A Good Laugh and a Good Fight

You know when I said in the last post that no one walks up to me and says, “And you’re not sweet at all”?  That’s not entirely true.

See, I used to work with Mike.

I loved working with Mike.  I judge how much I like someone by how much they make me laugh.  Mike could make me laugh until I couldn’t breathe.

One time we went on a three week business trip to New Jersey.  We each drove our own car.  I drove my car, Mike drove his car, and Emily drove her car.  Emily?  Yes.  Mike lived in Baltimore but his girlfriend, Emily, lived in New York, so they met in New Jersey for a few days.

The drive to New Jersey was the worst drive I’ve ever driven.  The details would take an entire blog, so let’s just say that I got completely and thoroughly lost.  All I remember is driving on Route 1-9 in the dark, in the pouring rain and passing the same huge neon Budweiser sign over and over and over and over.  After stopping at a few gas stations where no one spoke a word of English and passing a number of scary looking gangs on corners, I finally made it to the hotel where I collapsed.

In the lobby I recognized Emily from pictures and we chatted for a few minutes and she told me that she, too, got completely and thoroughly lost and kept passing the huge neon Budweiser sign over and over and over.  I called Mike to warn him to be sure he didn’t miss the turn.  Because if he missed the turn and saw the huge neon Budweiser sign, that meant he’d be stuck in an endless loop passing that huge neon Budweiser sign for a good hour.

Of course he didn’t believe us women drivers and said, “I’ll be fine.  I don’t get lost.”  Uh huh.  Sure, Mike.

Obviously, Mike missed the turn, got completely and thoroughly lost and had the pleasure of viewing the huge neon Budweiser sign over and over and over.

The next day, we carpooled to the office and saw some poor Indian man driving on Route 1-9 with a map crumpled in his hand and a hopeless frown on his face.  Mike went into a routine right on the spot, in the worst Indian accent ever, of the thoughts of the Indian man as he passed the Budweiser sign over and over and over.  It’s probably the funniest comedy routine I’ve ever heard.  I’m sure a few brain cells died that day from lack of oxygen.  I could not inhale.  Could not.

But we also used to fight.  A lot.  I mean, we fought so much in our shared office that the person in the next office over had to bang on the walls to get us to stop screaming at each other.  Kinda like throwing a tin can at howling cats.

Our first fight was on that same New Jersey business trip.

Mike and I had looked over the hotels on the recommended list provided by our company.  Mike wanted to stay in the most expensive hotel on the list at the company’s expense, just because we could.  Another coworker had taken the same trip and stayed in a cheaper hotel.  She told me about walking through a charming little town with flowers in all the yards and eating at quaint restaurants with delicious food.

If the cheaper hotel was so good, can you just imagine the expensive hotel?

Turns out the only reason the hotel we picked was more expensive is because it was closer to the airport.  It was right on the side of some sort of freeway in the middle of an industrial park.   Thousands of cars screamed by at 70 mph on their way to sightsee the Budweiser sign.  The entire hotel was surrounded by a chain link fence with barbed wire at the top.  To exit the hotel, you had to swipe your room card so that the gate thing (like at a toll booth) would rise and the spikes would lower into the cement.

Yes, you read that right.  Spikes, to puncture your tires, had to lower into the ground in order for you to leave the hotel.

What sort of hotel is surrounded by barbed wire, gates, and spikes in the ground?  I didn’t feel particularly safe.

A couple of days into the trip Mike and I were on lunchbreak at the office.  As we waited for the elevator, I told Mike I was thinking of transferring to a new hotel.  Mike didn’t want to move.  It’s all a bit of a blur and I don’t know how it happened, but somehow or other everything spiraled out of control and by the time we reached the first floor, we were in a flat out brawl.  There was yelling and spit flying and hands gesticulating.  The elevator was packed and the other occupants of the elevator were pressed against the walls in horrified disbelief.

Right at the end, Mike sneered out, “You know what?  You’re just like X.”  Oooooo.   X is a coworker that he knew I couldn’t stand.  Could Not Stand.  And he knew it.  That was fighting dirty.  I was so furious that I’m pretty sure Mike would  be dead right now except that the door opened and he got away.

