I am a total discredit to my mother and my aunts, all of whom were born with Nikons around their necks. When my life flashes before my eyes in my final moments, the image I’ll see most repeated is my mom standing behind a camera and my aunts lined up like the Italian army beside her, squinting down at their digitals, wondering if something is wrong with the flash while the rest of us fidget and squirm and try to pretend like we always just hang out sitting on the steps together, this picture is so natural.
I have a really nice camera too, a Nikon Coolpix 7900. We all got one for Christmas a few years back, part of my mom’s evil plan to turn us into family picture-takers.
In typical fashion, I moved to Chicago and realized I had lost that cord that connects the camera to my computer. Great. And because the notion of taking the camera to a drug store and actually developing the pictures (I’m sorry, you want me to do WHAT?) is just completely beyond my comprehension, my camera has been gathering dust since July. I’ve relied on my phone camera for months and we all know how attractive everything looks in the hazy glow of your phone camera.
This all changed when my former roommate showed up for New Years and produced it with a flourish out of her bulging Puma bag. “Is this yours?” I grabbed the cord out of her hands and did a happy dance. Pictures!
Immediately, I hooked up my camera. Only to find that the battery had gone dead. When I went looking for the charger, guess what? Yeah. The charger was gone. I tore the apartment apart, cord in my hands, dead battery, my mother clucking and shaking her head 1,000 miles away. GOD IS TRYING TO TELL ME SOMETHING.
This past Thursday, I was cleaning the apartment (“Your brother has allergies. Please for the love of God, dust your apartment before he gets there. I’m sure it’s disgusting. Love, Mom.”) and it was one of those GOOD cleans, you know? The kind that only happens about twice a year. The kind where you MOVE THE FURNITURE. (I did not remove the books from the bookshelf, however, or the DVDs. I love my brother but I’m not crazy.) I shove the book case away to clean the floor beneath it and what do I see on the floor, nestled comfortably between the bookshelf and the cream-colored wall?
You black Irish bastard.
So, now I don’t know what to think. Does this mean I have to take pictures now? Does this mean I have to be better about cleaning my apartment (oh, the treasures to be discovered!)?
I think all it really means is that in between the gorgeous photos I steal from the Interweb and my Google reader (Unicornology, Persephone, etc.), you’ll all be subjected to my meager Nikon pics now. Like this ongoing photo study from my desk window. I call it SEASONS. You’ll notice the pictures are out of order. I don’t care to fix it. I’ve already spent way too much time on this post.