Cómo Pasé mis Vacaciones de Verano.*

*How I Spent my Summer Vacation (Part Uno)

It wasn’t that long ago we sprang out of bed at 4am, excited not for the hour or the sunrise or the lack of sleep, but thrilled to be off to the airport for our vacation to Mexico. Friends of mine were getting married in the tiny fishing village of Puerto Morelos, and had enlisted me as their photographer. I had managed to take this opportunity and stretch it out to six nights on the Mayan Riviera, with my other half, one of my BFFs, and her significant other. On airbnb we rented a two bedroom, two bath condo on the ocean (with a pool, for good measure), with a lovely balcony overlooking the Caribbean, and a beach bar steps away, with swings to sit on and sip cold cervezas.

The rest of my friends were staying at a resort at the southern tip of the town. The resort was beautiful, and I did look at staying there, but we went the airbnb route for multiple reasons. One, the value couldn’t be beat. Sure, we weren’t going to get giant buffets, but we were going to get a local taste in exchange. I feel like if you stay in a resort, you may as well stay at a hotel in your own city. The resort experience only varies in which body of water you happen to be looking at. There was no way we were each going to eat $150 of food every day, and if I wanted to sit in a pool with 400 drunk white frat boys I could just go to Las Vegas for a hell of a lot less. When visiting somewhere I want to see what makes it tick, what makes it special, who the people are, I want to eat like a local, I want to be on my own schedule. I don’t want to be on a tour bus full of fellow vacationers who are all anxious until they’re safely behind the walls and barbed wire surrounding their compound-like resort. There’s something special about staying in a home, in a new town, and making your way around.

Landing in Cancun is bizarre – it’s an airstrip in the middle of a jungle. You fly in, and you see massive compounds and tiny farms dotting the landscape of flat green jungle in every direction. The control tower at the airport has a giant Corona bottle painted on it. The airport controls the taxis – it is illegal for a cabbie to pick you up at the airport, you must use special shuttles either from your hotel/resort, or you can rent a car at an inflated price, or you have to rely on their own (overpriced) shuttle service. Walking through the airport is like running a gauntlet – you are being yelled at from every direction, people offering rides, tours, snorkeling, you name it. We ignored it all and went to a counter to purchase our grossly inflated ride into the town 20 minutes away. We were further yelled at as people started asking how we would get BACK to the airport, that we should book our ride then and there. We ignored them, and got in our van for Puerto Morelos, lighter by about $80 USD for the four of us. For the record, a cab from Puerto Morelos back to the airport a week later, for the four of us, was a mere 350 pesos, or $27 in USD.

We rented a car in Puerto Morelos on a Monday afternoon, and returned it Thursday afternoon. The extra insurance is worthwhile, but no insurance they offer covers tires or windows – so do beware where you leave your car. That being said, Puerto Morelos was an indescribably beautiful, quiet, small town. Within a day or two of our arrival people were recognizing us and learning our names. It had its share of people selling snorkeling tours or offering to take you out on a boat, or trying to sell you a shirt, but every person we dealt with was polite and friendly and helpful and we never felt uneasy.

Our first night in town we drank beers at the beach bar, until we were chased back to our condo by the mosquitoes. We sprayed ourselves with lethal doses of deet and walked down the little street into the town. We ate at one of the first places we came to, El Pirata. The man in the corner with his keyboard and guitar was covering hits (heavily accented), including a strangely charming mariachi sort of cover of The KKK Took my Baby Away. (Oh, how I wish I’d gotten video!) We sat on a table on the sidewalk, in the incredible heat and humidity. Stray dogs wandered by for pets, a small black kitten also came by and befriended me. I have terrible food allergies, peppers and avocados are big no-nos as is anything from the ocean. But I ate chips, drank cold Sol beer, and toasted to vacation with my friends. The chef and owner even photobombed our group photo (he, the waiter, and our musician were all tipped well). The plates of guacamole had to have weighed several pounds each, and I safely munched on cheese tostadas quite happily. All caution was thrown to the wind that night – we all broke the rules and ate local fruits, veggies, and other things that hadn’t been “cooked” or “fried.” And on Sunday we woke up, like nothing had happened.