The thing with Mike is that he’s the only person where we’ve both been absolutely furious at each other, but never offended.  We could argue and yell and tell each other how amazingly stupid the other person was being, but we would actually resolve the issue that way.  One or the other of us would realize, “Oh no!  S/he’s right!  I am being amazingly stupid!” and we would fix the problem, stop the argument, and walk away friends.

And I’ll tell you, it felt great to be able to tell someone exactly what I thought of them without hurting their feelings.  Maybe the rest of you do that all the time, but I’ve never been able to.  People’s feelings get hurt pretty much any time I try it, so I’m careful.

Now maybe you’re thinking, “Oh, they were attracted to each other.”  Nope.  There’s no way to convince you otherwise if you think that’s the case, but we weren’t.  Mike was like my cousin.  I was the goody-two-shoes cousin and he was the smoking behind the 7-11 cousin who would meet for summer vacation at the lake and have the Best Summer Vacations Ever.  But once vacation was over and we went back to our real lives we’d have nothing in common and would never have run in the same circles.

Outside of work we had nothing in common.  Nothing.  But while we were thrown together in that office with a job to do, it was magical.

All this is leading up to Mike’s pronouncement that, “and you’re not sweet at all!”

All our coworkers thought I was sweet.  Don’t know why.  I don’t particularly try to be sweet.  I don’t consider myself sweet.  But they thought I was.

Only Mike knew the truth.  In the middle of one of our milder arguments (I’m pretty sure I was winning that one), Mike looked at me with irritated frustration and said, “You know, everyone thinks you’re so sweet.  And you’re not sweet at all!”

From time to time, someone would pop their head in our office and ask me a question.  I’d answer it, and (I’m not kidding this happened over and over) the person would then say, “Oh, thank you!  That’s so helpful!  You’re so sweet!”

It was all I could do to keep a straight face when they said that.  Man, I should have won some sort of acting award for my performance.  The sweet smile, the blinky eyelashes.  I’d hear Mike in his corner exhaling a pained sigh.

When the office door would close, I’d give Mike the cheekiest grin I could.  Didn’t need to say a word.  He’d glare at me, shake his head, and go back to work.  Sometimes he’d say, “And the worst part of it is that if I try to tell anyone you’re not sweet, they’ll think I’m being a jerk.  No one will ever believe the truth.”

And that’s exactly what made it so much fun.

Here are some pictures of Mike.  We used to write newsletters for our company and we’d put badly photoshopped pictures of ourselves in the newsletter.  Here’s Mike as an ape in Planet of the Apes.

And as a musketeer:

Portrait Lens Practice

Yes, I’ve been gone forever.  No, I won’t tell you why.  If I tell you why I won’t have any new material for posts over the next few weeks.  Let’s just say, “I’ve been busy.”

But, I’ll tell you this: I got a brand new portrait lens a couple of weeks ago.  Oooo!  Portrait lens!

What’s a portrait lens?

It makes the thing you focus on crisp and clear, but anything in front of or behind what you’re focused on is super out of focus.  Great for pictures of people’s faces because then the only thing you notice in the picture is the face.  Hence—portrait lens.

As of 9:30 tonight my busy month came to a close.  About 30 minutes later I was itching to take some pictures with my new lens.  I’ve been so busy I haven’t even had a chance to take pictures for a month.  That’s pretty busy.   Well, wait, that’s not completely true.  I did take some prom pictures. Here’s one:

But that was different.  That was work for someone else.  (And they paid me!)  Now that my busy month is over I can get back to puttering around taking pictures for myself.

So I pulled out the portrait lens and the kids ran for cover.  “Oh, we’re soooo tired!  Can we go to bed now?  Yaaaaaawn!”  I turned to Darling Husband, but he gave me the evil eye.  (He’s in his jammies.)

I’m forced to practice on these model airplanes that are hanging from the dining room chandelier.  And yes, I’ve bumped my head into these stinkin’ planes a number of times this month.  Makes me feel the tiniest bit sympathetic to my tall guests who bump into the chandeliers whenever they visit.  But only the tiniest bit.

Not too shabby, little portrait lens.  Not too shabby.

