Just drivin' along part 1 (leaving the house)

Welcome to your tour of Noël's morning drive to work. I wish you could all accompany me in person (no, really!) but try to imagine yourself here.
I have several reasons for writing this post:
1. I hear several empathetic condolences from friends and family about my 1 hour drive to work. Trust me, when you're done reading you will wish you could drive my commute just for fun (and people do!).
2. Because there are days when I just can't stand it! I think it's a waste of time, torturous, and so incredibly boring (I need to remind myself that it's the moments and the little things).
3. To remember
4. I'm obsessive about writing; I love the task, challenge, and assignment of making an hour in the car entertaining, enjoyable, and vivid to the senses as you read.

"8:30am," I groan. Not again! There is never enough time. I steal a glance at a grimy skillet with baked on egg. The warm pilot flames on my ancient stove send bountiful wafts of charred egg and gooey, overcooked spray pam to hover over the stove. Patrick's soggy, crusted bowl of morning oatmeal now 3 hours cold is still on the table with a runaway clump and it's skid mark down the side of the bowl and splooched onto my table. I make a face. Ick!
A glance over my shoulder into the bathroom confirms that the curling iron is still too hot to put into the cabinet, shaving cream globs have evaporated teal scum onto the side of the sink, and dirty underwear are piled in the corner on top of my sweatshirt, sweatpants, and a wet molding towel. I roll my eyes and step over two pairs of yesterday's shoes, my bookbag, and our makeshift brown grocery bag trash can that I just noticed sprung a leak from hot, fresh coffee grounds. Great! "I gotta go." Shaking my head and calling myself every word for failure I flick the light off, grab my pink coffee cup, computer bag, coat, keys, and scarf balancing these as I head for the door now 5 minutes late. Huff. And the stubborn 1920's door won't lock. I jiggle, jab, twist, pull, lift, and shimmy the key in the lock. 5 minutes later it works. 10 minutes too late I've left my front steps.
I like walking to my car because I always feel professional. My heels click twice with each pace, muffled by a hazey, white morning dew that clings to everything. My computer bag zippers clink merrily, the only sound besides my steady clip-clipping, and if I chance to see one of my many neighbors I greet this equally professional individual with a happy smile, and an occasional goodmorning, but that is on the very rare occasion that we (two Californians) chance to look at each other, and if, we dare to maintain eye contact for longer than a millisecond, which invites an exchange of words. We think we do a pretty good job in Long Beach of being neighborly, so I greet them verbally about once a month.
After I cordially acknowledge the neighbors it's time to juggle the contents wrapped around me, strapped around me, held in my hand, and sliding from beneath my arm while not spilling, dropping, spewing, or dampening a thing. Oh, and hope that you parked on Belmont rather than 2nd st. or you will be doing all of this with a 2 second time limit before the next car zips past you, and your open door, and your circus act of professional items with a jeering honk. Yes, hope that you're parked on Belmont st. The car door finally opened (always a miracle or magic act) you can place nicely, or throw things onto the passenger seat depending on the time frame (if you left late or you have less than a second before a car is due in the space where you are standing). In some instances you will even toss yourself in and slam the door just barely in time, then take a moment to compose yourself and remove the bottom flaps of your trench coat from underneath you so that you can move again. Don't try to straighten and drive. You will swerve into too many lanes and still have found that your arms are bound to some ranges of motion. A sleeve is tucked somewhere and your skirt is mysteriously in your wasteband.
Straightened.
Now, should I reverse of move forward? Can I make it if I just go for it? Are there any cars coming? The rear view mirror shows a car parallel parked on my bumper, but the side mirror makes it look like I've got a few feet. When I turn around it confounds me even more because all I can see is a windshield. Who knows how far away it is from the front of their car for goodness sake?! I'm brave. I go forward, the slightest little inch. A car is coming 20 ft. back. I wait. I don't want to hit a car that's going 25 and wouldn't be able to see me in time to slow down. Another car, on the other side of the road. But, what if I pull out and can't swing my wheel back sharp enough. I could collide head on. Better wait. Finally (now 8:45) it's clear. I can't see a single car either in front of or behind me. This is my break. I go. A few inches at fist, a foot, oh! 2 ft. and I'm out, cruising 25 mph past Belmont Heights mansions, California classics. Palm trees rise from manicured grass every 5 feet creating a frame, and they complement the 1920's architecture, 30 year old Camillea bushes, and wild green Parakeets that squack and chitter over a fine breakfast of palm seeds and beads of morning dew. I've gone 10 feet, and it's been 30 seconds.
Do you think you can stick with me for an hour?

