now too. So when my doctor friend called to check in on me, I cried. I can be a huge baby when I am sick (either that or I take the illness on head first and, for example, go run for an hour), so hearing the concern in my voice, she suggested I take another Claritin and use the steroid cream I had been prescribed when the bugs attacked. I did these things. 

Thursday morning, the rash had spread to my neck and arms, so at 6:30 a.m. I called my dermatologist and they got me in. She wasn't sure what was causing the rash—it was either allergies or a "virus that causes a non-specific rash." She didn't seem to agree with my "nickel allergy gone bad" assessment. But, a steroid shot to the rump cleared up the itching within a few hours. She also gave me a steroid cream to use on my face for a few days, that she warned would cause me to break out. She also suggested I continue taking two Claritin a day, as well as Benadryl.

Great. All is better. Except, no, no it wasn't. Yesterday, which was the following Wednesday, I was sitting at my desk when I began to feel like my face and chest were on fire. I looked down to see that my skin was bright red. I ran to the ladies' room to check out my face, and yes, the rash was back, and my face was beginning to get puffy. I had plans to go see Spiderman, the play, that night, and it was now 3 p.m. So now the antihistamines weren't working, my face was broken out, and I would be leaving for Paris in two days. I went into a panic. After an hour, I finally found a doctor that would see me, but it was becoming clear I wouldn't be seeing the play. 

This doctor also didn't know what was wrong. 

"Are your glands swollen?" she asked.
"No."
After feeling my miscellaneous neck/shoulder area glands for all of three seconds, she added, "They're actually quite sizable at the moment."
"Oh."

She tested me for strep, which I hadn't had (luckily) since my junior year of college. As I waited for the results, I googled, "strep, rash." And what do we get? Scarlet Fever! I wasn't really concerned about this because my throat didn't hurt, I didn't have a fever, and, oh yea, I'm not three. As I expected, it was negative. She noted she couldn't do blood work because she would have no idea what to test me for, and added that since it itches and responds to steroids, it is likely allergies. 

So as of last night, I was to take Xyzal and Singulair. My friend put my air conditioner in the window, so I could close my windows and keep any additional hell spawn out of my apartment. I woke up this morning feeling like I had been in a coma, but the rash had cleared up and the itching had stopped. I have my fingers crossed the latest drug cocktail will do the trick, and later on, I will be doing a rain dance, praying that the skies will open out and wash away these tiny green "evil-doers."

Allergies. All this from the pretty trees outside that I like to look at. Well you know what trees? Fuck you too. 

"I" is for "Ivan"

Some days are just stranger than others. There's something in the air, a certain energy, and you know no matter what happens that day, things are going to be just a little bit odd. Yesterday was one of those days. 

It was a gorgeous day, followed by a gorgeous evening. I spent the afternoon commenting on the strangeness of the day with a friend. Nothing in particular, really, just a few too many people wearing neon, and me still feeling off from battling a mysterious facial rash all week that the doctors were fighting off by pumping me full of cortisone. I wasn't even sure I should be drinking that night, but hey, when has that ever stopped me?

I had a few friends over to hold round two of trying to kill a 30 pack of Miller Lite. Steph, at one point, played the grade school game of, "What will my next boyfriend's name be?" by going through the alphabet with her can tab. You know the one, you push the tab forward for "A," back for "B," and so on, until it comes off. The letter you land on is the letter of the first name of your next boyfriend. My friend got "C." So we rattled off a ton of "C" names. I got "I." There are not a lot of "I" names. We came up with Ian, Isaac, and Ishmael. I assumed it was a sign I wouldn't be meeting anyone that night—because "I" is kind of random. 

It was my yoga friend's last day bartending, so we stopped in to see her. We were introduced to the 57-year-old women next to us when she came in from smoking and told us in no uncertain terms that we were in her seat. She then proceeded to get hit on by a handful of 20-somethings, much to her, and our, entertainment. Then, we all watched as a patron started a fight with my bartender friend because she served her in a plastic cup instead of a glass. The patron took it as an insult and complained about it to everyone for entirely too long. 

Right around then, I felt someone touch my hand and turned around to see a guy poking it. For whatever reason I assumed he thought I was someone else. (I don't know.) So I greeted him with a, "Hi, I don't know you."