P.S.  I promise to tell you later about the cheese that got in my eye, the million legger that almost ate my mother, and watching The Shining all alone at midnight (bad idea).

I Made My Husband Go Blind and it Wasn’t Soap Poisoning

Look at what Gerhard gave to me:

Awww!  A piece of packing foam.  What a sweetie he is.  I’ll bet you wish your friends gave you pieces of packing foam.

Why, you ask, would he give me packing foam?

Ah, good question.  He gave it to me to use on my flash for my camera.  If you cover the top of the flash with the packing foam (use a pony tail holder to wrap it around the flash), it will soften the harshness of the flash.

I decided to test it out.

I warned Darling Husband, “I’m going to take a couple of pictures of you with the flash to test out this packing foam.  The first one won’t have the foam on it.”

The part about the flash not having the foam on it wasn’t entirely true.  The foam was on the flash, but flopping off and not covering the flash part.  Darling husband looked up, saw the strip of packing foam dangling off the flash, said, “What is that?” as he stared directly at the flash at the exact moment that I snapped the picture.

“Aaahhh!  My eyes!  What did you do?”

Eh, he’ll be alright.

I covered the top of the flash with the packing foam to compare while Darling Husband recovered:

Much nicer, except for the fact that I never noticed how blue Darling Husband is.  Why is he so blue?  What did he eat for dinner?

Oh wait.  He’s blue because I didn’t set the white balance to flash.  Let’s try the experiment again with the correct setting and without the packing foam.

That looks really bad.  Now, we add the packing foam.

Much nicer!  What a handsome man!  It’s a darn good thing that Darling Husband thinks I’m cute when I “talk photography.”

There are Monsters in my Basement

Wait until you see what I found in my basement this evening.

So there I was being a Good Wife and making my husband a chicken and egg salad sandwich for his lunch tomorrow.  Awwww.  What a great wife I am.

Don’t go getting all excited.  Poor Darling Husband has to make his lunch all the other 364 days of the year.  Today was a fluke.  He usually makes his lunches on Sunday afternoon, but this past Sunday afternoon was our Easter Feast.  We ending up passing out right at the dinner table after disgustingly stuffing ourselves during our festivities.  I had to prod Darling Husband awake the next morning with the ham bone that was stuck to his shirt and he staggered off to work with only a leftover biscuit covered in I Can’t Believe it’s not Butter for lunch.

Oh wow.  What an awesomely exaggerated paragraph that was.  I have missed writing this blog so much.  There are very few places in life when you can get away with outright lies as in that above paragraph.  So refreshing.

Ok—back to the story.

So…there I was being a Good Wife, making him a sandwich for his lunch.  And of course it was egg salad (with just a bit of leftover chicken thrown in.)  Part of the Easter Festivities had involved dyeing 589 eggs.  Hoo-boy, that’s a lotta eggs.

Nephew14 and his family wouldn’t touch the eggs and sidled out the door before they’d even all been dyed.  They’re smart like that.  They didn’t want to have to eat egg salad sandwiches for the next six months like we’re going to have to.  Mom and Dad took one egg each.  That left 587 eggs for me and mine. I wonder if egg salad freezes well?

I hollered out from the kitchen to Darling Husband, “Yo!  I’ve made up the egg salad.  Do you want me to slap it on some bread for you?”  That’s the sort of lovey dovey talk that goes on in this house.  Ah, l’amour.

He yelled back, “Not unless you know where the bagels are.”

I don’t know where the bagels are but since I was on a roll I looked around for them.  They weren’t anywhere upstairs.  Maybe they were in the basement freezer.  I made my way down the rickety basement stairs.

And then, “Bam, Shazaam! Holy arachnids, Batman!” What do I see but a monstrous beast in the basement.

Here’s a picture of it.

Now I know you’re thinking, “I can barely make out that tiny little dot in the middle of the picture.”  Just wait.

I called out to Darling Husband, “We’ve got a tarantula in the basement!  Check it out!”  He came to behold the wonder with his own eyes and said, “Quick–take a picture. Grab an action figure so there’s a frame of reference.  I’ll watch it to see that it doesn’t get away.”  Snort.  As if he’d be able to stop it if it wanted to get away.  Maybe with a lasso and a stun gun.

