Shutter to think
I am such an idiot at times. I just grew terribly giddy because I managed to push off my 'working lunch' with E. until 5:30 PM tonight (as though procrastination equates to anything more than a momentary respite from self-imposed obligation). Regardless, it was an effective maneuver on my part since it limits the depth of our discussion due to the encroaching New Year's Eve dinner that myself and three to four other couples are attending at seven. By 'effective' I probably mean something along the lines of 'passive-aggressive' or 'cowardly' because just saying 'no, I do not wish to be your web design bitch' would probably epitomize efficacy (and directness) in this case.
Over a second (and presumably final) abysmal lunch at a self-proclaimed seafood restaurant in Pentagon City, my mother informed me that my father has actually begun reading the book I purchased him for Christmas. Of course, being my father, he has taken to lording his newfound dogma of decorum over my mother in public. He chastised her for leaving her napkin on the table rather than her seat when rising to use the restroom. Later, he gleefully called attention to the angle of her silverware, which should have pointed in the direction of ten to eleven o'clock if she was in fact finished with her meal. Mom expressed a certain concern that my dad would, as always, never manage to get past page thirty and consequently fail to read the section on wine (something she feels would be of significant use to him since he relies on her to pick a chardonnay). I, however, am most concerned that the organization of the book was such that, if I remember correctly, wardrobe advice was saved until long past the midpoint. It would defeat the entire purpose of my purchase if my father were never to learn that sweatpants and bedroom slippers are inappropriate attire for a semi-formal Thanksgiving dinner.
Most of my Tuesday was spent holding my mother's hand (both figuratively and literally) through the process of installing the hardware and software for her new digital camera. I was pretty surly about the whole thing seeing how such devices are now marketed to the technically inept and feature lavishly illustrated quickstart posters that guide mother and Luddite alike through the intricacies of dropping a lithium-ion battery into a battery-shaped slot. However, it seems her reticence was justified since I spent more than two hours battling Kodak's EasyShare software before throwing up my hands, reinstalling, and deducing (from the forced reboot) that the original install must have silently failed midway through the process. Regardless, all the software and technology in the world can not a clear picture make when your mother's jittery hands fail to hold a camera steady. This is an unfortunate repercussion of the present drive toward smaller, lighter personal electronics - the substantial weight of older cameras helped lend stability. I had her take a series of four different photographs of the minivan across the street, each time refining her technique with my suggestions ("hold the button in rather than releasing it immediately upon hearing the simulated shutter noise, use the electronic view finder rather than holding the LCD at arm's length, brace your arthritic arms on the windowsill you poor decrepit creature"). The resulting quartet looked like a series of sample images demonstrating the progressive application of Photoshop's 'sharpen' filter. Even so, her final (best of four) was still slightly blurrier than my initial test shot.
In her defense, we were, by this point, in the fading light that precedes sunset. Perhaps she will do better under more ideal lighting conditions, when relatively long exposures are not required. I left the house at 7 PM already exhausted and a little disheartened that I shelled out five hundred dollars for a camera destined only to produce unintentional homage to Impressionism; but checking my email and finding a half-way decent flash photograph (no red-eye, no washed-out skin tones) filled me with a glimmer of optimism.
That and the fact that I looked incontrovertibly cute.
Over a second (and presumably final) abysmal lunch at a self-proclaimed seafood restaurant in Pentagon City, my mother informed me that my father has actually begun reading the book I purchased him for Christmas. Of course, being my father, he has taken to lording his newfound dogma of decorum over my mother in public. He chastised her for leaving her napkin on the table rather than her seat when rising to use the restroom. Later, he gleefully called attention to the angle of her silverware, which should have pointed in the direction of ten to eleven o'clock if she was in fact finished with her meal. Mom expressed a certain concern that my dad would, as always, never manage to get past page thirty and consequently fail to read the section on wine (something she feels would be of significant use to him since he relies on her to pick a chardonnay). I, however, am most concerned that the organization of the book was such that, if I remember correctly, wardrobe advice was saved until long past the midpoint. It would defeat the entire purpose of my purchase if my father were never to learn that sweatpants and bedroom slippers are inappropriate attire for a semi-formal Thanksgiving dinner.
Most of my Tuesday was spent holding my mother's hand (both figuratively and literally) through the process of installing the hardware and software for her new digital camera. I was pretty surly about the whole thing seeing how such devices are now marketed to the technically inept and feature lavishly illustrated quickstart posters that guide mother and Luddite alike through the intricacies of dropping a lithium-ion battery into a battery-shaped slot. However, it seems her reticence was justified since I spent more than two hours battling Kodak's EasyShare software before throwing up my hands, reinstalling, and deducing (from the forced reboot) that the original install must have silently failed midway through the process. Regardless, all the software and technology in the world can not a clear picture make when your mother's jittery hands fail to hold a camera steady. This is an unfortunate repercussion of the present drive toward smaller, lighter personal electronics - the substantial weight of older cameras helped lend stability. I had her take a series of four different photographs of the minivan across the street, each time refining her technique with my suggestions ("hold the button in rather than releasing it immediately upon hearing the simulated shutter noise, use the electronic view finder rather than holding the LCD at arm's length, brace your arthritic arms on the windowsill you poor decrepit creature"). The resulting quartet looked like a series of sample images demonstrating the progressive application of Photoshop's 'sharpen' filter. Even so, her final (best of four) was still slightly blurrier than my initial test shot.
In her defense, we were, by this point, in the fading light that precedes sunset. Perhaps she will do better under more ideal lighting conditions, when relatively long exposures are not required. I left the house at 7 PM already exhausted and a little disheartened that I shelled out five hundred dollars for a camera destined only to produce unintentional homage to Impressionism; but checking my email and finding a half-way decent flash photograph (no red-eye, no washed-out skin tones) filled me with a glimmer of optimism.
That and the fact that I looked incontrovertibly cute.