rites of passage.

I met a great group of teenagers this weekend.

And I'm not always too fond of teenagers. One of my least favorite situations is being on assignment and getting caught in the hallway of a high school during a change of classes.

It makes me feel suffocated, nervous, agitated.

But this was only six kids, and they were great.

I was invited to photograph Natalie's prom.

When I first arrived, the girls were giggling uncontrollably as they got ready in a bedroom. I snapped some photos, and hoped they would relax enough to let me into their world for the night.

It worked.

I think.

The dates were just as nice as Natalie and her girlfriends. Respectful, cooperative, NICE guys. They played along without a single complaint, and even seemed to enjoy themselves while hundreds of photos were being taken.

I followed the group to the Field Museum, where prom was being held. I waited with Jim D. and the kids to be allowed into the big hall, which was still being set up.

As I watched more kids arrive, memories of my own prom, in 1985, came flooding back. I went to prom with Al Sarro, a good friend who sadly did not return the affection I felt for him.

But Al liked to dance. He was adorable, and a lot of fun to be around. We had a good time, and I am forever grateful for the good memories that remain from an important night in a teenager's life.

I wondered if the 2009 prom couples realized they would also likely remember this night well into adulthood. Good or bad, memories were going to be made that evening that quite possibly would last forever.

Looking older beyond their years, but also like nervous kids, they walked up the steps to the historic museum, dressed to the nines and ready to allow their life to happen.

I felt honored to be part of it.

And I found out that being around teenagers isn't so bad after all.

the love/hate relationship.

The pushing, shoving, yelling and swearing... all for about 30 frames on my camera.

I lasted about three minutes, and I had to get out.

The scene at Dirksen Federal Building resembled a pack of wild dogs descending on dinner this morning, as our former governor appeared before a judge to hear what counts were being held against him.

He pleaded not guilty and walked out five minutes later.

I was outside the courthouse about 9AM and waited for him to arrive. He showed up, stepping out a large, shiny black GMC truck around 10:50AM.

All smiles, he answered questions and slowly pushed his way through the throng of cameras into the courthouse. He smiled, spoke pleasantly and seemed to be enjoying the attention.

What was it like to be there? I enjoy the camaraderie of the courthouse. I didn't used to like it there. But courthouse duty very quickly became part of my job. It was easier to embrace than fight the inevitable.

The guys I work with from the other paper in town and the TV stations are all very cool. We stand and wait. We wait and stand. We talk. I was next to a cameraman from channel 11 today. We talked about running, marathons and taking care of ourselves. The time goes by fast, and at the courthouse you are always waiting around a lot longer than actually shooting.

As great as they are as people, they can't help themselves as soon as a shot is at stake. It's incredible how we talk nice, then turn on each other, mobbing our subject, even one as agreeable to the attention as the former gov.

After the melee, cluster-fuck in newspaper language, and the guv makes his way through the door of the courthouse, we all rush in behind him to send images and tapes to our offices and trucks. His indictment doesn't take long, and before my pictures make it into the office, he's on his way back down and I am throwing my coat on to run outside to do it all again.

The scene on the way out is even worse. Running, pushing, smashing into each other. I was getting pounded into the ground by the crush of cameras and microphones on my head. The guv even asked if I was OK at one point.

It's a love/hate relationship with my job. The adrenalin rush in some situations is like a drug. Getting a great photo feeds the habit. On the other hand, I felt suffocated and for a brief moment, did worry about my safety. And my dignity.

I wouldn't trade these experiences for anything. And when it's over and the paper turns out its lights forever, I will be forever thankful for the very experiences I inexplicably love and hate simultaneously.

i heart my miserable life.

At least that's what Dr. Kickass told me today.

I enjoy meeting the low expectations I have set for myself. I have no real desire to change. I am comfortable with status quo. It's what I know, and all I expect.

And that was probably just the first 10 minutes.

The problem is, is he right?

If he wasn't so entertaining in how he delivered that message, I probably would have burst into tears. However, I tend to take myself much less seriously these days. I laughed, agreed with him and then got angry.

I am not sure if I was angry at him (he doesn't care) or myself. Probably more at myself.

I hate when people who act like they know everything actually do.

So then he tells me I believe, for exactly one hour a week on the Costco love seat in his office, that I want to do things differently. Be better to myself. Expect more. Rid my life of the chaos I create daily, which is the source of my constant exhaustion.

I try to argue, but I realize he's right. I am content with the status quo. I do nothing to improve on the very situations I bring in to talk to him about every week.

"I want to change," I tell him.

"No you don't," he says.

It's Easter. A time of new life, of a renewed promise. Can I hold myself responsible for the change I so desperately need? Can I honor God the Father, who wants so much for me to have the fullest life possible?

"Above all else, guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life." Proverbs 4:23

I read that verse this morning, about 4 hours before my appointment on the Costco love seat.

Sounds like a really good place to start.

and I will be free, indeed.

Life sometimes bears down with a heavy hand.

Sometimes it makes it hard to breathe. Sometimes I feel like throwing up.

The money. The job. The house. The boss. The relationships. It's f-in exhausting.

I currently average about nine hours of sleep a night and still, I am beyond tired. What is the deal with that?

I am looking forward to church this weekend. It's my first Easter as a believer, which illuminates the meaning of the season 1000 times. PT's sermon two weeks ago made my heart hurt. But in a good way. Meaning, I think it was supposed to.

He talked about Jesus' last words on the cross. The unspeakable pain he felt. The humiliation and suffering he endured. For me.

For me.

I need more faith. I need to believe more that these silly problems I face are just that. Silly.

Sometimes I feel like God is looking at me and shaking His head, saying, "Jeanie, Jeanie, Jeanie. Why do you spend so much time on these little piddly-ass problems? Don't you know that I have it all under control? For you.

For you."

Why is it so hard to release everything to the cross and be free, indeed?

69 posts and still talking about ireland.

69, dude... wahhhannngggg.

Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure fans unite!

And not too totally unrelated, this is Blackie O'Connor.

He is apparently well-known around County Clare. And I am sure it is not just for his Irish pipe playing, though it certainly was charming to listen him play outside Newtown Castle on Barb and Patrick's wedding day.

In Ireland, he was a "good-looking lad, isn't he?" In America, he is just plain hot.

How hot was he?

So hot that while my buddy, the bride, was ascending the castle stairs to meet her soon-to-be husband, at my recommendation, we paused at floor two so she could get a good look at him.

And while his name wasn't Patrick O'Malley, it was a pleasure making his acquaintance none-the-less.

I heart Ireland.

them irish don't mess around.

So, another random story from Ireland.

Still the best trip ever, and I can't seem to stop talking about it!

Chrissy and I were on the plane high above the Atlantic, when the flight attendants dragged the "duty-free" cart down the narrow aisles.

"Cigarettes?" they asked each row. Perfume and booze were also available. Tax free!

One look at the cartons of cigarettes and Chrissy and I laughed until we cried.

"SMOKING KILLS" screamed the warning on the side of the carton.

"SMOKING CAUSES FATAL LUNG DISEASE" screamed another.

So much for the pussy surgeon general's warning we get on cigarettes here in the States.

"Ummm, I'll take two..." I said to Chrissy. We laughed even harder.

I chased the flight attendants to the front of the plane to take a few snaps before the carts were put away.

Which they thought was hilarious.

And in case you were wondering, the people were snatching up the cartons at a record pace.

Maybe they missed the warning.