I ran back upstairs to grab an action figure.  It had to be one that wouldn’t fall over on The Beast and enrage it.  How about The Hulk?  He’s easy to stand up.  Darling Husband gingerly placed The Hulk sort of near The Bug.

But not too near.  Darling Husband leaped back before the Mighty Monster could react.  He noted, “It’s sluggish.  Maybe because it’s so stinkin’ cold in this house.”  You’re preaching to the choir, Darling Husband.  I haven’t been warm in this house since 2005.

I tried to take the picture, but taking a picture while cowering in the farthest corner well out of range of a mighty leap wasn’t working.  Back upstairs to put the zoom lens on the camera.

Here’s the picture.

The problem is that the Hulk action figure is larger than normal sized action figures.  That’s what happens when you have the word “hulk” in the very name of something.  It was messing up the Frame of Reference.

So…back up the stairs. I grabbed the Iron Man Lego Mini-Fig.

As you can see the spider is, like, five times the size of a Lego Mini Fig.  Maybe even nine times the size, I just don’t know.

I’m wondering what caused the spider to grow so large?  Maybe a steady diet of million leggers.  Oh, shudder at the mere thought.  I’m sending Darling Husband out tomorrow for a Hazmat suit for me.  That’s the only way you’re getting me in that basement when I’m home alone.

Maybe he can pick me up a taser while he’s at it.

I have a secret room in my house

Hey, guys.  Guess what.  I have a secret room in my house.

!!!!!!

Let me say that again, savoring the words this time:

I have a secret room in my house!

Anyone who has known me for more than 5 seconds knows that the deepest desire of my heart is to have a house chock full of secret rooms and cobwebby secret passageways.  No, strike that.  Make it chock full of well-lit and well-tended secret passageways.

And lo and behold, I found out the other day that I have a secret room!

I just don’t know where it is.

Long story short, I looked up my address online to see how much square footage my house has.  Up popped zillow.com with all sorts of information about my house.

Look at what it said, “This 1618 square foot single family home has 3 bedrooms and 3.0 bathrooms.”

Wait a minute.  What?  I know about the 3 bedrooms, but 3.0 bathrooms?  Really?  I can account for two bathrooms, but where is the third?

I recently watched an old Malcolm in the Middle episode where the parents were cleaning out a closet.  It hadn’t been cleaned since the day they moved in when they stuffed anything in the closet that they didn’t feel like dealing with.

When then parents pulled out a big box, there, sitting in the corner of the closet, was a toilet.  The mother looked at the father and said, “This isn’t a closet!  It’s a bathroom!”  And they stuffed the box back in to conceal it so they could have the extra bathroom to themselves and wouldn’t have to share it with the kids.

And apparently, according to zillow, I have a third bathroom in my house.  If Malcolm in the Middle is correct, it must be covered by all the boxes we never unpacked out in the shed.

Ok, you guys know I’m kidding that I really think there’s a secret bathroom in my home, but for just the tiniest lightning-fast split second when zillow.com said that my house had 3.0 bathrooms, my heart skipped a little beat and I earnestly believed I had a secret room hidden in my house and thought, “The basement!  It’s probably in the basement!”

And then reality came crashing down.

Oh, the bitter agony of disappointment.

————

Just so you know, Boy7 becomes Boy8 today.  Happy Birthday, Boy8!

He’s been saving his money since before Christmas for an iPad mini.  He’s hoping for a large cash donation from his grandparents on his birthday to go toward this purchase.  Poor kid is the only one in the family without an iPad and has been feeling the sting of exclusion.  He’s like an orphan outside a bakery in 1910 with his nose squished against the window, shivering, while the Rockefeller children eat their gooey pastries in their fur coats.

—————–

P.S.  I have a cousin once removed who’s in her early 20’s.  Somehow or other, she stumbled across a link to a music video made in the 80’s.  No Laura!  Don’t click on it!  Noooooo!

In her innocence she clicked on it and, unbelievably, watched it till the end.

