Missy Mwac

photographer/eater of bacon/drinker of vodka and your guide through the murky waters of professional photography. For every day ramblings, you can find me on Facebook @MissyMwac

[missymwac]

I lost our Roomba.

The kids gave it to us a few months ago as a gift, but it sat in its box until Christmas Day, when the darling son set it up. To be clear, it’s not that I COULDN’T set it up; I just didn’t want to bother with it during the holidays. I’m at that point in life where I see a new technological thing and think, “OMG. Something else to set up and program.” Also, "Hey you kids...GET OFF MY LAWN."

We named it “Buster,” not because we are ultra-precious and cutesy, but because the app requires you to name it.

Buster is pretty good at what he does. He’s gotten stuck a couple times under the chair and ate the shoelace on one of my roller skates, but other than that, he’s surprisingly efficient. He gives off a Star Wars vibe as he zips around the ground like one of those tiny robot things on the Death Star. I honestly didn’t think it would pick up a lot, but turns out, I was wrong. He leaves his docking station every day at 12pm and “vacuums” for about 90 minutes. The first few days of operation, he scared the crap out of me when he turned on.

“WHAT IS THAT NOISE? SOMEONE CALL 911! OR A PLUMBER!"

I made the joke that I was worried Buster would become self-aware, and one day the DH and I would wake up to find Buster on the bed in between us where the dog should be, you know, if Buster hadn’t eaten her.

But now, Buster is lost. As in, I can’t find him. Anywhere.

Now, I don’t live in a ginormous house. We have four bedrooms but only two actually have beds in them. One sofa. One dining room table. Some chairs. There aren’t a lot of places where a Roomba can hide.

But Buster is crafty. He’s wedged himself somewhere and allowed his battery to die, so now, I must engage in a Search and Rescue mission for a Roomba.

How hard could it be to find him, right? Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’ll let you know when he turns up.

I’m not entirely convinced the whole “he-became-self-aware” thing didn’t happen.

[missymwac]

Why Would I Give You More

My parents both grew up poorer than dirt. Holes in shoes, ketchup sandwiches,  kind of poor. 11 siblings in my mom’s family, 13 in my dad’s. My parents met and married and were still poor. My dad was a newbie in the Air Force and the lack of stripes meant that there was a lack of a lot of things. I recall my mom saying that when my oldest brother was born a year into their marriage, she would take my dad’s paycheck and go to the base commissary and buy everything he needed first: baby food, formula, diapers, clothes, etc…and whatever was left was what she and my dad lived on until the next paycheck. 

And clean. Always clean. Even the ratty old hot barracks they lived in sparkled. One of my mom’s favorite sayings was, “Soap and water cost next to nothing.”

My dad worked hard, adding chevrons to his arm. By the time I arrived, they were living a fairly comfortable middle class life.  Nothing fancy or name brand, but all their needs were met. 

What’s more, I lived in a house where, although we didn’t have a lot, what we had was cared for. My parents insisted on it. In fact, the idea of caring for what you had was a cornerstone of our home, summed up by the quote I can, to this day, hear my mom saying: 

“If you don’t take care of what you have NOW, why would I give you MORE?”

Needless to say, my mom didn’t suffer those who didn’t work hard, those who didn’t care for what they had; those who wasted. I recall living in K.I. Sawyer AFB in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. On our second assignment there, we lived in a neighborhood filled with duplexes. Our adjoining duplex family became great friends, but the neighbor to the left of us, well, my mom just couldn’t. To give you an idea of the wreck that was their home, my mom said, “If it looks like that on the OUTSIDE, can you imagine what it looks like on the inside.”

Mind you, it was base housing meaning it was an IDENTICAL home. It wasn’t like we were in some sort of la-dee-dah house rolling in the dough while the family next door lived in a shed. No, a lovely duplex with hardwood floors that backed up to a wooded area. And yet, that house was a wreck; the kind of house where all the abandoned things found their way into the backyard. 

I hadn’t thought about that house for a long time, but I thought about it today as I drove through a part of my city that is just east of downtown. It’s actually the area my mom grew up in, although, you’d never know it. Like many old neighborhoods in the country, it is a shell of its former self, the kind of neighborhood you think twice about driving through at night. And then your hurt hearts that you had to think twice. 

I noticed there were a few homes that were being cared for: new paint, windows were clean, the yards looked nice. Just a few, but they were there. And it made me happy. I hope it catches on and that neighborhood will once again be filled with people who care. 

And it started me thinking. 

