Photographer

When I'm not neglecting to take photographs altogether - like Halloween 2008, which I greatly regret - my photography skills are sorely lacking. My equipment, until I won a camera in a drawing, was limited to the technology of the camera on my cell phone. With the exception of the occasional disposable model, the camera is a device I would not have purchased on my own. There are certain truths I know about myself: I will one day OD on coffee. I am unable to resist bubble wrap. I do not take pictures. The thought rarely occurs to me. I'm too busy enjoying the goings on to remember to document them.

I have used my camera, though. Mostly for larger occasions like birthdays and Christmas, but a little bit here and there as well. It's supposed to produce higher quality pictures, but in the wrong hands, the advancements of the equipment in use make little difference. For example:

Phone

New Camera

Can you spot the remarkable difference? Nothing like blurred images in high resolution.

Whenever my grandmother would send us pictures she'd taken, there was always one picture she had accidentally taken. Always. It's like a special talent she has of snapping the shutter at the most random moment. We've seen pictures of her finger over the lens, a blurry sideways picture of my uncle on the couch, and many pictures throughout the years that were almost identical to the ones above that I took. Apparently, I inherited the gift.

This may be a subconscious reason for my forgetfulness when it comes to photography. Luckily, someone else always wants to take pictures. For a long time, I was worried that there were no pictures of my daughter's first birthday, because I know I didn't take any. I was quite relieved to find out my mom had taken the pictures. She always gets duplicates for whoever wants them, and for ten years she just hadn't ever given me my copies.

At least she had them developed. With digital photography, my pictures stay on whatever media they're captured by. My favorite Mother's Day gift was a photo album filled with two years' worth of the pictures from my cell phone. Shots of my pregnant belly, my son's newborn shots, shots of my daughter making goofy faces. It was absolutely wonderful. Some of the pictures may have looked a lot like the ones above, but hey - I doubt professional photographers get their own photos given to them as gifts.

Hairdresser

I lack patience with hair. Whether myself or someone else is working on it, I can hardly sit still long enough for my hair to be styled. I suppose it's because it's not worth it to me to spend so much time on something that won't last long enough for me to get from the bathroom mirror to the car. Throughout the years, I've ponytailed it, headbanded it, crimped it, iron curled it, iron straightened it, hot-rolled it, pin-curled it, french-twisted it, bunned it, stuck it with decorative sticks, and clawed it, and all of these things eventually just gave me a headache. It's rare that I even blow it dry, because I have both children, and a warped sense of time management, which makes hair styling even less of a priority for me.
I'm not even capable of styling other people's hair: I dread when my husband wants me to "clean up" the back of his head after a home cut. Ever since my daughter has been old enough, she's been on her own as far as washing, brushing, and prettying her own locks. The times that require my help don't turn out well. For Halloween, I dyed my daughter's hair black with fuchsia streaks. It was a mess, and not at all consistently colored. And I can wet down and fine-tooth comb my son's mop top, but it still sticks out and generally looks like he rode in the car with his head out the window (Attention Department of Social Services: he didn't. He rode safely buckled into his size-appropriate LATCH-fastened car seat that has never been in an accident.).
It has now been over 24 hours since my hair was shaved away, and it's refreshing to not have it. Quite cold as well, but mostly refreshing. It took almost no time to wash - rubbing a pea-sized dollop of shampoo over my stubble - and only barely longer than that to air-dry. I had nothing to comb, and no tresses to fuss over when I made my last mirror-check before leaving the house. I didn't need to hold it out of the way as I put my coat and scarf on. I didn't scramble around the house to find a clip or band in case I needed to put my hair up later on. I got to wear a hat without worrying about static. There were no frustrated tucks of strands behind my ears or brushes of my hand to move my hair off my shoulders - again.  It was liberating.
Despite the good-natured teases from family and friends (my daughter's nickname for me is "Baldo"), and extra stares from strangers, I'm enjoying the baldness. Without my hair, I don't have to even attempt to be a hairdresser.
There's more:  In the midst of all this, I haven't forgotten that I chose to not have hair. Each time I've absentmindedly reached up to twirl my hair, having momentarily forgotten that it's gone, I consider the fact that while I'm not saddened by that, there are others who are saddened by their hair loss; others who didn't have a choice. I can only remain optimistic that the money raised will help researchers find a cure, and that with that cure no one else will have to lose their hair.

Charity Worker

There are few professions so far in this blog that I'd actually want to be (maybe swimsuit model), but this is definitely one of them. Charities are essential to society, and those who work to start and keep them functioning are beings worthy of our respect, indeed. Regrettably, I have not contributed to charities as much as I'd have liked. This is mostly due to the feeling of not having enough money to give, flimsy as that excuse is. But there is a particular charity that has been on my mind for a while now: St. Baldrick's. I have a whole head full of hair that (other than physically) I'm not particularly attached to. It's thin, especially prone to static, and stray strands stick straight up on top. It's oily, but my scalp is dry. It grows too fast, and will not be contained by barrettes, scrunchies, french combs, hair sticks, or the dreaded hair claw. As much as I spend on cuts to make it easier to maintain, I'm never happy with it. So giving St. Baldrick's the amount of money I'd normally spend on a haircut to let them shave my head is no loss for me, but stands to make a big impact for the people it's designed to help.
People have asked me if I'm nervous about losing my hair. Though I may feel differently once I'm actually in the barber's chair, right now the only thing I'm nervous about is that I'll like being bald so much I'll never let my hair grow back. Once I go through with this, I plan on finding other causes to contribute to, monetarily or otherwise.  Because since I'm not a charity worker - and heck, even if I was - I need to do what I can to support them.