"I know, I wanted to come over and say 'Hi' to you before I left. Hi, I'm Ivan."

My Grandma Is Probably Cooler Than Your Grandma

Robert D. Rento, MD

Life is funny—the way things unfold, the coincidences that make you wonder if they mean something more, the small lessons that you can miss if you're not looking. People always say that everything happens for a reason, and the more I pay attention to life's little nuances, the more I am beginning to believe it.

I recently shared the book that I wrote with my coworker, Kim. I was hesitant because of content, but eventually figured, if I am serious about getting this thing published in some way, shape, or form, I am going to have to get used to people reading it. I know there's a good quote from Natalie Goldberg that would apply here about being honest with yourself, writing your truth, and ignoring your inner voices...I'll find it, I'll get back to you.

Kim came up to me today and said, "I continued reading your book today and it's funny because your pediatrician is the same one my kids went to. He died recently, did you know that?"

I hadn't.

Dr. Rento was the one that sat my 16-year-old self down on a Sunday morning and asked if I understood what was happening to me.

"I have a brain tumor," I answered.

He was with me and my family throughout the entire procedure and after that. According to his obituary, he died of a brain tumor. My heart broke for him today the way I could tell his did for mine all those years ago.

I sent the information to my father immediately. We were both thrown back 16 years and at a loss for words, but not of emotion. I'm incredibly sad that I didn't know about this sooner to pay him my final respects, my final thank you. But, maybe finding out about this at all was the reason I was supposed to give Kim my book to read. These are the threads that tie us together.

My deepest sympathies go out to the Rento family.

From my book:
Finally, I had stopped thinking. There was just space, as if someone had shut me off entirely. I had no sense of my body, which most importantly, temporarily shut down my pain. 9 a.m. finally came. We headed out to the car. It was a weekend, September 3, 1995, to be exact, and the doctor’s office was empty—closed actually. They were there just for me. We were greeted by a nurse, who, by the look on her face, knew why we were there. I didn’t yet realize that I would receive this uneasy sympathetic look from almost everyone for the next few weeks. Whenever I could forget about it all for two minutes, there was always that look that brought it right back.
            She took us to a small room, where my mother and Mike were already waiting. We all just sat and waited for what they would tell us. My life hung in their words. Did I really want to know? Were they just going to confirm my fears that my life is over? My pediatrician, Dr. Rento, came into the room.       
            “Would you come with me Jennifer?”
            I nodded and stood up.
            “Can I go with her?” my father asked.
            “We need to talk to her and then Mom and Dad can join her with the surgeon.”
            My father looked disappointed. Dr. Rento led me down the hall into a cold and sterile examining room. I climbed up on the table out of habit. He got a folding chair and sat somberly in front of me. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
            “Do you know what’s wrong?” he asked in a sad, paternal voice. I studied his face. He was maybe in his sixties, the white hair sliding towards the back of his head. I knew he had children. I could see some of my father’s emotions in his face.
            “I have a brain tumor,” I replied with a quivering chin, and lost the few moments that I had when I wasn’t crying.
            “You’re a brave girl,” he said.

All the Better to Hear You With, My Dear

I walked into yoga last night to find that the aready-too-small room now had an almost life-like sized Buddha sitting in the front of the room. Well, maybe not life-like in the adult sense, more of a ten-year-old sized Buddha statue. I obviously understand the why of putting a Buddha in a yoga studio, but still, it seemed a little out of place in the center of the room, where the teacher usually begins class. 

"I really hope that was a gift," my friend said. "I really hope he didn't pay for that."

Each time I'd catch sleeping Buddha out of the corner of my eye, I'd think it was a person, and it made me jump a little each time, so I decided to just keep my eye on him...which made me wonder two things: why are his ears so long, and is that his hair or is he wearing some sort of cap?

As far as the ears go, it seems interweb users have different ideas about what the significance is. Some say it is a symbol of wisdom in Asian cultures, others claim that it show that he abandoned his former wealth. BuddhaGroove.net seems to sum it up by saying:

A short answer to that would be: Nobody knows for sure!