We strolled on the beach, we played in the pool. We shopped in the town. We arranged to pick up our rental car on Monday (substantially cheaper than at the airport). I splurged on a beautiful pair of Mexican silver earrings, a whopping $30USD, at one of the shops in town. It was as lazy a vacation day as you could imagine. We drank cold beers and snacked at a local bar, La Sirena, where the staff hung out and chatted us up, we had some of the best macaroni and cheese in the northern hemisphere (seriously, and strangely true), and then we walked to the pier a block away. The famous tilted, broken lighthouse of the town leaned towards the ocean, the water was impossibly electric green and blue and clear to the bottom. We saw tropical fish swimming around the pilings, and even a giant manta ray fluttering around the bottom. Late that night we saw the town come to life as children and dogs filled the town square to play soccer and adults sat around chatting, a food cart set up with hot nuts and churros.

A day of lounging, mentally prepping for the wedding on Monday, relaxing, shopping, and eating made it feel well and truly like a wonderful vacation. We didn’t have to be anywhere, or do anything, at any certain time. Another benefit of staying on our own schedule – we quite simply didn’t even have a schedule. We filled our fridge with dozens and dozens of Sols, and some oddball canned liquors, and relaxed in the A/C. Actual monkeys lobbed immature mangoes from overhead onto the pathway of our condo, and stray cats found us again for attention and food.

Monday morning rolled around and found us again in the ocean, before getting cleaned up for lunch. We went to a local hole in the wall. At the other end of town, in a three sided building with a tin roof and a comical handwritten sign, “NO SOMOS MCDONALDS,” we sat in plastic chairs in the oppressive heat and ordered cold refrescos. One wall was lined with poster boards, with handwritten menu items. When the restaurant ran out of sodas, they sent a kiddo down the street with a pocket full of change to buy us more. The owners’ cat lounged on the tile floor, ignoring everyone, and hoping for the heat of the day to go away. The four of us ate like kings – several tostadas, empanadas, and panuchos cochinitas each, plus various salsas and guac, and with our cold sodas and mountains of food it came to $17. Total. Not each, $17USD total. It would become our favorite spot in Puerto Morelos!

My other half and I picked up the rental car, freshened up in the A/C, and made our way through the town to the resort where my friends were getting married that evening. The resort was surrounded by mangroves and swamp, complete with signs warning of crocodiles (which were actually spotted by several guests), and of course the requisite high walls and barbed wire. He went one way with the groom and his groomsmen, and I went with the bride and her girls to photograph the craziness.

I’ve known the bride’s sister in law since we were in 7th grade, and over the years have gotten to know the bride and her other bridesmaid from hanging out in San Diego with them annually. It was fun to be with people I knew, in a beautiful place, and I was excited to meet my girlfriend’s 8 month old baby for the first time, too. The wedding was wonderful, casual, funny, intimate – all the things you want from a wedding, really. We laughed, we cried, we drank, we ran on the beach, we danced, the bride drank tequila from the bottle at the reception.

As I’ve grown older, as I’ve attended hundreds of weddings, I’ve learned a lot about these events. Mostly I recognize stability and love and trust when I see it. Not perfection, not fairytale, but true relationships – I can see them. I think we all can, really. And when a couple works, it’s incredibly fulfilling to spend their wedding day with them. I get choked up remembering it, actually. Partly because I’m a sap, partly because my photos of their day will be passed down through their families, partly because being around that much love and trust and respect feels good. It’s amazing to celebrate the happiness and love in the world. It makes me fall in love with love all over again, every time it happens. These aren’t people who have had a wedding because they wanted a kick ass party – these are people who fell in love, grew a wonderful relationship from nothing, married each other, and their party kicked ass because they included everyone who had helped them get to this point in their lives. Their wedding was amazing because of them – and it would have been amazing even if the Caribbean hadn’t been crashing on the white beach outside. (But damn if it didn’t help…)

But the fun was just starting – my friends who got married are awesome. They’re the sort of people who on a whim bought, and learned to ride, motorcycles – and now take drives along the west coast. They are the sort to go swimming with whale sharks. They met during a real honest to god dance off – they’re incredibly fun, bubbly, hilarious, outgoing, friendly people, and we knew the wedding was going to be a mad blur. We knew that it was going to be hard to corral family and friends for photos and get the party started. We knew we needed time to take portraits. We got in plenty the night of the wedding, when her hair was beautiful, her eyes stunning with eyeliner and mascara, the jewelry, the everything. But we saved the best for early Tuesday morning, after the wedding. We picked up the bride and groom, drove them to our condo. I put her back in her dress, and off we went. To the pool, to the beach. We visited the lighthouse, and to finish the adventure, they jumped into the ocean off the pier, then swam into shore. These are the people photographers fall over to photograph – beautiful, fun, adventurous, easygoing, and madly in love.

