I love fall. The change in weather from sweltering humidity to crisp autumnal breezes. The array of brilliantly colored leaves. The big yellow school-bus carrying children to the epicenter of learning, a place in which to mold their little characters into the future Madoffs of the world. After two months of being a surrogate mother/babysitter/sheep wrangler, the sight of that hideously tinted transportation unit is a beautiful sight to behold. It brings tears to my eyes, watching those children with their adorable little plastic bookbags waiting faithfully on the curb each morning, eager to broaden the scope of their minds. Of course, the teary eyes could just be a symptom of the terrible cold the little darlings bequeathed to me before abandoning me for the institutions of learning. A librarian's job lies somewhere in the realm between Spanish matador and rodeo clown. The first few weeks of summer proceed, accompanied by the increasingly resigned chant of "don'trunDon'tRunDON'TRUN!!!!!!" which eventually subsides into "Just DON'T bleed on the carpet!" By the end of the summer my immune system is either worn to a frazzle or so strong it could laugh boldly in the face of Swine Flu and a resurgence of the bubonic plague. However, children being the biohazard they are, I never seem to accomplish an escape entirely unscathed.
It all began a long, long time ago, in a land far, far away, where soap was as yet undiscovered. We have children's computers with various games installed, but the children have to come to the desk and ask for headphones, as there are no speakers attached. One day last week a child bounced up to the desk. "CanIcanIcanI......" "Yes, did you need something?" "Uh....yeah....." "And that would be.....?" "Uh, microphones...." "Headphones?" "Yeah, that's what I said....." As I begin to hand them over, the child's modern dance moves suddenly become alarmingly familiar. "Do you need to go to the restroom?" An urgent nod. "Out the door, on the right." More modern dance. "I won't give the headphones away before you get back." "'kay....." "You should run on, before it's too late; certain cleaning duties are NOT in my job description." The child makes a sprint that would bring pride to the heart of Jesse Owens. Before the door swings shut, the child is back at the desk. "Are you done?!" An cheerfully emphatic nod. A sneaking suspicion crept into my mind. "Did you wash your hands?" "Uhhhhh, I don't know....." "Did you ever turn on the faucet at any point in your recent past?" A shrug and unconcerned shake of the head. "GO WASH YOUR HANDS!!! Do you know the song 'Happy Birthday'?" A beaming affirmative. "Sing it twice before you rinse those grimy little digits, 'kay?" My wishes were gloriously complied with, and I felt a false sense of security. Attila the Hun left and soon after a small group of invading mercenaries descended. The soundtrack to my life began to replay. "You got microphones?" "Nope, Britney Spears needed them for her lip-synching concert." "Can I get the microphones?" "Here's the headphones.......Wait, what have you got in your hand?" Turns out it was a piece of hard candy. The child knew I would tell him to spit it out if I saw it in his mouth, so the next logical step was to hide its existence. In his hand. In a hand that had to open two public doors to get to his post in front of my desk. A hand that had very obviously made a scenic detour through the playground. A hand that wiped a nose which was currently performing amazing feats of the Mississippi River impression-type. "When was the last time you washed your hands?" Staring ruminatively at the ceiling, contemplating profoundly. "When I went to the doctor.........." "When was that?" An unconcerned shrug. "Today........" "GO WASH YOUR HANDS!!!!! Do you know the song 'Happy Birthday'?.............." Another triumphant return and bestowal of the headphones. Time travel forward to Saturday morning-I 'awoke' after a sleepless night, feeling as if I had been breaking in a small Clydesdale horse. Every muscle, joint, and hitherto unknown portion of my miserable carcass aches. My head is pounding in a fair imitation of the soundtrack to 'Gladiator.' (Great soundtrack, by the way.) However, I still have to muster up enough life to go to work. Amazingly, I survive, find my way home, and deposit my poor bones under a sheet, a blanket and two comforters. Children should all receive a little yellow sticker upon arrival into the world. Let me wind up this little narrative by saying that Advil PM is one of the most under-appreciated miracles of the modern age.

