A wedding

This past weekend, two songs kept playing in my head. Billy Idol’s White Wedding, and The Psychedelic Furs’ Pretty In Pink.

I guess I could explain that by saying that pink is the new white, yes?

Last Saturday, we gathered to celebrate the wedding of two dear friends. I have yet to get permission to post their photos, so for now, these lovely details from their wedding will have to suffice.

Rhetorical question of the day: What is the bride’s favorite color? Quick! Take a wild guess.

They even had a signature drink for the wedding – a pinktini. It was more red than pink, but a flashing pink ice cube made sure you got the point.

Which, I guess, is helpful in case you’ve had more than a few refills. The flashing cube serves as a homing device to help you figure out where in the world you left your drink.

Of course, it doesn’t help that almost everyone had flashing drinks. But after your third or fourth refill, these are the kinds of details with which you just can’t be bothered.

In case you were wondering, I only had one. I was saving room for dinner. And cake. Which could very well include a few dairy products.

You see, my stomach can’t take the co-existence of alcohol and dairy. They stare each other down for the longest time, then when I least expect it, alcohol lunges for dairy and takes it down for the count. But dairy plays dirty, and squirts lactose in alcohol’s eye, and all of its henchmen lurking in ice cream, heavy sauces, and pastry fillings come out of hiding wielding pipes, bats and nunchuks. And because alcohol is too proud and stupid to know when it’s beat, it releases a war cry, beats its chest, and goes all GI Joe all over the place. (Get it? GI? Gastrointestinal? I swear, sometimes I crack me up.)

It’s pretty much all downhill from there. Downhill on a steep slope with no brakes, lubed tires, and those extra pounds you put on after an ill-advised dessert binge.

It ain’t pretty.

So I’m sure you’ll understand why, after seeing the menu card, I wisely bid the beloved pinktini, flashing cube and all, a hasty good-bye.

Individual plated cheesecake. Tiramisu. Eclair. All known accomplices of dairy, and masters of the triple threat offense. The pinktini was just way out of its league. I was glad I threw in its towel and refused to let it inside the ring.

It’s this preemptive strike against abdominal crises that makes eating in public a lot more enjoyable.

And finally, for the men out there who haven’t yet melted from the pink overload, the following photo is for you.

Yes, I know there are candles and petals and such. But look, more blue than pink. That counts, right?

Or would you rather watch an intestinal smackdown instead?

Don’t answer that.

Night shots

My latest Pioneer Woman photography post is up now, and if you’ve been holding back from shooting at night, maybe I can encourage you to give it a try.

I probably wouldn’t have tried it myself if not for my love of taking sunset photos. I eventually noticed that, in the Philippines, night invariably came almost right after sunset. It took some getting used to, and it prompted me to try and figure out the reason behind it.

I know, I know. I’m a nerd like that.

The reason is actually quite interesting. It has to do with the distance from the equator, the angle at which the sun sets in relation to the horizon and all that lovely geometrical stuff that I won’t impose on you. What it really boils down to is that near the equator, the sun dips below the horizon more quickly, plunging you into darkness faster. As you move away from the equator, the sun will appear to set slower, thereby delaying the onset of nightfall.

Enthusiastic to share my new knowledge, I attempted to explain it to this little guy.

He just shook is head and muttered something about tourists masquerading as locals.

Obviously, he’s already heard it before.

Busy

The past few weeks, I’ve spent more time with various tools in my hand than I have with my camera. Or my favorite wooden cooking spoon.

See this?

This wasn’t in my hand. I didn’t even want to get anywhere near it. In fact, I took this photo with a zoom lens. Like, a 3,428mm lens. Give or take about 3,378.

I wasn’t touching this one either. It’d cut my fingers off clean. Clean, except for the gushing blood. Yeah, let’s keep me away from this one too.

But I did work with tools. Honest! And I learned a lot over the past few weeks. Dainty, lady-like things. Like putting up drywall. Mixing sheetrock joint compound. Spackling.

Feminine, frilly-type things like cutting metal and insulating ducts.

Girly stuff like climbing up into the attic to do more HVAC insulation work. In 110 degree heat. Handling fiberglass insulation without a long-sleeved shirt to protect my arms. Which I tried to soothe by spraying it with cold water while the fibers were still all over my skin.

Hi. Nice to meet you. My name is Can’t Pick Her Battles. My friends call me Clueless.

There was tiling and grouting going on, too. And you know what? Grout is like the ultimate emery board. Except, it does the same thing to your skin.

Just thought I’d share that with you.

At least, emery boards are legitimately girly. Right?

Anilao boys

These boys were in the water every single day that I was at the resort for my diving certification.

Sigh. To be young again.

And on summer vacation.

Yeah, I’d sit and think about that for a while, too.

Mattia

Because I enjoy torturing myself, this is the second installment of my unofficial “they’re so cute they make me incredibly homesick, and no amount of cake can fix it right now” series.

Meet Mattia, or Mattie for short. She’s Brian’s younger sister, but don’t tell her that. She’s convinced she’s older, wiser, stronger, and tougher. And that she has super powers that are impervious to any big brother schemes.

She’s also a natural swimmer. I watched this little three-year-old swim more than 25 meters across, into the deep end of a pool, blow a few bubbles, then turn around and swim back. It was crazy. And she did it all afternoon, too.

At three, she has more than enough self-confidence for someone twice her age. Or even ten times her age. Her mom once tied her hair back, and Mattie started complaining. She said that the ponytail took away her curls, and plaintively cried, “I’m not me anymore, mommy.” Needless to say, the curls were set free.

She’s the only girl in her pre-school class, and all the boys take direction from her. She decides who sits where, depending on who she wants next to her that day. And, to a person, the boys quietly comply. I’m not sure if it’s because of the sheer force of her personality, or if they simply will do anything to please this adorable little girl.

Yeah. I bet her dad can’t wait for her teenage years.

For now, he can continue enjoying his little girl like this, when even her pouts are cute. And when the only man in her life is her poor, defenseless father who is putty in her hands. Talk about being wrapped around someone’s little finger. And a three-year-old finger at that.

Then again, who can blame him?