But our day didn’t stop with a sopping wet bride in a wedding dress in our backseat, no. When we dropped the bride and groom off at the resort, we swapped them for a backseat full of our other friends and their baby. Four adults and a baby, FYI, cause some serious bottoming out in the Mexican rental version of the Aveo. While I was at their wedding last year, the four of us hadn’t all been together since my trip to San Diego with my “new boyfriend” shortly after we started dating. We spent the next couple of hours playing in the ocean with the baby, relaxing in the A/C, and then we all went back to the little restaurant for another sweltering yet fantastic meal. I have known this woman since the early 90s, and playing with her baby is surreal. We are now the age her mom was when we met – I look at her and I see her mom, I look at her and see our 20+ years of friendship, I have so many memories and connections with her – I was with her on her wedding day, and now I was holding her little boy on my lap. She made a tiny human. Even better, the man she is sharing this adventure with is fantastic – I cannot imagine her with anyone else.

I don’t know if over one of our hundreds of sleepovers in the last two decades we could have ever predicted the random places our lives would lead us, or that we’d see each other more often in the last few years on the left coast (and now Mexico!) than we did the previous ten while in New England. I don’t know that we could have imagined the men we’d fall in love with, the new friends we’d surround ourselves with while still keeping each other around, but I am incredibly lucky to have had some time on the beach with her, her fantastic husband, and their perfect baby, with my other half snorkeling around and entertaining the baby with things he found in the ocean (like a live conch). My life is incredibly wonderful, thanks to my friends and loved ones.

But that’s just a taste of my “summer vacation” in Mexico – I still have to tell you about my 35th birthday at a Mayan temple, the best incident of monkey poop in history, swimming in a cave full of bats, and sitting on the beach eating dinner while a warm rain fell. More in my next post about Mexico.

How My Photo Became an Internet Meme

Let me start by saying: I am a published, full time, professional photographer, complete with amazing prizes to name.

My work can be found on my website(s), can be purchased through Getty Images, has been in various magazines, on newspaper front pages, and is hanging in the homes of countless strangers. It's all part of the job. You take a photo, someone connects to it, and they want a version for their own enjoyment.

Just recently one of my favorite images, and one with some personal meaning (might I add) has become an internet meme.

My pug, Wallace, has been a challenge since day one. He is the only dog I've ever met who would actually crap in his own crate - crate training? HA! He screams like a monkey being boiled in hot oil if you touch his feet or his face. He has been known to forcefully and spitefully evacuate his bowels if you try clipping his toenails.

He's also had five-figures worth of surgeries in the last two years.

It all started with a regular winter morning, taking my dogs out to go to the bathroom - only Wallace wasn't peeing. He was trying, but nothing was coming out. This is a bad sign. So, I took the bugger to my vet (who is also one of my BFFs). A quick x-ray revealed he had a bladder full of bladder stones - more specifically, the crystalline type that aren't dietary related, but genetic. After further testing, it was revealed that he no longer had use of his penis - a crystal had caused a permanent stricture.

So, surgery. He had his bladder taken out, cleaned out, flushed, and replaced. And they tried and tried to clear the blockage in his urethra. No go. He wound up having a "mangina" installed (it's also known as the man-hole for more sensitive ears/mixed company) - essentially they cut a hole through his lower groin, and cut another hole in his urethra, and then stitched it all open so it would heal into a new and improved pee-hole. In his groin. My dog urinates through a hole in his groin now.

This mean weeks of him with a catheter, which meant wrapping the end of the catheter in a maxi pad, and then wrapping it all up with vet tape, then securing it all with a doggie diaper - all of which had to be changed multiple times a day (and night - just like a baby) because the catheter leaks urine NON-STOP.

