I have no title for this.

I'm helping Mom and Dad at the visitor center. I feel out of place because I don't have a nifty ranger uniform like them, but I'm not a ranger so I can't even borrow one. The phone rings, and I answer as I've been instructed to. It's Tamara's mother. She wants to know what I think of TB's upcoming handfasting (which is purley in dream-land). I jump up and sit on the big slate counter at the welcome desk and watch out the back panorama window, looking at the fountain while TB's mom vents her frustrations and worries. I have no idea why she's called me to discuss this, but I'm cool with it. For some reason, there's a a contraption now next to me on the counter that looks like a wagon wheel, only just about a foot and a half tall, and it has glass compartments over the spindles that look to be filled with assorted types of colwslaw. There is a box of toothpicks labeled "for sampling" on the counter. I don't really like coleslaw, but I go for it anyway. Tabasco coleslaw, seafood coleslaw, mixed berry coleslaw. Then she says something that makes me terribly angry (I don't remember what it is), and I reply with something like, "Well as long as she's happy, I don't think it's my business or yours." She starts yelling at me and I realize that my mom is gesturing toward me to turn around. I do, and the visitor center is full of people. Mom needs help in the bookstore immediately. I carry the cordless phone into the bookstore, listening to TB's mom. I start to ring customers up, noticing that the bookstore must have been expanded because it's huge and there is a ton of new stock, and mom hip-shoves me out of the way. She angrily tells me to go help dad if I can manage to get my name-tag on straight. I'm about to cry and I tell TB's mom I'll have to call her back.

Doing it wrong. Again.

Last night's brief foray into the world of my anxiety-ridden subconscious mind involved me and my camera and the feeling that, once again, I'm not doing things right.

I've been dreaming like this for years and years now. It's getting really tedious.

Anyway, once again, I was at my parents' house, and I had been commissioned to take photographs of my dad and/or my uncle as they simulated working-man activities. Or something. Except, the lighting was low and I wasn't getting good shots inside. There felt like a time limit was looming. I gave up, frustrated, and then realized, stupidly, that they had gone outside to continue posing, and I was missing my chance to get good shots. It was almost like I was competing with someone else for the best shots. This is no doubt because the last thing on TV before I went to bed was that show The Shot, about photogs competing against one another.