I know I posted this picture already...is that against blogging rules? But I thought it was appropriate. It isn't me driving, but funny if it had been. This is looking out of my front window onto Belmont (the good street). The bird can be seen between the palm trees. And the sky is brown because it was the first day the fires were really bad.

I’ll have to post this later tonight, but I’m enjoying a moderate workload today. Only 4 students have come in so far, and I’ve had time to create at least 3 new pages in my book.
The students are working on an essay prompt for the book Julius Cesar about vices and virtues. I realize how ethical English classes can be, and I love discussing the implication of poor ethics with teenagers.
I’m shocked how few of them consider vices and virtues to be applicable, modern terms. They think that humans do not have implicitly negative or positive intentions, but that it comes down to each isolated choice whether or not we will make an ethically correct decision…and there are many, many acceptable justifications for poor ethical choices.
It seems that in modern times the “right” and “wrong” list was as long as Santa’s naughty and nice list. However, I’m observing that it is taboo in our postmodern 2000’s to label something right or wrong. There is always a qualification, an exception, and each assertion demands a clear explanation.
Perhaps we as a society have over-corrected our prejudice and discrimination so that it is now judgmental, intolerant, and discriminatory to label something as “wrong” that might possibly interfere with a person’s right to think or choose for themselves.
As a Christian it is so important to seek God’s truth and declare it in opposition to society’s tolerance, because I know that our God is loving, but he is intolerant of sin. In a way, the trend of tolerance is going to make him seem like the enemy because he established the ethical guidelines that require Christians to be discriminatory.
I will admit that I am having to fight not to fall into this social pressure. On my ballot when I had to vote FOR proposition 22 I had to pause, read, and re-read, then pray because the socially sensitive part of me didn’t want to hurt the individuals that this law would pain or break apart. I wanted to believe in their good intentions and provide them with acceptance and a way to be happy. I was even wondering what Jesus would do…I mean, he hung out with the prostitutes and tax collectors, but he never condoned their actions, and I think that he challenged them to turn from their sin. In the specific instance of gay/lesbian individuals however, I have met some of the kindest, most encouraging individuals and I want to justify their lifestyle with the idea that all men sin, this just happens to be their area, their vice. And sometimes I don’t want to think that they have to change their preference of homosexual attraction because they’re perfectly happy and usually it is a result of a very painful, confusing childhood, and I’m happy that they’re so happy now (even though it seems extremely different, and confused to me). This is an area of submission to the truth. I stand against gay/lesbian orientation simply because “the bible tells me so.” God has set a definitive ruling against this, and so I resist the postmodern justification, questioning, and reasoning, and just believe that truth comes from God and from the bible, and this is true.
It may be easy once reading my example of homosexuality, which is not the focus of this post, to miss what I’m really thinking…that now, more than ever is a time for Christians to know the truth of God and hold it close to our hearts because God doesn’t appear to like compromising his goodness and holiness. But I struggle in a postmodern world not to see God’s laws as contradictory to his love.
What truth do you need to submit to or stand for? Do you agree that God calls us to discriminate? Is it not ironic that God’s truth seems (in the world’s eyes) to oppose love and acceptance in some cases?