In an attempt to make it all Just Go Away, she tried to excise the images of David Bowie and Mick Jagger dancing from her brain by sharing the video with everyone on Facebook.  All of us over 35 are well aware that you just don’t go about unearthing music videos made in the 80’s and unleashing them on your unsuspecting friends on Facebook.  It’s just not right, people.  It’s just not right.

And why isn’t it right?  Because the next person to watch the bad 80’s music video is compelled to pass it on to all of her friends.  So, here it is.  Watch at your own risk.

Unwilling Pet Sitting, and it’s Wigging Out My Family

Remember my friends Mary and Joseph?   Those aren’t their real names.  I just call them Mary and Joseph because I imagine that Mary and Joseph were a lot like this couple.

But after today I may have to change that.  After today, Fred and Ethel would be more appropriate.

On Tuesday, Mary and Joseph’s sons visited my sons and brought their hermit crabs with them.  Unfortunately, when the boys left, the crabs were left behind, forgotten.

The next morning, lo and behold, I see that the crabs are still in my house.  No biggie?  Yes, biggie!  Mary and Joseph headed out that morning on a 6 day road trip.  Um….what am I supposed to do with hermit crabs for the next six days?

Going for a walk.

We tried taking them on walks, but whenever we tugged on the hermit crab leash, they curled up in little balls. The boys refused to play catch with them.  Boy10 says they look like creepy bug-things and he wants nothing to do with them.  I don’t think the boys have anything to worry about.  The crabs just lie around blending in with the rocks.  Hermit crabs are pretty boring.

Since they’re so boring, I figured I may as well use them as subjects for some pictures.  But I would need an assistant.

Enter Darling Husband.

He agreed to help but then quickly realized he’d actually have to hold the crabs with his fingers.  His voice went up a good 2 octaves as he kept me informed of the actions of the crab while I focused the camera, “It’s moving!  It’s coming out of its shell! It’s trying to leave its shell and leap onto the floor!  Its claws are touching me!  They’re touching me!”

I told him that they wouldn’t market hermit crabs as pets to children if we were in danger of being crushed to death in their mighty claws.

Mighty Claws of Death

And you know, I was ok with watching the hermit crabs until we received the following email:

**

Bryan,

Hello!

Bryan, we left our hermit crabs at your house!!  Ugh.  So sorry about that.  We laughed so hard and then felt badly! :).

We will pick up our little friends Tuesday morning if that is ok?  They may need water here or there – but they have food in the cage.  The only special request is to please use some type of filtered water for them – their lungs burn otherwise with chlorine :).

Many thanks and sorry again! Have a great weekend!

Fred and Ethel

**

Did you catch the part where they “laughed so hard”?  I seriously don’t picture Mary and Joseph traveling through the holy land cackling at each other over leaving their pet hermit crabs at someone’s house.  “Zechariah is totally freaked out by hermit crabs!  Can you picture his face when Elizabeth shows him the aquarium?  Ha ha ha ha!”

Nope.  Mary and Joseph would never do that.  It’s Fred and Ethel from here out.

Chocolate Mug Cake and Smashed Lemon Cookie

I wasn’t going to bother writing a post today, but look at what Gerhard brought to us just now: 

Mug cakes.  Mug cakes?

Have you ever heard of such a thing?  I never had.  He just dropped them off 2 minutes ago.

Oh, look.  Darling Husband brought me a treat, too.  A cookie that got smashed in his pocket.  That way, I don’t have to chew so much while in my enfeebled state. 

 

I managed to wash my grimy sick-clothes in boiling hot water today and washed a load of dishes in the dishweasher today and I even washed myself today.  In between all the washing I read a book about someone being wrongfully imprisoned in a French prison.

I’m never going to France.

It’s Ok to be Pathetic Every 40 Years or so, Right?

Look at this:

You may think it’s simply a picture of a cool retro-looking bit of Tupperware with some chicken gnocchi stew in it, but you would be wrong.

This is a Gift from the Angels.  This is Life Abundant.

This is soup from Gerhard for his sick friend.

I’m sick today.

Did you read that?