I know. Uh oh. SHE’S THINKING OUT LOUD AGAIN. #sorrynotsorry

How do you MAKE people care? 

And after thinking long and hard, I came up with the answer: you don’t. 

Some people will never care that they have weeds in their yard, weeds that cost nothing to pull.  They will never care that a plastic kiddy pool has been sitting in the front yard for years, a plastic kiddy pool that the city will gladly haul away from the curb for free.  

Simply put, some people will never take care of what they have. 

Some people just won’t care.

And we can spend a whole lot of tax payer money to tackle “inequity,” and Lord knows we have and still do to the tune of roughly $1.03 trillion dollars a year, but the truth is what the truth has always been: you can’t MAKE people care; you can’t MAKE people take care of things; you can’t MAKE people have a good work ethic; you can’t MAKE people spend their money wisely…you simply can’t.

It’s taken me a long time to get to this understanding. My mom, however, got there quick. I grew up comfortably middle class, but the grown woman known as my mother who grew up with holes in her shoes suffered no such nonsense. 

She would swat away excuses like flies. 

The idea of giving more to someone who doesn’t take care of it was absurd, be it an ungrateful child or an ungrateful nation.

 “If you don’t take care of what you have, why would I give you MORE?”

You tell ‘em, mom. 

[missymwac]

Fun Fact: Watermelons in Cars

Fun Fact: If you a buy a watermelon in the summer and put it in the trunk of your car, and then forget it's there, it will not go quietly into the night. It will roll around as you drive, trying to remind you it's there. 

And you will hear it, and think, "OMG. I forgot to take out the watermelon. I'll need to do that as soon as I get home," which, of course, you won't do, 'causing the watermelon to roll around some more before finally giving up. Turns out, when a watermelon gives up, it collapses into itself like a dying star. Exhausted, it will turn into a green sponge and split open, no longer caring. And when you finally open the trunk of the car a week later to put in your new bags of groceries, you will see pink fleshy bits and pieces of that watermelon all over your trunk, some dried, some not. You will marvel that one watermelon could result in that much fruit carnage. It will look like a gourd crime scene. The newly purchased fruit in your bags will shiver in fear, whispering amongst themselves, "SHE'S A MURDERER." So, if you buy a watermelon, remember it's in your trunk. This concludes today's Fun Fact. 

[missymwac]

I sat in an emergency row on an airplane for the first time today.

I don’t like the emergency row—it’s the row next to the part of the plane designed to come apart from the rest of the plane. I don’t like that. It feels like sitting next to a trap door at 30,000ft.

But today, one of my Southwest flights was full. I mean, totally full. 175 seats and each one filled with a mask-wearing passenger, which is kind of funny, considering everywhere in the airport, signage and overhead recorded messages remind you to observe social distancing... and then they cram you onto a plane, shoulder to shoulder.

Ahh. Science.

And this full fight meant I would be stuck in the horrible middle seat. I knew this because the DH always prefers the aisle and I always prefer to sit next to the DH which means when the flight is full, I take one for the team and plant myself in “The Seat Nobody Wants," which is always fun, especially if it's next to a "knees apart" guy. You know, the dude who refuses to sit with his legs together and, instead, assumes the stance of a baseball catcher: crotch open, knees splayed wide. They're my favorite...just like kale.

But today, there were two seats available, all by themselves, but they were on the emergency row.

I stopped in the aisle and stared at them.

“You can take them if you want,” said the fight attendant.

“Emergency Exit Row.” That’s a lot of responsibility. I wasn’t sure if I could handle that level of aircraft responsibility and said as much to the flight attendant.

She informed me in no uncertain terms that if I sit in those two seats, I would need to accept that responsibility, confirming my decision with a verbal “yes.”

OMG. A verbal yes. It’s like I’m getting married to the plane.

Having never sat in the emergency row, I had no idea but was pretty sure this was WHY I didn’t want the pressure of the emergency row, but I also knew I didn’t want to sit in a crammed middle seat next to baseball catcher guy, so I said, “Yes.”

Now, I know the emergency row is named so for a reason. It’s the route through which passengers exit the plane in case of an emergency.

AIRPLANE and EMERGENCY. Two words you never want to hear in the same sentence. And the airlines is trusting regular schlubs like me with that? Shouldn’t there be some sort of emergency row mini-seminar or preparedness video? An emergency row certification? A print out to gauge reading comprehension? A physical fitness test? SOMETHING?

Apparently, “what you need to do is found on the laminated aircraft card in the seat back pocket in front of you,” so I pulled it out to take a look just in case my Boeing aircraft went down.