Mmmmm. I'm sipping a cappuccino and I've discovered that I love/hate that bitter richness in the back of your throat after you've taken a sip of espresso.
Good morning, it's Monday.
On Mondays I try to organize everything for the week. I clean my house top to bottom so that it is spotless and fresh, I try to plan meals for the week and make a grocery list, I do laundry, bake bread (haha), and spend a lot of time reprimanding myself (for not writing my book). The last point is the one that perplexes me as I'm sitting here with my coffee, at 8:19am. The day is so new, and I know that my potential for progress on my book is almost 100% greater than my actual progress will be and that stirs so much anxiety in my that I feel frozen.
Allow me to explain.
I grew up wanting to be a writer, I believe from the time I was old enough to say "I want to be ____ when I grow up." Of course I tried to write my life story, a fictional account of best friends, the tragedy of a girl who moved from place to place...all before I was 9. And shortly after my 11th birthday gave up this dream, scoffing at my inability to realize that hardly anyone is a published writer.
In high school I regained my enthusiasm for writing as a coping mechanism that came out in the form of letters to God, commentary on the social pressures that young women face, and I would go only so far as to say, "someone SHOULD write a book about these things," but at 14 I had acquired too much insecurity to think I could or would ever be that someone. I continued to look for books at the Christian bookstore to help me through difficult times, confusing circumstances, and provide pure romantic ideals. However, I always left the teen section with a sigh and meandered over to theology where I would pick up a new Tozer devotional, or the accounts of a martyred missionary, the love lorn sacrifices of Elizabeth Elliot, and others. These became my Christian mentors, and let me tell you they did nothing but point to God and consequently I spent evenings after work, before my 4 hours worth of AP homework, reading about the faith of such strong men and women, then journaling letters and prayers to God that were relevant to me and my life as a teenager. In those moments I did not realize that I was collecting notes and commentary for a calling that was stirred 3 years later.
At 19 I was nearly finished with college, home for the summer, and a part of the junior high school youth group at my parent's church. Let's settle one thing (and I will explain my strong conviction)...I HATE youth groups! I found youth groups to be the most effective breeding ground for closed-minded, routine, exclusive, and spiritually dead teens. God is a correct answer to a study question, he's something that we sing about in dimly lit, emotional worship times, he's the reason that we close out the people who raise questions against him, and he is the reason that we completely tackle those who do not believe with a message of salvation and hope. I was asked to resign from the leadership team in high school because I asked if we could discontinue all of the hype and spend time focusing on God, his power, majesty, might, and our submission to Him. They said I was disrupting the unity of the vision for our group. So...at 19 I went along with what they wanted. I followed the questions outlined for our group study times, I ignored the girls lolluping about on the floor, I ignored them doodling hearts and initials in the margins, and I ignored their sighs and whines and whispers about completely unrelated topics. I ignored it until my spirit rebelled and that evening I turned the lights off and told the girls to listen. I told them that during the week they would need to focus on God being there with them, inside of them, loving them, encouraging them, empowering them, asking things of them, and the next week...
I cannot believe how alive these girls were, spilling with stories of a personal, powerful, relevant, holy, God. I think I knew then that I needed to write.
I saw that I would create a young woman whose life would progress ordinarily, and that she would be a model of a young woman, who is attentive to God, who struggles and backslides, and surrenders, and lives whole heartedly to honor God. She would be the girls who read about her, she would be their best friend, she would be their spiritual mentor and the girl that they want to reach out to. I named her Savannah. She's 14 years old, petite, with thick hair the color of pale sunshine, light blue eyes, a sprinkle of freckles, and excessive amounts of joy and introspection that create a most unique dry humor that sends the people around her into bouts of laughter or she perplexes them to fascination. Her father's business and both parent's international background have made her a muli-lingual, international boarding school girl who begins the book as the new kid in Newport Mesa California. It's her first experience with public school, youth group, and...sumer camp. With an accent that turns heads, a sweetness that earns best friends, a sarcasm that keeps the boys guessing, and a mind and heart that seek God fervently, she's one of the most special people you could ever hope to meet. The problem is...I'm currently the only one who knows her, and Patrick, and my mom. I've kept them on the edge of their seats, but as for the rest of the girls out there...she's unknown.
NOW, why does this bother me? Because I KNOW that I need to write this story. I know that it is what I am called to do for the time being. I know that God has gifted me, inspired me, equipped me, and told me to write this book, and the problem is that I don't want to be a published writer. I love to write my stories, but I don't want to HAVE to write them. I want to laugh, create, discover, and do all of this for a hobby, but I have this nagging guilt that that isn't enough. BUT then my head thinks it's extremely proud to think that I could write a book and impose myself on others, and then my spirit counters that it isn't myself, but God who is reflected and inspiring these stories. I tell myself to sit and write but a thousand darts fly at me telling me it isn't good, or it's a waste of time, or it's pride, or ... I've heard it all.
So, it's Monday. I'm blessed to have a part time job. I'm blessed with 2 days a week at home (dare I say to write?). But I cannot bring myself to sit down and write. I try, but I cannot shut off the opposing thoughts inside of me. So, should I really not be doing this, or should I be trying even harder. I cannot discern what it true.
I'll try again today, but I feel defeated before I have even given it a chance.
Anyway, I didn't have a desk for writing. I of course had seen my dream desk at Pottery Barn and told myself that if I could have that desk then surely I would write. Um, this isn't funny.
I saw the exact $3,000 desk and $200 chair on craigslist for $150.00 total. Here it is.