The Buddha was born as Prince Siddhartha, in Lumbini, and grew up in Kapilavastu, modern day Nepal. Going by the recorded cultural practices of that time, might not the Prince have worn the chunky ear ornaments favored then by men? In time, these heavy jewelry pieces would have resulted in long earlobes. This is perhaps the most prosaic explanation available.

There is also a symbolic significance to the Buddha’s elongated earlobes. In Eastern cultures, large ears are associated with wisdom and revered by others (think Lord Ganesha and in more modern times, Mahatma Gandhi). These are ears that are big enough to listen to all our tales of suffering. Magnanimity and compassion therefore are also qualities linked to such physical features and the Buddha was certainly the embodiment of these virtues.

Finally, there is perhaps, a message to Buddhists in those ears. Every human is a potential Buddha; as such we should remain open to the suffering of others.

And as for the hair? Shravasti Dhammika writes:

It may come from the 32 Signs of a Great Man (mahapurisalakkhana), a rather strange idea introduced into Buddhism at a later period. One of these signs pertain to the hair.

According to the sutta, the Great Man’s hair was black and curled upwards and to the right. It was probably thought to curl the right because the right has been, in nearly all cultures, considered more auspicious.

When the first sculptors made Buddha statues they tried to depict at least some of the 32 signs. It is thought that the first Buddha statues were made in Gandhara under Greek influence, and in Mathura, in around the 1st/2nd centuries CE. Greek or Greek-influenced sculptors in Gandhara, perhaps more rooted in reality, depicted the Buddha’s hair naturalistically as, not exactly curling to the right, but waving to the right. The first Mathura-manafactured Buddhas show him with a single bun spiraling to the right. The Gandhara style never penetrated into India proper and eventually died out. The spiraling Mathura style eventually evolved into many spiraled curls and the Buddha’s hair has been depicted in that manner ever since.

Courtesy of Photos.com

Thorton Returns

I haven't seen this little guy all winter! Yes, I assume every squirrel that happens upon my windowsill is the same squirrel, in fact, the one I have named Thorton, who loves my pumpkin muffins. I'm working from home and heard a scratch, scratch, scratch on my screen. I turned around and there was Thorton, all water logged. Poor guy. 

I didn't get a shot of him climbing up my screen, legs stretched in every direction, but it was pretty hilarious. (Sure, I think it's cute now, but when I come home from work one day to find he's chewed a hole in my screen and living under my bed, I'll certainly be singing a different tune!)

Online Dating Pet Peeves

Sometimes I wonder if maybe I've passed up going on a date with my soulmate because he used "to" instead of "too" when writing an email to me. Dating is hard enough—frustrating, disappointing, awkward, late-night rants to friends of, "Dear God! Where is he?!" As we get older, we become clearer about what we want out of a relationship, and hopefully more open to people we may have dismissed years ago because perhaps he was wearing boat shoes, and maybe you hate boat shoes. (I hate boat shoes. Unless you're on a boat, or are from Connecticut.)

So, I am not sure if the things that irk me about online dating are helping me weed out unviable options, or just making me entirely too picky. For instance:

Cell phone pics—I think I need to mention it because guys still aren't getting it—the shirtless picture taken in a bathroom with a cell phone. What the hell? This is not attractive. There's also the generic shirtless pic, or the, "Hey I'm naked except for this sheet that is covering my junk" picture. You're probably just looking to get laid...so, I don't feel bad about immediately disqualifying you.

Grammar—I am by no means perfect. There are probably a bunch of typos all over this blog. But, I do try. I'd like it if you tried when filling out your dating profile or emailing me. Here's an actual email I received, "hi dere how u doing...howz life....god blss"

Thought—There's a website called HowAboutWe.com. It's a cute concept, fairly easy to understand. You just finish the sentence—How About We... One that I used was, "How about we go to a music store and play all of the instruments." Men can then send you an email or a simple, "I'm interested," meaning that your date suggestion sounds cool and your profile wasn't so bad. Profiles on the site are abbreviated, because the point is to get offline and get out there and meet people. So this, for instance, doesn't work, "How about we… Looking for a beautiful female with analytical mind set, who is feminine, who lives a healthy lifestyle." I mean, it's really not that hard to figure out!

Face—Then there are the sunglasses. Why are you wearing sunglasses in your profile picture? Or most recently, why are you wearing sunglasses in a mirrored elevator taking pictures of yourself? Are you stuck in an 80's song? Stop it.