A year later we were back to the vet to have his first dental - at the age of five. And hey, eye surgery too - because he was going blind. His lower eyelids were curling in and rubbing on his inner eye, causing a keratin layer to build up. It's a thick, brownish/purple layer on his eyes. So, while he was unconscious, he had his little eye surgery, and a whopping SIX extractions.

Wallace was SO naughty trying to get the stitches out of his eyes that he had to come home in a Cone of Shame- and pugs being dramatic little creatures this drove him further into his neuroses.

I spent the next few nights with a pug on pain meds who refused to sleep, wouldn't lay down, couldn't be trusted without his cone of shame, and had to be carried around like a baby or he'd scream and cry and fuss.

Over the next two weeks I tended the expensive little bastard, and spent a LOT of time soothing his whining ways. It was during this period I found a lump on his side.

When Wallace went to have his stitches removed 14 days post-op, I had my vet check the lump. By then he had two. They were mast-cell tumors, a type of cancer. He needed another surgery, that week, to remove them.

Wallace went in for surgery a few days later and wound up having a piece of skin and tissue removed that was a little over an inch wide and about six inches long - it started at his groin (right above the manhole!) and ended near his back - like he'd been cut in half by a shitty magician. He had a third spot removed from his chest, that wasn't as invasive. The amount of tissue removed was so massive that he required a drain to remove the fluid from his abdomen during healing. Which meant, you guessed it, more maxi pads and more diapers and more vet tapes and more sleepless nights with a very sick dog.

I am not wealthy. I live a good life, but I am sure I make it by on a lot less than you might think. I just make the best of what I have and live in an affordable city - and I don't dwell on how broke I am between paychecks.

I did not have the money for these surgeries lying around - I had to put them on credit cards and have a bit of a heart attack every time I whipped out a MasterCard. Friends chipped in the first surgery, raised about $1500 for me. But that was only a percentage of the bills.

So, why did I keep him alive, through these expensive surgeries I couldn't afford? Well. There are myriad reasons. One, he's MY dog. I took him home, raised him, trained him, have loved him since he was a week old and I first met him. It's no one's responsibility by my own to take care of him, whatever that means. Two, he's the baby in the house - my other dog would be devastated if I didn't bring the "baby" home. Three, I could have surrendered him to a breed-specific rescue, let them take on the vet bills, but I couldn't imagine handing over MY dog and wondering for the rest of my life if he were happy in his new home and as loved as he is in mine. Four, every problem that has come up has had a finite solution - problem X requires solution Y, and bingo, no more problem. It's not like he's on crazy medications daily. Five, I got my dogs after my husband died and I have a real attachment to them, they've gotten me through a lot. Lastly, the little bugger would save ME if he were given the chance. (And maybe it's just because I feed him...)

Regardless of the "whys" - he's my dog and I fixed him even though I couldn't really afford to. I started threatening him that his next surgery would be taxidermy. That I'd turn him into a whimsical beer coozy or something. And shortly after having his drain removed from his cancer surgery, I took him to the Wooden Shoe Tulip Festival in Woodburn, Oregon, for a good romp in the flowers. I took a photo of Wallace that day, running free and happy and smiling, leg still shaved from his surgery...and that's where it all started.

Followers of my blog know that the image won the Grand Prize in the Travel & Leisure magazine 2012 photo contest - I went with my fiance South Korea for a week on vacation, courtesy of T&L and their sponsors. But imagine my surprise when I started getting emails...and facebook messages...that my photo, titled, "Wallace Refused to Tiptoe" had been turned into an internet meme and shared tens of thousands of times.

There are more. He's been pinned. Repinned. He's been shared. Posted. Emailed. My expensive little pug is EVERYWHERE.

Meanwhile, this image is for sale through Getty Images (yes, I licensed it) and not once has it sold. Not once. This image is for sale through my etsy store - cheaper than I usually sell things for - and not a bite.

But he keeps cropping up - all over the world. The short end of the stick is that yes, I won a major award thanks to this image. But it doesn't pay his medical bills. This photo was a celebration of our trials together, and now it's some trivial, faux-inspirational meme for the world. *Sigh*

But that's the way the internet works and there's nothing I can do about it - unless I find it for sale somewhere, then I have my lawyer fiance get to business. But the internet is so weird - that my happy little man can be everywhere, while he's laying on my pillow farting, and not making me a dime...amazing.