I said that I would need a place that is bright and comfortable to write, here's my livingroom:




I'm out of excuses.
Happy Monday.

Edit to my post below

Video

I think this blog post will confirm how human I am...

We just had an earthquake hit with a 5.8 magnitude. That's large, potentially damaging, but still on the moderate side of the Richter scale.
I have experienced earthquakes before, but this one was strange and possibly because I was in the loft of my apartment which is already on the upper level.
I was at my computer and I suddenly had my computer screen almost topple over and the whole apartment was creaking and I saw the walls shaking, and my body was shaking, and my plates were rattling, something fell from the counter downstairs, etc. Usually the earthquakes last for a few seconds, but this gave me time to think.
What am I supposed to do in an earthquake?
I remembered earthquake drills in school so I quickly put myself into "quick earthquake action mode" and flattened myself to climb down the stairs holding onto the rails very carefully, and I found a doorway that I stood in.
When it passed moments later I was shaking, while also wondering to myself "did that just happen, and if so, what just happened?"
Unlike a tsunami or a volcano eruption or a tornado, with earthquakes there is very little prediction capability. Even though a fault seems to be active it is difficult to predict whether it will just settle down, or continue to shift, or the magnitude that it will move. So, when out of the blue everything starts to rattle and shake, you kind of wonder "what just happened?"
So my cellphone wouldn't work because--my theory is that everyone else wondered 'what just happened' too, and decided to call someone else. Therefore, At&T was completely tied up.
And here's where the human part comes in (well I guess it all has been). I was really shaky and kind of freaked out, and I couldn't dial out to anyone, and it just feels good to tell someone, but because I couldn't, writing is the next best thing... So whoever reads this is my human listener since I can't be comforted by telling anyone directly :)

Thanks

I got a new imac yesterday.
My parents gave it to me as a graduation gift (I didn't get it two years ago because we were leaving for China).
I am so thankful for their generosity. It is something I will never expect or take for granted. I really can't stop thinking about how nice they are (not just because they give me things) but because it is an investment in my dream to write and therefore an extension of their love and support.
And, onto the computer (which came with an ipod touch and a printer) it's amazing!!!
I spent all day writing without hurting my back, burning my legs (from the heat of my old laptop), or straining my eyes.
It has the basic features of a Mac that I love, and has an amazing version of imovie. I used to make movies in high school, and even included one for a History Day project. It will be fun to have a computer with the capacity to make movies again.
I was supposed to be writing today, but during one point I got bored and wanted to experiment with my applications.
Here is a very basic sample of all that this computer can offer. With just a little imagination, and too much free time, you too can do this...

OK - - -> CA

Kristin came to visit and we had so much fun!

We walked up very steep hills, made granola bars twice, went to the beach almost every single day, went looking at surf shops, ate at In-N-Out, went boogie boarding, used up two bottles of spf 50 sun screen, drank a lot of coffee, played Nertz, challenged our muscles, talked about good things, watched a movie, played Smashball, and sang loudly. 10 days wasn't long enough :(

Kristin bought me these flowers, and they even came wrapped in brown paper. I loved them!!!










PLEASE COME BACK

Coldplay Viva la Vida is an excellent CD!
I don't usually like music. Yes, I would much rather sit or drive in silence than with music (usually), but this CD has been playing constantly since Tuesday when I bought it.
I'm not sure what makes it so noteworthy, except that it's different, much different than anything that has come out recently. Every song is unique blending rhythms and vocals, music, guitar and drum solos, and a world theme that incorporates regional sounds.
Anyway, just wanted to let you guys know in case you hadn't heard anything about this CD yet.

Here is the music video for a song called Violet Hill. I think it's the only music video that they have for this CD so far.

I don't write very often on this blog. Not like I used to. I wonder why...oh, that's why (sheepish grin). There was a little more incentive to blog when a certain person was a few thousand miles away and not living with me day in and day out.