But then there are the gems that you come across like, "Whatever comes between us, all will be solved with a 'f*ck it, I love you.'" Those little glimmers of hope are what keep me going...and writing about all of my dating disasters. You're welcome.

Getting Reacquainted With My Old Friend, 3 a.m.

I've been waking up consistently for the past week around 3 a.m. Not just the roll-over-in-bed-and-check-the-time type waking up, but wide-awake-I-think-I'll-check-email-and-play-Scrabble kind of awake. So, it got me wondering why. 

In college I had a professor who, for whatever reason, decided to share with us that 3 a.m., should you be awake, is the loneliest hour of the day and also the most depressed you will be all day. I've tried to Google this fact several times and never found it put in exactly those terms, but I have found other interesting theories. And while I have been feeling a little lonely lately, when I wake up at 3 a.m., I am mostly irritated that I am, in fact, awake at 3 a.m.

The most common theory is that 3 a.m. is the witching hour, when paranormal activity is most active. Waking up at this time may suggest that you are picking up on information from another source, i.e. a spirit. I've read that 3 a.m. is the time that Jesus died. So perhaps it's Jesus, taunting me. But, likely no.

From a slightly more "scientific" perspective, waking up in the middle of the night, at any time, increases the statistical likelihood that you will wake up again the next night at the same time. Your body begins to build a rhythm. It could possibly even be early onset insomnia or a sleep disorder. I've struggled with insomnia, so this may very well be the case. There have been times, that even on sleeping pills, I have not been able to fall asleep for more than an hour or so for days at a time. I'd be useless at work, or really at life in general, since I was completely unable to think. This happens to me maybe once every two years. I guess I'm due, but I certainly hope not.  

Spiritually, it's said to be the time of night when things are most still in the world, and waking up at this time may just be your intuition is waking you to connect with yourself, or in my case, play Scrabble and read emails. 

So maybe I'm being haunted, maybe my body likes taunting me, maybe my mind is trying to find peace when the world is still, or maybe the garbage men have changed their schedule. I don't know. What I do know is that I am tired.

Fun with Photoshop

This morning I decided to try to learn how to manually create Instagram effects in Photoshop—or at least something similar. Google informed me that people have already done this and I could just download the actions the created. My only work with actions up to this point is batching raw files into jpegs when I am feeling especially lazy. So, I downloaded a bunch of artsy actions from a bunch of random sites. (I would credit them here, but apparently I've already closed all the pages.) They were an awesome starting point. I then continued to play with color balance, contrast, and saturation on top of the pre-set effects. 

Let's take a step back for a moment. I used to be a photographer. The amount of years that now comprise "used to" is a bit sad and somewhat unfathomable to me, but time is a bitch, what can you do? The goal was to work for Rolling Stone, travel the country, and be the next great rock photographer. My cousin, James Minchin III, managed to do this. I, on the other hand, doomed to care for my brain tumor forever, had to find a job that offered health insurance. Back in the day of young Jen the photographer, pre-existing conditions precluded a person from being able to get health insurance without having some sort of corporate-sponsored plan. So off I went into the land of 9-5, traffic, business casual, and cubicles—pretty much the land where dreams die. (Oh, Jen, you're so dramatic! But it's true. Life should be more than this.) Half of the time, or slightly less, or maybe more than slightly less, I can convince myself that Marketing was a good field to fall into since I get to write, work with art and advertising, and have been given the opportunity to learn a lot about design. The rest of the time, I am screaming in my car, wasting my life away in rush hour shit shows, wondering how long I could survive in the jungles of Costa Rica. 

My point? It's this—every now and then, I have a moment of inspiration. Something to write about, a photo project idea, a view in a place like Iceland that is so beautiful it takes my breath away and brings tears to my eyes, and life is good—it's right. This morning, it wasn't a sunset in Costa Rica or the Great Wall of China, but it was the fact that with Photoshop and a little bit of free time, I can transform an image I've taken and make it something different than it was in the beginning. It's nothing life altering, but it made me excited about photography all over again. And it's those little passions, the little moments of excitement that make me smile. 

Original Image - Old Harbor, Reykjavik, Iceland

Edited Image