This is going to be a boring post for the non-readers, just to give fair warning. (Just as a side note, did anyone know that there really is such a thing as a 'bibliophile'? Really, there is. I'm not sure I would use it too often in day to day conversation as, for some reason, it sounds....I don't know......creepy? Like "pedophile" or something; something about adding the suffix '-phile' just seems to make it sound dirty.) People seem to tend to think that if you like to read, you are not very interested in other people. I would beg to strongly differ. Reading, aside from music, is the only way in which to access exactly how another human being's mind operates, how much more interested in your fellow man can you be than that? By reading you are not limited to knowing only those fellow men who are your contemporaries, but expands your opportunities to make friendships to all those who precede you. This may sound odd, but it amazing how many people you feel you know very closely, simply by reading their work, or a biography of his or her life. I just recently read a few biographies on William Wilberforce, and I have to admit that by the end of the second book, I cried when his death was related. I am currently reading the selected letters of C.S. Lewis, and I must admit, I've been reading his works since the second grade, but the more I read and learn of him personally, his personality and characteristics, the more I go, "Whoa! That sounds eerily familiar." When I die some of the first people I want to meet outside of my family are C.S. Lewis, Louisa May Alcott, Nicholas II of Russia, Jane Austen, Victor Hugo and Charles Dickens. All friends I've made simply by reading. Does that sound crazy? Probably. Do I care if it is? Not really, to be honest. Does anyone else have 'friends' they've made through books? Fiction or non-fiction, it doesn't matter-I personally became very attached to the fictional character of Paul in "A River Runs Through It." (And NO, not just because Brad Pitt played him in the film version.) I also became very attached to Sidney Carton in "A Tale of Two Cities." Valentine from "The Count of Monte Cristo" always seemed the type of person I would like to be friends with, should a contemporary version exist. I keep holding out hope that if Elizabeth Bennett can find a Mr. Darcy, so can I. I've always hoped I could be a strong as Jo March/Louisa May Alcott when the need arises. So, yes, although I suppose it is a bit 'crazy', I prefer to be crazy and have these mute friends than 'sane' without them. Anyone else agree?
(The origin of this random, rather extemporaneous and discursive post is the fact that I posted a new book suggestion and a couple of new quotations, just so I don't seem completely insane.)

Okay, so I try not to get on too many soap boxes in my blog posts. Really, I do. I admit, it does occasionally occur, try as I might, but still, I do try. Sort of. As much as my lazy half-hearted personality will allow me to 'try' with anything. However, someone had this posted on face-book and I watched it. Twice. I suppose I had to watch it twice for a few different reasons....one being, I was mesmerized by the photoshop skills. How do they DO that?! Second of which being, I really needed something like this today. Now, not to get too personal, because spilling your guts is just as cute as it sounds, but, for the sake of explanation, I'll say this much: I've never considered myself attractive, glamorous, beautiful, or any other confidence-inspiring adjective. Self-confidence has remained elusive, even as I have become an adult (or at least, as close to an 'adult' as I'll ever be, I suppose....). I adore old movies, but sometimes you sit back and say, "Wow, I'll never be as sophisticated as Grace Kelly, as endearing as Audrey Hepburn, as svelte as Ava Gardner" and that feeling of dejection and despair only deepens as you're faced with the demands of impossible beauty passing you on the sidewalk every day. Here's the thing: I despise sweating in a room with people I don't know. It's a little too "chummy" for me, hence, I am not a patron of the gym. I'm Irish. I could hold my breath but I'll only turn blue, never tan. I'm 5'3", not even a potential contestant for "America's Next Top Model." I was raised in the South. We eat. We eat well. This combination of undeniable facts do not lend themselves to a particularly good self-image. However, at work the other day, someone donated a stack of In Style magazines. I took one home over the evening (there was an article on Clive Owen.....and, well.....there was an article on Clive Owen......) and flipped through. There was a short article on one young female celebrity (don't ask who, I've not the slightest idea who she is....) and the steps she endures each month to 'look her best.' Fake eyelashes, fake tan, fake nails, fake hair (extensions), etc. At the end of the article there was a list of prices. Overall, this little sweetheart spends over 2, ooo dollars a month. 2,000!!!!!!! Despite the obvious economic issues inherent, my question was this: how many people, who live a much less privileged life than she, could 2,ooo dollars ease the suffering and anxiety caused by day to day expenses? It's amazing to me that humanity will pay more for vanity than for kindness. Anyway, I apologize, this post has become a bit biting, I suppose, but I guess my point is this. We are taught to expect a certain physical image, the corporeal becomes more important than the metaphysical. Characters fall into disrepair and disuse while cuticles receive undivided attention. I did some thinking and had an epiphany: I'll never be beautiful, but I can be helpful. I'll never be glamorous, but I can be kind. I'll never be attractive, but I can comfort others. I'll never be 'perfect,' but I can be forgiving. So, I suppose it as George Washington once said, "Live so that when you are alone, you will be in good company."