Another reason is that I've been writing about someone else on a daily basis. I'm creating another person, well several people actually, and I write about them almost every day. Some people would say I'm writing a book, and I guess they might be correct, but I prefer to think that I am completing a prerequisite for my grad school application--a complete fiction manuscript. I spend several hours daily thinking and writing in another world, transitioning between Seattle, France, and various other locations. I've taken a break though for about a week because I'm stumped with Savannah (my title character). I have a tendency to want to make her flawless and I don't like her anymore, she too cute, too friendly, a perfect blend of tomboy phlegmatic and charismatic sanguine, she's athletic, witty, and a sucker for practical jokes. I've been trying for a week to break her down and flaw her, but everything is just too cliche, too realistic, too normal. She needs to give a reader something to strive for, a desire to emulate, an endearing flaw that makes you inclined to root her on and then in spite of yourself you realize that you have grown with her, that she's no longer to be pitied, but she's someone to look up to. I'm rolling my eyes at myself now because I realize that in the past few months I have become a writer and I probably care way too much, but then at the same time not enough. I'm determined though that I will figure her out this week. Maybe I'll go to the mall and eavesdrop on people I walk by. That's sure to give me some good ideas.

When I'm not writing I'm reading. I read almost as obsessively as I write. It's not that I love books or reading, but these books, their authors are my mentors and my teachers. Someone gawked that I was trying to write without formal training, but I just scrunched my nose at them because who better to learn from than those who are the best, who have lasted for decades and centuries and been newly released or come highly recommended. Reading is like studying and learning and being tutored very, very, attentively.

I still eat and sleep and cook meals and do laundry. In fact, I compulsively clean my house because there is nothing like scrubbing toilets and the strong scent of bleach that brings me back to reality. Sometimes I feel crazy because I've spent hours somewhere else, but all along I've been sitting in my house and suddenly I'll surface and I'll feel so stifled and overwhelmed and consumed in my mind that I just scrub and sniff and fold and stir my way back into reality.
And...the best part of my day is limited (to my intense dismay) to a few measly hours every evening that I get to spend with Patrick. He is still my favorite thing and person and friend and I just don't get to spend enough time with him. It's really quite irritating. Here you think "I'll get married to this person and we'll be together all the time" and then you never get to see them! Wouldn't it be smarter if you like someone this much to become co-workers (because no one will hire a husband and wife team!) Anyway, we do our Patrick and Noël things, which is mostly just talking while we walk or play tennis or play video games or read. I think if people could be a fly on the wall at our house they would be so bored. We talk about a lot of boring things and I'm so happy he enjoys it as much as I do!

So, this is why I don't blog often-- I'm either lost in my own head, reading about someone else's make-believe existence, or spending time with Patrick (and other visitors, and our one set of friends Jon and Erin).

I like pictures, so I'll end with this one. I was sewing something last week and I lost my rabbit, seriously had no idea where it went, but after a few hours I found it here:

Arbie

Meet Arabella, "Arbie." We've been meaning for MONTHS to find a second car and eliminate the 6+ hours per week that I spend driving Patrick to and from work in order to get to my job by 7:30am!
I've considered so many different cars. A Toyota, of course. I'm pretty sure I might now be excommunicated from my family now that I drive a (gasp) Volkswagen! Something with air bags, a roof, fewer than 100,000 miles, and with great gas mileage. But, after a long search I realized that I love old, classic, and vintage so much more than newer practical, safe/boring cars. I prefer to sweat a little, and smell the warm pleather seats, hear the roar of a healthy old engine, and coax my little cars through several more thousand miles--I'm referring to my Mustang and now my VW Cabriolet.
I found this car on Craigslist yesterday morning and decided it was "the one."







1992
$2,300.00
125,000 mi.
6 sp. manual
power windows
New breaks, catalytic converter, shocks, and a new cover still in the box
30 MPG in the city









Nothing but Blue Sky!

This, seriously, would only happen to me

I get myself into quite a few predicaments. I'm not sure why or how these unfortunate events or situations seem to come upon me, but I think I will definitely remember today's encounter.