So, do me a favor. You come across this meme, send them this way. Let them know who took the photo. Please?

Meet Miss Maisey!

So...

I swore, as long as we were in our little apartment, NO. NEW. KITTIES. And, just like Bush lied about no new taxes, so I lied about the cats.

I don't know what got in to me, but I stumbled across this cat on craigslist, at a rescue in Hood River. I sort of fell in love with her, but dismissed it. Two nights later, she was still listed. I showed my other half her photo. I emailed the rescue about her. They emailed me right back, and attached a video of her. I was SMITTEN. I applied. I was approved. The landlord said ok. So...

I happened to be going to Hood River for a getaway, and there she was...and she charmed me immediately and came home.

This cat is a CHAMPION FLOPPER! She's a sturdy tank of a cat - over 12 pounds - with stubby little legs, giant bulls-eye swirls on her side, half a tail, and only 19 toes (she lost one along the way, but who's counting?). She's the perfect short hair cat - mostly tabby, with tortie and calico leanings (I love tricolor kitties!). And oh, the smile and the pink nose!!!

She lived under an RV near a state park for about 8 weeks before a cat rescue caught her, and spent another two months in foster care. In a nod to our life with Dolly, she's blind in one eye. In a nod to all animals broken and in need, the poor thing had chewed off all her whiskers from anxiety.

Despite her rough start, she's just a little love-bug! She is as fluffy and soft as a bunny and doesn't really shed. She plays beautifully, with no claws, even when she's doing a bunny kick. You say her name and she throws herself to the floor for belly rubs! She is already in love with her cardboard scratching box and catnip, she is using the litter box without issue (it's a top-loader as she is awfully aggressive with her burying habits; she is quite brilliant and I am going to attempt full on toilet training with her), and she sleeps on the bed next to me when she isn't tearing around the house at 40mph, crashing through the blinds, and knocking over laundry baskets. It's like having a goofy, 12 pound, graceless, kitten! She is a great hunter, too, and is sure to attack anything you're trying to put on, like socks or pants, and is quite skilled at attacking your feet under blankets!

She'd been ok with dogs while living in the state park, and so far she's been great with our dogs. They take turns chasing each other down the hallway, and sometimes we catch them rubbing affectionately on each other, though, admittedly, the dogs still aren't 100% sure what she is or why she's in the house.

She's only been home with us since the end of February, but has already developed such a wonderful personality and confidence. According to the foster mom, she didn't meow - but now she's a chatty-cathy who mews, yips, chatters, and demands attention and play time. I'm totally in love with her - it's wonderful having a young, happy, playful, healthy, sweet kitty in the house! It's been a very long time.

Now, to toilet train her, and to take some real portraits of her so you all can see her gorgeous markings and silly little tail!

Champion Flopper video here!

Pugalicious!

It's already been fairly well established how much I love smooshy-faced dogs, so it should be no surprise that I have here another round of pug photos. How I met this little guy is sort of a funny story, though. I am a user and fan of the website flickr, which just about everyone knows. And on that site I'm a member of a few Pug groups (and several other breeds) and sometimes when I'm down or bored I'll browse through these groups and enjoy some cuteness. About four or five years ago now I found a very, very handsome little black pug with a most unusual favorite toy - a stuffed octopus. One of my dogs has a similar obsession with a stuffed armadillo, so I instantly had a soft spot for the little man named Otto. Otto's toy was named, appropriately, the Ottopus. I left some comments on the Otto photos, and eventually his owner and I became contacts on flickr.

I was living in NH at the time, and she was living in Portland, OR but was a transplant from Portland, ME. Turns out she had even vacationed in the small town on the lake where I lived in NH as a child. Because really, it's a very, very small world.

Fast forward another year, and I am now in the process of selling all my belongings and driving 3,000 miles to move to Portland myself. Flickr being the social site it is meant she knew I was coming with my pugs. I was here for about a month before we all went and met at a dog park - with our three snorty faced guys in tow. Pugs are very much people dogs, so they sort of sniffed and said hello to each other, then went back to focusing all their attention on us. It wasn't a great doggie play date, but Otto's mom and I totally hit it off.