Blogger

This post will be the 26th, marking exactly half a year of weekly postings. They may not have always been as punctual as I'd have liked, but I'm proud of myself nonetheless. Even though I started this blog with tons of inspiration for articles, and constantly encounter more, I wasn't sure I had it in me. I have kids, a husband, a full time job. I eat and sleep. I watch TV and play video games. In spite of all this, every week for the past 6 months, I have made time to write. That is a big accomplishment for me, and I hope to keep it going. Maybe...just maybe, this is a step in the right direction to become a professional blogger.

Homemaker

My husband is picky. From his steak to his socks, he is uncompromisingly particular. When I call him on it, he says, "That's why I married you." Then I usually walk away, shaking my head and muttering my frustrations over how much extra money the little-used but much-desired feature on Model X will cost us over Model Y. Of course, at the end of the day, his response does give me warm fuzzies.
There are certain things I wouldn't think my husband - and as stereotyping would have us believe, any husband - would care much about. Like today's topic: Bedding. Aside from having soft, high-thread-count sheets, I wouldn't think he'd fret too much over what they looked like. I was incorrect. When I started shopping online for a new bedding set, I showed him the ones I liked.  We had actually agreed on a set...and then realized it was dry clean only. Dry cleaning is a process wherein people without children get their fabrics laundered by professional cleaners at some off-site location where they take a day or two to get your stuff back to you, since people without children have this kind of time and money (and probably extra bedding to use while they wait). Hence, dry cleaning is not for us.
When I went shopping at the store, I sent pictures for his review. "Too dark, too flowery, too ornate." The process had quickly been drained of its fun. In frustration, I picked 3 that I thought would be alright by him. "Choose!" I demanded. His simple yet effective response was, "I choose...Buzz Lightyear!" Instead, he decided to go to the store with me. Finally! Naturally, being at the store didn't make the decision easier. We had selected a couple of different duvet covers, only to put them back because of one flaw (wrong color) or another (too expensive). I stared at the displays. "If I could pick any of these," I sighed, pointing to a dark and flowery comforter, "it'd be that one."
"Okay," said Husband.
I sighed again, "But, you know, we can keep look- Okay?! You're okay with that one?"
"Yeah, it's not so bad."
"It's so pretty! And it matches our sheets! And our bedroom is plenty bright, so I'm sure it won't look too dark in there! And..." I was excited by my victory. And you know what? It is pretty. I like it. A professional homemaker probably makes these types of decisions him- or herself, but knowing Husband doesn't hate it makes me like it even more.

Practical Joker

While I have never desired to own a whoopie cushion, there have been moments in my life where I've found myself plotting a perfect practical joke - and then not performing it.
Case in point: one of these days the part of my brain that feels shame will call in sick, and I will ask the friendly Whole Foods worker where the Twinkies are.
Better case in point: Standing in line at a register, the woman in front of me was purchasing a lot of items, the last of which was a bag from the bakery. The cashier asked her, "What's in the bag?" so she could ring it up accordingly. When the woman said, "Three donuts," I - with a very Dr. Strangeloveian self-restraint - stopped myself from looking the cashier in the eye, licking my fingers, and mumbling as if my mouth was full, "Two donuts." It would have been effing hilarious...at least to me. I had no idea how the lady whose donuts they were would have reacted - probably not well - which is why I didn't go through with it. Alas, it is a moment I will never have back. A moment I will lie to my grandchildren about, telling them it really happened.
Perhaps the woman would have reacted like my friend did on Halloween a couple of years ago: I put on a drab gray dress and my daughter's long black wig, and smudged gray liner under my eyes to look like a J-horror ghost. Then I sat at my friend's desk with my back to the door, awaiting her arrival so I could slowly turn around and give her a short scare, then a laugh. Instead, I got an ambivalent, "What are you doing?" and a polite chuckle. In other words, as the kids say nowadays: a fail.
Aren't I too old for this nonsense anyway? Or does a professional practical joker never really retire? I suppose I'll never know. Now if you'll excuse me, my shoe is untied. ...made you look.

Winter Olympic Athlete

Watching the Winter Olympics reminds me of everything I don't like about winter: trying to do anything while I'm cold. I hate being cold, indoors or out, but at least indoor temperatures are predictable. At home, I know I have plenty of blankets available to keep me warm. At work, I've accepted that I have to layer my hoodie over my my sweater over my t-shirt, with my coat lain over my legs like a blanket for my entire shift. By the way, when you see me wandering the building in my scarf and gloves, YES, I AM that cold. Being cold just isn't something that ever goes away for me in normal-people temperatures; say, anything below 80F. Even in summer, it's not too often it gets that warm outside.
When my kids want to play outside this time of year, I think of how cold I would be, and only reluctantly allow it while I watch through the window trying to absorb all the heat from my coffee mug. When it snows, even wearing gloves, my fingers numb as I brush and scrape my car windows. I waddle like I did when I was pregnant while trying to get across my icy driveway. My nose could guide a sleigh on a foggy Christmas Eve. So watching skiers try to out-jump each other, I can only think of how sniffly they must be, and sympathize with the sting they feel as the snow hits their cheeks. These people have to train constantly, too - do they ever feel their toes? Shouldn't those luge sleds have heating pads built in? Can't we give the bobsledders down coats? I'm cold just watching this in my slipper socks huddled under my electric blanket.
A professional Winter Olympian would probably be flabbergasted by the fact that I've lived in Colorado for 15 years and never gone skiing, snowboarding, or rarely even made snowmen. You go ahead; I'll stay in and watch Lost. Call me when you're ready to hit the sauna.