I got to work, happily, at 10:25. 5 minutes to find a parking space and walk in. The only problem in a town like Laguna Beach is that every inch seems to be taken by a house or some beach bungalow. The high school didn't have room to build a parking lot, so the neighborhoods around the school are completely lined with cars and I began searching for an opening. I circled the school twice and called Mishelle to let her know I would be in in a few minutes (everyone understands parking trouble at this school). As I rounded the school for a third time and almost resigned to parking downtown (1 mile away) I saw a spot on the school side of the street right in front of the baseball diamond and the running track. There was a large opening between a convertible Mustang and an old Chevrolet Impala. I looked at the curb, looked at my watch (noting that I was now 12 minutes late) and squeezed right in. Perfect parking job with plenty of space in front of, and behind my car. As I was about to turn off my engine and pull up my emergency break (since my car was angled downhill from the hood side) my foot slipped, my car stalled, and it rolled FAST towards the car that was once 2 ft. in front of me and was now about 2 inches from my bumper!

I slammed my foot on the break and held it there, afraid to move. If I put my car into reverse then the split second that it rolled forward would have done damage to the Impala. I panicked and called every male that I know. None of them answered after several tries. I started to cry. I was stressed, unable to contact anyone, and 5 minutes into the predicament my knee, which I think I sprained this weekend, began to shake and I had to hold it on the break while it throbbed.

I was sitting in my car crying and I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a heavy old man was walking out of his house across the street toward me. I rolled down my window and he shook his head as if to shame me and said, "Do you realize you are right up against the bumper of the car in front of you?"

"Yes, sir. I'm trying to call for some assistance, but I'm not sure what to do." Voice dripping with tears from pain and panic.

"Well, I'm certainly not going to help you, you better hope that you can pump in a lot of gas and get out of there." He shook his head at me again and laughed in a mocking tone.

"I'm afraid it will roll forward."

"It better not!" Then he walked back to his side of the street to watch.

I felt shamed and began to cry all the harder, then tried calling my mom. She answered! For 10 minutes she and I talked about the possibilities of what I could do. The entire time he was watching and I was crying and we couldn't think of anything and my leg was shaking so badly I thought it was going to give out.It was now 20 minutes from the onset of the incident and I had no idea what to do. I saw a campus security guard walk up and ask me for my ID and information because they had gotten a call about my misconduct and I was getting in trouble. He had called the school to get me in trouble when I was obviously in the predicament! At the same time they arrived he came out of his house, shook his head at me, reached into his pocket, pulled out the keys to his Impala and pulled it forward about 5 inches even thought there was an entire car length of space in front of him! It had been his car all along and for 20 minutes I had bawled and strained my knee while he watched unconcerned.

As he got out of his car I said,

"Thank you sir, I'm sorry that you had to move your car."

"If you don't know how to drive your car, then you don't have any business driving Lady!" He shook his head and I squirmed out of the tiny parking spot and drove down town where I could safely park in a level parking space 1 mile away.

I arrived at work huffing, sweating, splotchy faced, pink-eyed, 40 minutes late.

The moral of the story is that I will never ever parallel park on a slope. And I hope that whatever made the old man so mean will be rectified soon. I can't imagine what a hard heart he must have!

Here is a picture that was taken while they filmed Laguna Beach to show you how bad the parking is!

I jumped in front of the camera

Life has been interesting and routine and inspiring and supernatural and plain --as usual.

I usually write and edit papers with all of my time, spare and paid. I am getting much better with grammar and at being patient, and telling people the truth even though they might get offended. I'm sorry, but you just can't write:

'One of the job descriptions is the “HOG Butcher for the World,” (L.1). There’s not really a problem with being a hog butcher but it does seam like one of the least desirable jobs out there. The best way to really see what kind of a job is desirable is just to take a poll of kids growing up and to find how many want to be hog butchers. The answer would be slim to none that anybody would find a kid who wanted to cut up pigs for his whole life.' (Actual excerpt. You can imagine an entire essay!)

Anyway, that's all for now. I'm going to go eat some watermelon. Oh, that reminds me. I love spring. Every day I eat one grapefruit, about 7 strawberries, some watermelon, and most of the time an apple, asparagus, cucumbers, and carrots. I have definitely been getting my 5-a-day! Mmmmm.

Pictures from my life.
I beat Patrick at Scrabble with TWO 7 letter words "reregard," and "tootled." An extra 100 points. Bam!



Patrick bought me this really cute cookie from Starbucks. I really really like pink sprinkles. Not the taste silly, but their appearance.


We went beach bumming tonight and the camera came along.





The ever popular shaky face pictures are so cool but I seem to lack the talent. here are my brothers.





Here is my sad attempt.