I’m sick today.  This rarely happens, people.   Well, I get sick maybe once every forty years or so.  Did I tell you about the time I got laryngitis and called my doctor for an appointment?  The receptionist looked up my file, saw that I hadn’t been to the doctor in forty years, and said, all suspicious-like, “Ma’am, what other doctor have you been seeing?”

I kept croaking out, “No one!  I haven’t seen anyone!  I just don’t get sick!”

She gave me an appointment but it was under great duress.  You could tell she just knew I was lying and hadn’t been able to get an appointment with the Other Doctor that I’d been seeing.

You know how they say “men are like this and women are like that” and you can fill in the blanks for “this” and “that?”  Like, women can multitask and men can’t.

I’m not sure how much I buy into that.  I mean, I can’t multitask worth beans and half the things men are supposed to do, is what I do.  Today is a case in point.  You know how they say that men turn into babies when they’re sick?  That’s not true at all of Darling Husband.  He’ll be out there with a fever chopping wood or working on the car or something.

But me, on the other hand, I’m a total baby when I’m sick.  It’s just embarrassing.  Today I’m sick and I’m whiny and pathetic and have even been whimpering.  Whimpering!  And taking long naps and staring into space with my mouth gaped open.

The thing is, Darling Husband has an annoying tendency to get sick the same day that I get sick.  Totally not fair! So here we are today with the same temperature and symptoms and what does he do?  He goes to work!  But I’m sitting here dizzy and feeble and whimpering.

Then again, I sort of went to work today.  You know how I assess essays that people write for a test prep class?  Usually the students don’t bother writing their essays, or I get one every few days.  But not this time.  This time all 60 billion students are sending me reams of essays.  It’s like the scene in Harry Potter where Harry gets all those letters from Hogwarts.

Anyway, I’ve been moaning and whimpering and looking pathetic and unwashed….  Unwashed?  Oh yeah, I was sick yesterday, too.  I haven’t bathed since Saturday morning.  Very un-American like of me and I’m feeling pretty grimy, being on day three of no bathing.  I’ve been alternately sweating and freezing non-stop for the past 48 hours and I’m sure I’m just disgusting by now.  Gerhard took one look at me and beat a hasty retreat.

But let’s stop talking about that and talk about the soup.  Oh, the soup!  Because in the middle of all the whimpering and unwashed pathos, Gerhard arrived with soup.  I’m telling you the truth, I’m on my second bowl of it and I swear I’m already 50% better.  Really.  It’s making me better with every single spoonful.

Gerhard—thank you!

P.S.  G: Darling Husband can’t place the spices and he’s usually good with that.  Is there white pepper in there?  And what else?

—————

Before I got completely sick on Saturday evening, I played some Star Wars Monopoly with friends.

In the end, Darth Vader won the game and the Wookie came in second.  Vader is like that.  He just wouldn’t let the Wookie win.

Unbeknownst to me, I’ve already had my first paying photography gig

Do you see this rather ugly picture?

What is it?  I’ll tell you.

It’s a picture of a framed picture of Christmas trees.

See, way back in December, my father-in-law (we’ll call him Dad) said, “They do a really nice display of Christmas trees at the Eagles.  Would you mind taking a picture of them for me?”

Sure.

About half an hour into taking all sorts of artsy shots of the lights and the trees and the ceiling, I finally thought to ask, “Uh…what exactly do you want this picture for?”

“I’m going to show the picture to the leaders of the Eagles so it can be enlarged, framed, and put on display here in the club.”

Huh?  No!  No, no, no!  That’s not fair!

Out of all the pictures in all the world, it has to be Christmas lights?  Seriously?  Christmas lights?

Taking pictures of Christmas lights is tricky, tricky, tricky.  And, more importantly, pictures of Christmas lights are ugly, ugly, ugly.  I’ll prove it to you. Google images of “Christmas lights on houses” and you’ll see what I mean.  Aren’t they the most boring pictures you’ve ever seen?  Yes they are.

My mood sunk.  Don’t get me wrong.  The display was beautiful in person.  Hours upon hours of work went into it, and you could tell.  There were about 40 trees, all decorated and with whimsical displays beneath them.  Truly lovely.