(11:40 a.m.-Just read over it for the first time and realized-my spelling capabilities decrease exponentially every hour after 5:00 p.m. Hopefully all errors have been corrected. It's rather difficult to make a point when your spelling is atrocious......)

We had a wonderful thunderstorm this afternoon (I just love thunderstorms for some reason; sometimes all that sunshine can become so banal and predictable, you know? Thunderstorms are always original, unpredictable....I think I've been watching too much "When Weather Changed History".......Anyway.......) It seems that after a late afternoon thundershower there is always the most beautiful evening light. I took advantage of it this afternoon and went to the city cemetery. Now, I know that sounds morbid/disturbed/frightening/gothic/Stephen King/"You-really-need-to-find-a-therapist" but trust me, it's not quite as crazy as it sounds. It's remarkable to me how cemeteries really are peaceful places. Anyway, here are a few shots, let me know what you think, or if the consensus view is just that I need to find a social life and drop the field-trips to the cemetery........

The sun was beginning to go down, so there was this lovely ethereal glow to everything.


I developed kind of an 'art crush' on this particular statue; he had a very neo-classical look about him.

(Me a couple (or four) decades in the future.....Notice that one kid in the front, the only one not paying attention? That was me a couple of decades in the past....only the girl-type version....)

You know how everyone has a particular phrase or collection of phrases which, when uttered, forces you to suppress the urge to cause 'death by asphyxiation' to appear on the speaker's death certificate? Okay, maybe it's just me....Anyway, I have a few such as, "Well, actually......." You just know something smart-aleck is formulating in their little pea-brain. My favorites, however, have recently become: "It must be so nice to work in a library and read all of these books!" "I should work here, I love to read!" "I just love all kids." "I have never met a child I don't like." Or, after a battle with the modern juvenile equivalent of Attila the Hun and his army of barbarians, "It's so nice and quiet in here!" I once resorted to looking in the personnel information notebook in a fruitless, futile, and quite frankly irritating search for some inconsequential particle of recycled wood product and came across a reserve stack of voluntary commitment papers for the nut-house, I mean, "spa." (Not really, but I wouldn't be surprised if I had....) Why? You might well ask. Well, let me 'splain......

Here, in abridged form, is one day in the public library:

We share the building with the city parks and recreation. Which means, incidentally, that we assist them in running their summer camps. They descend every day at 1:30 like a plague of locusts; even retired kindergarten teachers blanch with fear. Good thing no way has been found to inject chocolate directly into the blood stream or librarians would soon be attending group rehabilitation in droves. 12:59 Thursday afternoon found me steeling myself for the onslaught when the phone rang. I resisted the temptation to answer it with my most professional recording voice "We're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected. Please hang up and redial." Instead I recited, "East Branch Library, how may I help you?" (person on the other end) "HELLO??????" (Me) "Hello? This is East Branch Library....." "Is this the East Branch?" "Nope, we just say that to throw people off. Oddly enough, you're the first person to catch it today. You've won 15, 000 dollars, congratulations!" The conversation proceeded, I renewed some books, looked others up, etc. "Now, is this the East Branch?" "Yes ma'am." "Alright, I wanted to come pick up some books, have you got any?" "No ma'am, we're fresh out; the delivery truck comes on Tuesdays." The locusts arrived. We resigned ourselves to metaphorical slaughter. (Remarkably enough, though we don't appear so, librarians are an amazingly hearty bunch. We've become like the speech in Shakespeare's Henry V "He that shall see this day and live t'old age/Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,/And say, "Tomorrow is Saint Crispian."/Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars"/We few, we happy few, we band of brothers./For he today that sheds his blood with me/Shall be my brother.") Anyway, we began to salvage our sanity and salve our wounds. A small group of stray children wandered in; one who appeared to be around 4 or 5 inquired, "Is this a day-care?" "Yes. Yes, it is...."
In all too short a period for adequate respite, the fire alarm sounded. The first fire drill we've ever had, and it has to be now. In sweltering weather in which a fish could sweat, cold blood and all. I asked the director of the practice fire drill, "What if the patrons won't get up?" With no apparent compunction she answered bluntly, "Leave 'em." Good enough. After an apparently appropriate amount of time we wandered back into the building. As we returned to our guard post at the front desk, an individual meandered rather aimlessly up to the counter. "May I help you?" "I want a library card." "Yep, I want a 1957 cherry red Chevy Bel-Aire. So?" No, what I really said was, (Smiling as pleasantly as I could manage) "Do you have any current i.d.?" "Do you know.....?" And she named some random individual. "Incidentally, no, I don't. What does that have to do with the price of eggs in China?" "She lives right behind here." "Well, that's a wonderful thing for her. You know what they say 'Location, location, location.'" "She's my grandma." "Good to know." "She has a library card." Then it hit me. This was the 'current i.d.' apparently. Well, sweetheart, I know people in California, but I don't think they'll give me a home loan because of it. The matter was adeptly handled by someone else and I dragged my nearly deceased old bones out to lunch. Yes, lunch. At 3:30 in the afternoon. But, miracle of miracles, I scraped through, at least long enough to torture everyone with this post.

A couple of years ago (in actuality, it could have been, I don't know.....four? My concept of time is a bit hazy; it all runs together after a while.....) I was privileged enough to go to the World War II Memorial in D. C. with my grandad and a busload of other veterans. I have to say, if you ever have to endure a bus-trip, take a group of 85+ year old men with you. Needless to say, I was highly entertained, listening to them reminisce. Anyway, as I'm still working on my 'official' July 4th post, I thought I'd put up some pictures from that trip during the interim. So, here goes.

Lunchtime. It was about 4,000 flipping degrees outside (in MAY, I might add), but this was the only time I ever saw them sit down except for when we were on the bus. They were all as spry as 15 year old kids and I was falling asleep on the bus between stops......
I have to say, this is one of my personal favorites.
This is one of the reliefs featured on the memorial. It isn't the best picture in the world, but I like the image so much I had to include it.
This is another, smaller wall included within the memorial. The entire quote on the base is something along the lines of "The price we pay for freedom," or something rather like it. Each one of those stars represents 100 casualties, there are over 5,000 stars.

Here's the thing: I love my job. Really. I do. I love the people I work with, even if I don't always necessarily like the people I work for. Those people being, of course, the 'public.' Generally, I like most of them. I mean, really, how many places do people bring you homemade lemon bars, fudge pie, and brownies for the holidays? Then there are days like today.....I could have reeeeaaaaallllly used a fudge pie today. The whole thing. By myself. See, here's the other thing. I like kids. Really. I do. The day began innocently enough......We had story hour, of which, if you've ever watched National Geographic and witnessed the panicked stampede of the wildebeests in the face of predators, you've got a fairly accurate image. An hour later, I looked up to notice one lone survivor standing in the midst of the no man's land between the desk and the decimated shelves. Staring right at me. "Did you need something?" Nothing....No response. "Were you looking for something?" Still nothing. Then....."Do you know where my mom is?" Oh. Crap. "No. You wouldn't happen to, either, would you?" Shrug. Am I the only one who seems concerned about this? Apparently so, because, according to this kid, if you've reached the 60" height requirement, you've got all the answers. "I'm looking for my mom." "Yeah, I know. Me too, kid." "You can't find your mom either?" "No....what I meant was...never mind. Just.....hang on....." Thankfully "mom" was just looking for books. Still, that brief instant of mistakenly being considered capable rattled my nerves a bit.