THE LIVES OF THE ENTIRE PLANE ARE ON THE LINE, HERE, PEOPLE. I WILL NOT LET THEM DOWN ON MY WATCH.

Turns out, my responsibility involves pulling a handle and kicking a door out so people can slide on the wing. Yeah, I can totally do that. I’ve pulled and kicked stuff before. No sweat. But the information card had a lot of other information, too. Stuff about threading cords through devices and where to lift to engage the slide. Kind of detailed stuff. This was like putting together a piece of furniture from IKEA while your house fell in around you.

I mean, what passenger is going to truly know how to do all of this?

And then I saw something that eased my Emergency Row fears; the illustrated square on the information card that reminded me everything would be fine.

In the event of an Southwest Airlines emergency landing, Chuck Norris shows up.

We’re all good here now.

[missymwac]

(Warning: This might be an unpopular stance. You don't have to agree with me. It's all good if you don't, but I shan't back down.)

Last November, I walked into the living room to find the tv on and tuned to some sort of live music event. A young woman was singing some sort of indie song. Sort of pop, but not quite. She had a lovely voice. I had no idea who she was but then, I wouldn’t, because her musical style was not my preferred genre.

And then I saw Reba McEntire and wondered what the heck Reba McEntire was doing hosting a pop/indie awards show?

And then I realized…OMG. It’s the CMA’s.

I stood in the living room with my mouth open, wondering who these talented people were and, more importantly why they were labeled “country.”

I pushed through the rest of the show. 
I must have said, “This isn’t country music,” out loud about 15 times.

I found myself yelling at the tv: “DO THESE SKINNY JEANS PEOPLE EVEN KNOW WHAT A STEEL GUITAR IS?”

And since that day in November, I have tried. Really, I have.

I have tuned into contemporary country stations. I have watched videos.

And, having made myself listen, I have to say, friends, I can’t do it; I just can’t with modern country music.

You know, ‘cause it’s not really “country “ music.

Now, before you get all snippy, I’m not saying these folks aren’t talented or that you shouldn’t like them; I’m just saying it isn’t “country.”

It’s like Pop and Indie genres took off their floppy hats and beanies, stripped off their skinny jeans and boho dresses, and made a lovechild. And they taught it to speak with a hint of a twang. And not finding a place for it at Burning Man or the worship team at church, they sent it to Nashville.

AND EVERYONE JUST WENT ALONG WITH IT.

And lest you think I’m simply a grouch who refuses to move ahead with the times and who drones on incessantly about the Good Old Days, let me assure you I am not of the belief that the good old days were always good. I know music, like life itself, moves on and adapts and changes.

But there has never been a time in my life when I didn’t KNOW a country song, even if only hearing it for the first time. I mean, there was no mistaking it. I was born into a country music family—despite the shifts amid the decades, it has remained unmistakable.

But not anymore.

Today’s country is like kale trying to be collard greens

It’s like a knit beanie trying to be a Stetson

It’s like a can of White Claw trying to be a shot of whiskey

Now, excuse me, while I go soothe my country heart with a little Toby Keith and Conway Twitty.

[missymwac]

How I imagine Queen Elizabeth's meeting for Prince Philip's funeral arrangements went down: 

“Alright, let’s get this funeral process in order. Harry is flying back from America. Apparently, he is flying solo. His wife is not coming. I’m sure she’s busy with Oprah or her chickens. Now, for my grandsons. I don’t want William and Harry  walking together. We need a buffer.” “Yes, your majesty.” “Place their cousin Peter between them. That’s the sensible thing to do.” “As you wish, your majesty.” “They haven’t seen each other in a year and heaven knows how Harry will react now that he’s “American-ized.” He’ll probably reek of fast food and greet William with some sort of awful, what is it called…? I say, what is it called when two people slap their hands together in the air?” “Your majesty, it is called a “high-five.” “Yes, well, he tries that and I shall high-five him on his noggin with my handbag. And I swear to God in heaven, if that grandson of mine greets me with a “Whassup, Gran?” I shall send that beautiful red-headed boy to the Tower. I can still do that as Queen, no?” “Well, your majesty, I’m not entirely sure that’s true.” <sigh> “I do miss the good old days.”

[missymwac]

Dear 2020,

I watched you leave last night. 2021 showed up at the stroke of midnight and shoved you ceremoniously out the door while we drank champagne and watched fireworks and talked about 2020 being “last year.” THAT year. The year of isolation and masks and hand sanitizer and remote learning, and quarantine and toilet paper shortages.