We try to meet up for dinner and drinks, but not often enough. But when we do, I always make sure to go in the house and say hello to little Otto, who just like my own dogs, grabs a toy and spins and spins in place with excitement that he has a visitor. Of course, more fun than this is that pugs are super reactive when you talk to them - somehow they managed to breed into all pugs the habit of the "head tilt" which is amusing and endearing and gives you a real sense when you talk to your dog (don't we all?) that he's really, really listening intently. You say something, and the head tilts one way. Continue, the head tilts the other. Now...if only they hadn't bred the extreme hatred of nail-trimming...

I digress. Otto came to see me recently in the studio, and we bribed him with several of his favorite words, including "carrot" and "party." Who doesn't love a dog who loves a good party?!

Saying Goodbye

About a decade ago I found myself in a no-kill animal shelter. I had no plans of bringing home another kitty - we had one who had been feral and she was NOT friendly towards other animals. I just liked to go and visit the doggies and kitties and play with them a bit.

But this one particular trip I found a cat who I couldn't ignore. They had named her Nina (which I always thought was a poor cat name) and she was in a ball in the back of her cage on the bottom row in a corner. She was FAT. And when she finally looked at me, I gasped. Her jaw was crooked, her tongue partially sticking out, her lower lip mangled. Her leg was all bent and weird. One eye was totally gone - in its place a milky-blue cataract - the other eye had a geometric, crooked pupil that didn't change size and was beginning to turn white as well. And instead of meowing, she sort of croaked in a raspy cat voice. Her cage was marked with warnings that she was a nasty old cat and hated people, she had "cattitude" and had attacked several people through the bars. She had been run over by a car and had her life spared, but she had been in the shelter four or five months at that point and was not likely to be going home with anyone. Based on her overall health, teeth, fur, and saggy kitty belly that nearly dragged on the floor, they estimated she was 13 or older, and not long for this world.

I decided I couldn't possibly let her die in a cage and that I'd take her home to pass away quietly under my bed. I adopted her and being a theater nerd I renamed her Dolly.

Another lifetime later, 3,000 miles from where I got her, she has outlived my husband, several close friends, and all catly expectations. A few years ago she developed a hyperactive thyroid - she'd stand in the hallway at odd hours (usually when I was deep asleep) and HOWL. The cat who couldn't meow when I got her had found a rather large, alarming voice that would terrify a banshee. Turns out the midnight yowling sessions were related to senility and her thyroid. Thyroid medication doesn't cost much, so I attempted to dose her. She had a very bad reaction to the medication and I had to stop giving it to her after two weeks. Based on her age, with the help of my vet we decided to leave her alone, let her continue to do her thing (which was playing with foil balls, sleeping 22 hours a day, yowling at odd hours, and cuddling before bedtime). I decided I'd know when she was ready - and the last few days it's become clear to me that it's time. She has stopped using the litter box, she has stopped jumping on the bed for attention at night, she has stopped following me into the bathroom in the morning to hang out when I get ready, and she hasn't played with anything in days. She is so frighteningly skinny I'm almost afraid to touch her - and she's been losing hair. I picked her up last night and she felt cold, and she purred for me, and snuggled on the bed, but this morning she was back in her hiding spot half under the bed, and didn't come to the bathroom or say hi to me like she normally would.

I made the call.

Today at 4:30 I will go see my friend and veterinarian to say goodbye to my silly old cat. I've had a love/hate relationship with her since she came home, I won't lie about that - she could switch between sweet and vicious in an instant! But she has shared a great deal with me and it has seemed like she'd just always be a part of my life. I won't miss the 2 am yowling sessions, I won't miss her hairballs. I will miss the silly old kitty though who was there for me for several major life changes. The last pet I owned with my husband. The cat who gave me all sorts of kitty kisses despite her fowl breath and occasional fowl temper. The cat who slept next to me and was so under my feet I nearly broke my neck hundreds of times trying to avoid crushing her. I secretly loved her more than I let on, she was just easy to make fun of.

I will miss Dolly, Miss Muffin, Fluffyuppagus, I will miss her seal imitations, her purring, and her love of all things shiny and crinkly. Goodbye, silly old cat.