Then, on the way back to the desk after leaving a serene junior with an equally irritatingly serene mother hen, I was snapped at. Not figuratively. Literally. *Snap* *Snap* "I need an over-ride!" We have system wide filters on many sites, including "My Space," which, I have to say, is the bane of a librarian's existence. So, we have to manually over-ride the filter for anyone over 17. Sound time-consuming? It is. Trust me. So, I drag over. "How old are you?" "13" "Sorry..." "It's not for My Space." "Then I couldn't over-ride it anyway. I'm only allowed to over-ride for My Space." It is said that nature abhors a vacuum. It also apparently abhors repetition. Plagues and pestilence have already been used on ancient Egypt. Something original was needed. Which is why 13-year-olds were invented. Said 13-year-old accomplished a freakishly good impersonation of a bee stung Angelina Jolie, she stuck her lips out so far. "If you can't over-ride anything, there's not a whole lot I can do on the computer, then." What?! It's the world-freakin'-wide-web! Find something (wholesomely) educational! You're in a library! Find a book! I wanted to say something really sarcastic, but, instead, I smiled as nicely as I could manage. "National Geographic isn't blocked."

For the past....oh....couple of years (it feels like, anyway), I've been spending quite a bit of time concerning myself very closely with wedding/engagement photos. Now, I'm not sure if anyone really quite fathoms the cruel irony of this situation. Have you ever noticed how, in a moderately sized group of people, cats always seem to find the one individual who is allergic and/or hates them, and attach themselves very closely to that individual for the remainder of the visit? Well, I've heard it said that it is because cats know which humans dislike them because that human avoids eye contact. Well, it is about the same, apparently, for weddings and me. It is as if there is some maleficent force in the universe which finds fodder for its sick sense of humor in throwing me into the metaphorical snake pit which is the exchanging of nuptials. Let me be quite honest: I "strongly-dislike" weddings. I generally only go to receptions for the food. The pervasiveness of high-running, blatantly expressed emotion makes me squirm like a six-year old waiting for the nurse to get back with the needle for the Hepatitis B shot. (Isn't that the one that would sting so badly? Anyway...) I'm a bit like that character in that movie with Sarah Jessica Parker, when she says, "I know I'm a girl and all, so I should be better at this emotional stuff, but......" Don't get me wrong, I love girly books like Jane Austen, the Brontes, etc. just as well as the next person. I love movies like "Casablanca" and "Roman Holiday." Seriously. But.....in real life.....? Nah, I'm okay, thanks. Personally, I've never really felt a need to 'get in touch with my inner-most feelings.' They're fine just where they are, being rudely ignored by my immediate consciousness, thank you very much.

Anyway, I believe I've veered a bit from my original intention.....which was.... let me think.....oh, yes, weddings. One reason I think I may dread them is for a reason hordes of others dread them. Someone else getting married brings into irritatingly close focus the fact that you are not. There are three questions I never fail to receive innumerable times in the course of two hours: "So, when are you getting married?" "Why aren't you married yet?" "Why aren't you married yet?" I think the first sense to deteriorate as you get older is your sense of humor. Apparently some individuals in my family think I'm joining a convent. Hmmmmm, yes, as the saying goes, "There's nothing more discouraging than unappreciated sarcasm." (Not that there's anything wrong with joining a convent, mind you.) Yet, I've not seen fit to correct this mistake. If all are satisfied, and I get some peace, the means are completely irrelevant. Alas, the arrival of warmer weather seems to be the signal for all of the underground movements of wedding planners and cake decorators to show themselves in full. I think had they been around a couple of hundred years earlier, living as university students in Paris, they would have orchestrated their own "barricade revolt."

