There you go again – whining about wanting more expensive camera equipment.
Well sorry. It’s not a cheep hobby (oops . . . I mean cheap . . . Mike has pointed out to me before that the only cheep spelled like that is the cheep little chicks might make). Anyway, fine, sorry for whining. Maybe if I just had a ladder so I could be up above the chain-link line. It gets a little old taking every picture through chain-link.
You do have a ladder.
Yah, but it’s kind of wobbly and I feel nervous standing on it. Besides, think how silly I’d feel standing on a ladder in front of everyone at the game.
So you don’t really want a ladder.
No. No I don’t. . . . Maybe just a big hole in the fence . . . and a telephoto lens.
So we’re back to that are we? Huh. By the by, it’s kind of weird how you’re talking to yourself.
I’m just trying to . . . never mind. I don’t know what I am trying to do. But leave me be. I’ve already disclosed the fact that I have two-way and occasionally three-way conversations with myself.
Perhaps it would be best if we just got back to the game.
Yes. Perhaps it would.
(I think I might be becoming a bit OCDish. The other day I was looking at some wedding pics. All the bridesmaids had matching green dresses, but only one wore a leather belt with hers. As I looked through the pictures, I desperately wanted to have that belt gone – or duplicated on all the other dresses. And every time I look at the above photo, I imagine myself reaching in and placing Abe’s pal Jared’s red hat back on his head.)
The girls came with me to this game. They watched some, but, mostly, Daisy read while Goldie and Penny ran off and made little friends at the nearby park. I love how kids can just be like, “Hey, wanna play with me?” And suddenly they are pals. (Although, sadly, I have a distinct memory of being young and very much not daring to do that very thing. . . . I’m so brave these days compared to poor little-girl me.)
These pictures of Penny reminded me of something cute. The other day she brought home a paper from school for me. She’d drawn the two of us together on it and written: “What I like about mom is . . .” I forget what she liked about me, but I remember what she wrote next: “What I like about me is . . .” and then she wrote, “my beauty spot.” (Though I think beauty was spelled in some awesomely creative way). It reminded me of how my dad used to have us giggling and laughing as he’d say, “Do you know what I love the very most about you?” And he’d search behind our ears, on the insides of our arms, on our palms, etc. until he came upon one small line or freckle, “This,” he’d say, “This right here is what I love best about you.”