A lot of folks have been looking forward to your departure, 2020. Rooting for it, even. They reason the year ahead can’t be worse than the one we’ve just had, but I don’t agree. I’ve learned things can ALWAYS get worse. I find this oddly reassuring.

So, before we leave you too far behind, I want to thank you, 2020, ‘cause you taught me some things in your twelve months, things about the world around me. I have written them down and filed them away in my heart for future reference.

I learned that in the face of a crisis, there are those who pull together in spite of differences and those who shame.

I learned that fear is a great manipulator, and it brings out the worst in people, just awful ickiness, kind of like a UV light on the bedspread at a seedy hotel.

I learned that some public gatherings are okay and some are not. If your WHY is good enough, you get a pass. Or, if you know the right people.

I learned that our immune systems can be weakened by isolation and stress, both of which should be considered underlying conditions.

I learned the importance of supporting local business. I don’t ever want to buy from Amazon again. I mean, I’m sure I will, but I don’t want to.

I learned that some people live to Virtue Signal. They really excel at it. We’re talking Olympic level skills, here. Gold medals all around!

I learned that it is very easy for some to be robbed of their humanity, even going so far as to walk by someone needing help for fear of touching them.

I learned that there is power in a touch, a hug; that humans can not exist for long periods of time without physical contact from those they love. The soul withers like a plant left un-watered for months on a windowsill. Go to any assisted living facility and tell me I’m wrong.

I learned that there are so many who live by the mantra of “Do as I say, not as I do.” Many of these people work under the Capitol Dome and in Governor’s mansions across our fruited plains.

I learned these things from you, 2020. And those things I already knew, you simply verified. For that, I thank you.

Yes, 2020, you were sort of like the pimple on the butt of mankind, but to walk away from you without learning your lessons would be stupid. Wisdom can be gleaned from everything, even butt pimples.

Farewell, 2020. I shan't forget you.

[missymwac]

I didn't get to see the Christmas Star, but based on images I've seen online, I was able to recreate it.

[missymwac]

Just when I thought nothing could beat the spork, THIS happens. Well done, KFC. Well done. 

[missymwac]

A Heartfelt Christmas Card for 2020

We Zoomed our Christmas card this year. It  just felt...right. 

[missymwac]

Remember

Remember that sunny morning in New York in Washington DC in Pennsylvania Remember the places the World Trade Center the Pentagon the rural field in Somerset County Pennsylvania Remember the planes the smoke the fire the horror the evil The pure, unadulterated evil... Remember these things, remember them well, and then, let your memory drift to that which no plane can destroy...the American Spirit. Remember the people the police department the fire department the first responders Remember the ordinary Americanswho were anything but ordinary Remember the passengers aboard United Airlines Flight #93 who went down fighting. Remember the countless acts of courage and bravery Remember those who ran in while others ran out Remember the compassion Remember the kindnesses Remember the solidarity Remember that time when we, the United States of America, held hands together as ONE. Remember that. Always remember that. Because the lesson of 9/11 isn’t that evil is strong, but rather, that the goodness of mankind is stronger. 

[missymwac]

The Lesson in a Dead Pot of Mint

I grow mint.

Up until a few months ago, that mint was grown in a very large terra cotta pot in my backyard, but when we moved to our new/old house, I didn’t take the mint with me. It was too bulky and cumbersome and really, who wants to move those huge pots? Not this girl. So when we got to the new/old house, one of the first things I did in the Spring was to start a new pot of mint. I kept it in the kitchen, on the window seat and then, last month, I moved it outside onto the table.

Now, I don’t have a green thumb by any stretch, but I know that mint loves water as much as I love vodka. It is a thirsty herb. Miss a day, and the entire plant will droop. It’s kind of dramatic, that mint.

“Must…have…water…” *collapses*

Well, my potted mint plant could have won an Herbal Oscar over the last three weeks. See, I had gone to my cabin on July 1 for five days and despite giving the mint lots of water on the day I left, I arrived home to find a dead mint plant.Not just dead but dried and brittle. The soil had completely dried out. It was pitiful. I know it’s just a plant but I felt awful. That little plant died on my watch. I deserved a lifetime greenhouse ban.

“Hi, I’m here to buy some herbs.”

“Your ID, please.”<handing over driver’s license>

“Oh, I see you are on the “DO NOT SELL TO” list for killing mint. Get out.”

It was a dried pot of awfulness, but as I picked it up to throw it away, the DH stopped me.

“Prune it back and start watering it again,” he said.