Has anyone ever noticed how the lining up of single women to catch the bouquet occasionally appears disturbingly similar to those screaming maniacs on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange? I began wondering, how did the tossing of the bouquet originate? Personally, it makes me want to toss something, but quite emphatically not anything as sweet smelling as roses, peonies, or sweet pea. As far as the 'catching' goes, I think I'd rather catch the swine flu. So, I found it quite amusing, when looking online for the origin of 'throwing bouquet,' the suggested search topics came up.....including 'throwing knives.' The sad thing is, I could see a connection, and not just through the word 'throwing.' However, I felt much better, when scanning through the results for 'throwing the bouquet' on youtube, looking for some wild, 'no-holds-barred' bouquet catch, I came across one which gave me hope. These are my kind of people.

Maybe I will join that convent, after all.......Nah, then again, maybe not.......You can't wear red heels and a nun's habit. (As far as I know.)

I'm not sure how this post is going to proceed, but I felt an obligation to post something today. As I'm sure everyone is well aware, today is the 65th anniversary of D-Day. Discussing the veterans of World War II is something very close to my heart, something that I always tend to get a little emotional over. My grandfather was a paratrooper in the 8nd Airborne, I have made some very dear friends among the older men who come into the library who served during the War, and I have had the opportunity to converse with others who served during those brutal four years which shaped the world I came into. I make it a point never to discuss politics on my blog; to begin with, I don't follow them closely enough to assume enough knowledge to converse intelligently about politics, so I feel my best policy is to simply keep my mouth shut. Better to be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt. However, this post is not political, it is not even historical in content. (Shocking? Well, maybe I will slip up and include some history, I can't help it.) This, my friends, is purely emotional. Despite your political views on anything, I feel that respect is owed to those who were willing to set aside any dreams they harbored, their youth, their security, their lives, the hopes of their loved ones and imperil themselves for the amelioration of a world burning down because of the greed of a few. I tend to fall into a romanticized view of this time period. Young men in uniform, wonderful clothing styles, white picket fences, Bennie Goodman, Glenn Miller, etc. However, I have to catch myself and realize there was nothing romantic about it. I read a statistic the other day which was a reality check. The average age of a G.I was about 21-22. I turned 24 in April. These were children, really, who became the immolation for the preservation of humanity and what it means to be human. Whatever political reasons there were, my feelings remain that, although we were pulled into the War because of the events on December 7, 1941 (although I don't think we feasibly could have avoided involvement), the deepest reason for the need to sacrifice 'the American Dream' of an entire generation was the demand for a generation of champions of humanity. While so many were devolving into an animalistic state of hate and annihilation, there had to be those who were willing to halt the deterioration of the fabric of humanity into feral, bestial chaos. If I am dragging things a bit heavily, and seem to be a bit too serious about all of this, I am truly sorry, but, as I said, this is a discussion which lies very close to my heart. That generation and what they accomplished is one reason I gave 4 years of my life to study history. It is imperative that their accomplishments are remembered; not the accomplishments of the generals and politicians, but the accomplishments of the average father, son, brother, cousin, friend. Because I also love photography, especially black and white, and most especially black and white from the forties, I've included a few of the photographs included in the National Archives and Records Administration. I hope they aren't too much.
I'm continually astounded to see how young they really were.
A copy of a German photograph. The Warsaw Ghetto being destroyed. Stop and consider where these people were being moved.
I love this photograph. I think it's beautiful. I know that sounds crazy, but not 'beautiful' in a 'pretty' way, but it leaves an impression. The contrast of the surroundings and the circumstances is impossible not to be affected by, I think.
This is also an affecting photograph, to me. Those who were intent on preserving life in situations in which death was the goal is a very sobering thought to me.

This is actually from Korea, but I had to include it. This, I think, shows the price paid. It rips my heart out every time, but it is one of my favorites. It tramples on my heart and leaves my nerves raw and throbbing, but it is one of the most profound images I have come across.