But so boring in a picture.  Somehow, I’d have to try to take a picture nice enough that the leaders at the Eagles wouldn’t snicker in disdain when Dad showed it to them.  The family honor was at stake.

I warned Dad, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” and did my best to lower his expectations.  In the end I managed to eke out a few unattractive pictures that, with luck and a lot of squinting, might turn out so-so.

Then I spent a very frustrating evening trying to edit out the graininess.  Elements proved it hates me yet again by permanently deleting part of the picture I was working on.  Why, oh, why would Elements do what it did unless it is sentient and resentful and a big fat meanie?

And then came the realization that even if the Eagles leaders liked the electronic copy of the picture, what if it looked bad enlarged?  What if it was grainy and distorted?  I’d better check before Dad presented it to them.

Fortunately, Darling Husband works at a college with a photography department and is friends with the photography geniuses who work there.  They edited it a little more for exposure, figured out how exactly how much it could be enlarged before it got distorted, and printed one out for me.  $10.  I should make those guys some banana bread as a thank you.

And I have to say, the picture looked a little bit cool printed out.

I gave it to Dad and he liked it.

He showed it to the Eagles guys and they liked it.

So dad had it framed.

And even I have to admit that it looks kinda of nice enlarged, printed and framed.  You can’t really tell from the picture I posted above, but in person, it was nice.

And get this: two days ago, we took Mom out for her Birthday Dinner.  (You know where.  Jin says hi.)

Before we left the house Dad said, “Here. The Eagles wanted to pay you a little something for the picture.” And he handed me real live money.  Real live money!  For my ugly Christmas tree picture!

It was just $25, but still-it was real and it was money.  I guess it wasn’t really alive.  And if I can get $25 for the ugliest picture I’ve ever taken, think of what I could get for something nice.

I’m not going to spend my $25.  I’m going to frame it.

—————-

Here are some artsy pictures that I was having fun with before Dad rained on my parade:

My Misshapen Head

As you can see, yesterday was grocery shopping day.  Go head.  Snicker all you like.

—–

I’m determined to master flash photography.  I plan to practice it a little bit every day.

So there I was practicing using my flash on Boy7, which is  rare thing.  He doesn’t like having his picture taken. In order for him to let me post these pictures online I had to bribe him with bite-sized MilkyWay bars leftover from his Christmas advent calendar.

A little too dark.

A little too light

The best in the series

And halfway through the photoshoot, I noticed that the new headband I bought at the grocery store was popping off my head. I made Boy10 take pictures of my misshapen head and the popping off headband.

Headbands are very frustrating to me.  When I tell other women, “My hair is acting up today.  What can I do with it?”  They often say, “Wear a headband.”

Apparently all the other women on this planet are able to wear headbands to disguise a bad hair day without them popping off their heads.  Why can’t I?

And here’s the part where it all comes together so nicely.  Follow along:

I posted a photography question on a secret Photo Club page on Facebook.  After expressing annoyance at a complicated answer I got, Gerhard wrote to me:

“Just calm down. When someone is trying to teach you things, you have a tendency to half listen and think 2 or 3 steps ahead to “what if I did this or that”. Slow down, you’re thinking too fast. Give ideas time to sink in. Just because we’re digital and seeing our images instantly,it’s still a slow process to learn this craft. Am I being too blunt?”

My first thought was, “What? Surely I don’t have such irritating habits as all that!  Not moi!”

But then I read it again, and realized that nestled in his observation was the brilliant explanation as to why my headbands pop off.   Read Gerhard’s comments again,

“…and think 2 or 3 steps ahead…you’re thinking too fast…”

Obvious now, isn’t it?  The reason why my headbands pop off is because of my enormous brain.

——————

There were thousands of perfectly formed snowflakes everywhere this morning.  I threw on my coat over my robe and family sweatpants to take pictures.  I didn’t even realize I still had on my Steeler’s hat until the next door neighbor came outside to accuse, “What is that thing on your head?”

Eh, he’ll get over it.

Darling Husband tried to get pictures of the snowflakes on his own with my camera.  He observed, “You need a macro lens.”  What an amazingly highly intelligent man that I married.  He’s very, very smart.  And he’s right.  I do need a macro lens.