“You see this, right?” I said, holding out the pot containing the sticks and twigs that used to be lush green mint. “There’s no coming back from this.”

“Just water it. Don't stop. Do it every day,” he insisted.

And so, I did. I watered a pot filled with little dried twigs and sticks for almost two weeks. TWO WEEKS, people. And I felt stupid doing it. Every night, before bed, I would faithfully take my pitcher of water out to my pot of sticks and pour it in. It felt about as useful as watering rocks, but, I did it.

And then, last night as I made my way to my pot of dried twigs and sticks, I noticed something new.

GREEN.

Yes, amid the dead twigs and sticks were bursts of green…tiny tender leaves of mint pushing up through the soil.

Not gonna lie…I stood at that stupid plant and cried.

I cried not just because the mint was going to once again be green and lush, thus eliminating the need to run to the store every time I needed mint for iced tea or <cough cough> Moscow Mule cocktails.

I didn’t cry because I turned out to be wrong and the DH right, and this scenario will be added to the library of reminders: “Hey, babe. Remember that time when you were convinced you were right about the mint?”

No, I cried because that stupid little pot of mint became a huge metaphor for everything happening in our world.  I cried because the knowledge of it all pierced my heart.  I cried because in that pot, God showed me once again His faithfulness.

I was ready to give up; that plant was too far gone. And yet…I kept watering.

I felt like an idiot pouring water into something that looked like it was past the point of no return. And yet…I kept watering.

Life was stirring beneath the soil, but it needed time and faithfulness before it popped its head above the surface. I realized that no matter how it appeared, I was NEVER watering a dead plant. Had I walked away and refused to water, I would have never known that.

Thanks to a stupid pot of mint, I am reminded once again that God is working…even when we can’t see it.

I hope that knowledge brings you as much joy as it does me.

[missymwac]

Just went to see my new healthcare provider. This is my second visit. It was for a check-up. Her name is Lois.

Lois' nurse asked me to step on the scale. "Okay," I said. "But I don't want to see the numbers. I am looking away and you just write it down and let it be your secret."

As I stepped off the scale, I suggested that in light of post-quarantine visits, they really should change the numbers on the scale to letters.

Mine would spell out: D-E-S-S-E-R-T-S-A-N-D-L-O-T-S-O-F-W-I-N-E

[missymwac]

My mom shared with me once that when I was in high school, she asked my dad a question.

“What would you do if your Bubba got pregnant. Would you stand behind her?” (Yes, my dad called me “Bubba.”)

Without hesitation, my dad said, “No.”

And then he paused and said, “I’d stand in front of her.”

I may have doubted a lot of things in my life, but that my dad loved me was never one of them.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads who hold their children’s hearts forever.

[missymwac]

I went into Target the other day and when I made my purchase, I swiped my card so fast, the Target gal at the register didn't even notice me do it.

"Wow," she said. "You did that really fast."

I looked at her from behind my mask and said, "The only thing faster is light."

She gave me a sort of confused courtesy smile, when what she SHOULD have said is, "OMG. An "Expendables" quote. Nice."

But she didn't, 'cause she didn't know the quote which disappointed me. And I'm pretty sure she thought I was weird. And as I left the store, I was certain we both felt sorry for each other.

[missymwac]

You know, at this point in 2020, I’d actually prefer the murder hornets.

[missymwac]

The Accidental CDC Guidelines for Reopening Schools

After reading the CDC guidelines for reopening schools, I am starting to think it was written as a joke after a long "liquid lunch" and then it accidentally went out.

"Hey, Steve, ya know what would be a hoot? Let's tell 'em that toddlers have to wear a mask. TODDLERS, Steve! I got a 3 year old at home that won't even keep her shoes on, much less a mask."

"Dammit, Joe, that's brilliant. Put it on the list. I got one. Hold on...hold on...what about telling them they can't play with other kids. We'll call it, hang on, "No communal shared spaces."

"Are you suggesting we advise them not to go on the playground as a class?"

"Yeppers!"

"OMG, buddy. I thought there was no way to top my masks for toddlers rule but you did it! Put that one down, too! Hahahahaha!

<a couple drinks later>

"Alright, I got one. I got one. I got one. I got one. I used to volunteer in my kid's classroom and I swear to god, it's like herding cats. So let's tell 'em that the hallways have to be ONE WAY ONLY and on top of that, they gotta add tape on the sidewalks to make the kids stay 6ft apart."

"OMG. OMG. OMG. STOP IT! I'm cryin' over here!"