So, I know this is a bit heavy, but there it is. It makes me think of a few lines from a letter a soldier during the Civil War who wrote home to his wife, "I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing-perfectly willing- to lay down all my joys in this life to help maintain this government and to pay that debt...." I, for one, am indescribably grateful to men like my grandfather.

I know these are just boring pictures of wheat/birch trees, but I had to post them.....mainly for the benefit of my sister, who has my undying respect, and, of the two of us, received the domestic goddess genes...... I am becoming increasingly concerned that my little paper identity bracelet fell off at the hospital, resulting in an embarrassing and unfortunate mix-up which the staff agreed to keep silent about, deciding that, at least my mother and father looked like nice people-I should have a good home, even if I wasn't necessarily their biological offspring. Her children grow healthy and robust on homemade wheat bread and other impressive feats of the culinary while my hypothetical children will be snorting powdered cheese from the Kraft box like Al Pacino in "Scarface." (Just so everyone knows-no, I have not seen that movie, but you don't necessarily have to have seen the movie to make allusions to it, right? Hopefully? Well, I do, even if it is against the movie buff rules.....) Anyway, here's the bounty of eastern N.C. The light this evening was just wonderful, you have to love that rich, full, late summer light....

I know, I know, it's washed out and has 'sun-spots,' but look for the 'effect.' Okay, okay, so maybe that is stretching it a bit, but hey, I laid down in an insect-infested wheat field to get this one.......Actually it was a bit fun, I was clomping around in knee-high wellingtons with a camera.....It felt all "National Geographic".....without the volcanoes......or the sparsely dressed natives......or, you know, the threat of foreign pestilence or anything.
The sun was setting, so the colors were becoming very nice.
Again, 'effect' not 'result'........
This is not wheat, obviously....a birch tree a bit further down. So, there's my Tuesday afternoon's adventure. I was singing "Fields of Gold" in my head the rest of the evening, but that's alright, that will always be a great song (#61 on the playlist).

So, I was really excited about going to the beach this weekend, right.....Wait, what? Hang on.....Okay, let me re-read that; yes, I did type that correctly. I just had to check. You have to understand, I am the epitome of anti-'la plage'. Not that I dislike the beach itself. Just in principle. During the summer....with the heat....and the hot sand....and no shade to speak of.....and the crush of adrenaline pumped perspiring humanity....and skinny tanned blondes in adorable bikinis....and then there's me...with Irish skin and real-life thighs. Has my point been sufficiently made? Good. Well, now that you're in my corner, let me 'splain. See, I actually was excited to go to the beach this weekend. I checked the weather.....reasonable temps. I checked the projected traffic recordings for the beach....fairly reasonable. (Okay, so I actually didn't, because there is no such thing that I know of, but it sounded impressively organized didn't it? I thought so anyway....) But the real reason I detected a slight stirring of excitement somewhere in the cobwebbed corner of my brain reserved for "summer" was this:

A remake of a 1930's-40's style suit designed by synchronized swimmer/actress Esther Williams. I was in heaven. Seriously. Even I, of all people, would don the torture device of the euphemistic appellation "swim-suit" if it looked like this. Generally speaking, the idea of folding myself into six square inches of body-hugging textile leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Makes me think less of swimming and more of drowning myself. However, I was actually, as I've said, somewhat excited.

We all met that morning, packed our vehicles and made the pilgrimage to the alter of the sun-gods. We swam, we strolled, we terrorized small children into leaving the wading pools, we ate seafood....and some of us fried like a stranded frog on asphalt. (I know, that's a disturbing/disgusting analogy, but it is the best I can come up with at 11 p.m., alright?) I applied sunscreen, I wore a beach cover-up and sun hat (all inspired by the 1940's look, naturally...) yet I still fried like Southern food. Walgreen's loves me. Aloe-vera distributors love me. Somewhere, in some tropical, third-world country, on some aloe plantation (if there is such a thing), there is some rich, fat, part-time drug trafficking, cruel, iron-fisted, plantation tyrant who loves me.....(At least I can make someone in this world happy, I suppose.) Yet, every year, I fervently pray that some miracle has occurred over the past winter months which will allow me to tan like a 6-foot, 100 lb. Brazilian model. In fact, I don't just pray to tan like one, I pray to look like one. Which is why I hate that whiny country song (sorry to the country lovers) about being thankful for 'unanswered prayers'....No, my darlings this is one prayer I want answered.

Anyway, this post was going to be me whining about my lack of melanin through a pictorial 'compare and contrast' between beautiful, exotic looking olive-skinned women and bland, pasty western Europeans......That is, until while looking for postable pictures of suitably plain Irish women, I ran across the homepage for the Miss Ireland Pageant......After the initial disappointment and irritation at the fact that it is possible to be tall and beautiful while simultaneously being pale white (curse them all, now I feel even worse....), my sarcasm appetite smelled dinner. A feast fit for kings.....Browsing through the finalists, my snarkiness rose to the occasion, replacing my downcast attitude of inferiority with one of acerbic and sarcastic triumph. I read 'biographies,' I snickered, I read more, I salved my wounded self-esteem with biting retorts...I realized I need to get a life....But hey, it was still fun.

Each 'biography' gave a name, age, 'occupation' (at least the legal one anyway), ambition, and motto. Motto?! They have their own personal mottos?! I have a motto: never have a motto. They're inconvenient, there will inevitably be an occasion in which it is useless and/or contradictory to your goals, and they smack of "all I want is world peace."

Just to defend myself against wrongful accusations of being caustic and/or intellectually supercilious in my attitude, just hear me out.

First up,

Miss Cavan

Name: Denise Matthews.

Age: 22.

Occupation: Beauty Therapist.

Ambition: To win Miss Ireland and represent my country in the Miss World competition. I would also love to be a make-up artist for the stars.

Motto: Live and let live.

I'm sorry, 'beauty therapist'?! What, looking at pictures of beautiful superficiality is going to cure the effects of a traumatic childhood now? Freud would have a field day with this one. As for 'live and let live,' I have a feeling she'd be the first one 'voted off' so to speak. Natural selection has its positive side.

Next up,

Miss Carlow

Name: Aoife Judge.

Age: 22.Occupation: Administrator/Part-time Student.

Ambition: I would like a career in the media, as a television presenter or news anchor.

Motto: You must be the change you wish to see in the world.

The only thing I have to say is this: Heaven preserve us, beauty pageant contestants are now quoting Ghandi. I comfort myself with the thought that she probably read it on a gum wrapper....which, then again, she probably doesn't chew gum; has too many calories and might ruin her perfect "Tour-guide Barbie" smile.......

Miss Kerry

Name: Helena Hanbidge

Age: 21.

Occupation: Student Nurse/Part-time Model.

Ambition: To be healthy, happy and successful in everything I do.

Motto: The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.

My question for this contestant would have to be: "So, Miss Kerry, does the future only belong to those with attractive dreams? What if some kid wants to grow up and be a garbage man? Or a plumber?" I mean, somebody's gotta be the one to hold the 'stop/slow' sign on road construction, right?

Miss Laois

Name: Sara Stokes

Age: 19.

Occupation: Student.

Ambition: To be involved in music/music management. To do charity work in Africa and follow the footsteps of Bono and Ali Hewson with their clothing label ‘Edun’.

Motto: Live life to the full and always be yourself.

I'd like to see 'Mis Laois' in some remote African village with no running water, no electricity for the flat-iron, the constant threat of malaria, cholera, malnutrition, jaundice, and typhoid.

Miss Wexford

Name: Danielle Masterson

Age: 20.

Occupation: Student – Theatre and Performing Arts.

Ambition: To be successful as an actress and do what I love. I would also like to set up a stage school.

Motto: The stars are not my limit because there are no footprints on the moon.

I won't even address this motto; it would be tantamount to singling out the weakest for the slaughter.....

So, what began as an exercise in self-pity actually ended in a rather entertaining sarcasm exercise. And hey, sarcasm acts like a tonic for some of us......