My son texted me the other day asking for my meatball recipe. It’s a rarity that he texts me for recipes, so I was thrilled to my toes. About a week later, my daughter texted me asking for my fresh pumpkin pie recipe. Again, joy spread through my body as I thought to myself, “Finally.” See, I’ve been waiting for the day my children discovered the joy of cooking and baking. It had gotten to the point where I was questioning if it would ever happen. Would all of my recipes die with me? Would my last words on this earth be, “I love you, children. And why didn’t you want my Alfredo recipe?”
When I was a little girl, I lived in Incirlik AFB, Turkey. We lived for a year off base on the third floor of a very large apartment building. My parents spoke no Turkish and the landlady spoke no English, but somehow, they managed just fine. My dad was a lot cooler about the whole thing than my mom. But then, dad left and went to work on base each morning, while my mom had to deal with things like mice in the kitchen, Turkish toilets, and the man who walked his bear down the street each day. Yes, a bear. And if he saw you watching from your apartment window, he wouldn’t leave until you paid him. Or until the land lady shoo’d him off. After a year, my family moved onto base housing and my mom finally exhaled. I think she had been holding her breath the entire time.
Note: I had read THIS story on Buzzfeed about a social media influencer who posted professional photos of her accident on Instagram along with what appeared to be a product placement. I thought it unbelievable until…it happened to me.
Okay guys…the first thing you need to know is that I AM OKAY. Seriously, I’m okay, but in the interest of self-promotion, here’s the scary, magical series of events exactly as they happened.
“It was constant hustle for me the first three years (in business) full time.”
I read this quote from a photographer-turned-business coach. It was advice in a Facebook group. I’m not certain the question that elicited this reply, but it doesn’t really matter. The statement stands alone.
I came across a screenshot of your “I have started a photography business” post in a “Classifieds” Facebook group:
I don’t mean to step on any toes, but <deep breath> here we go…
A couple weeks ago, I asked to sit down with your top brass and discuss what is happening with our beloved PPA over some pie. Who doesn’t like pie, right? It was going to be a long conversation and, well, difficult discussions just seem to go better with pie. Granted, the request was made via a Facebook post, so you probably didn’t really take me seriously.
A photographer is someone who has a camera and takes pictures.
A toddler could do it.
Heck, a monkey could do it.
Dear writer of the Forbes Magazine article, “Your Top 10 Objects Your Kids Don’t Want,”
I just read your article. In it, you outline the objects in your home that you feel one’s children will not want passed on to them. You state the list was inspired by conversations with your 30-year old son and boomer clients and their millennial heirs. I must admit, I was a little dubious going in, as I know that millennials, for all their love of tiny homes and Marie Kondo lifestyles, are also responsible for the resurgence of vinyl records and shooting with film cameras. Pretty sure Leica gives a beanie away with every camera purchase. If they don’t, they should.
I received a letter from Costco that the location I frequent for my 8lbs of ground beef and jumbo bottle of vodka is closing their photo department.
Because in spite of more pictures being taken now than in any time in the history of photography, people are simply not printing their snapshots and, because of this rapid decline in printing volume, it makes no financial sense to keep the photo department open.
And after reading this letter, I have one thing to say:
People…WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?
100 years from now, no one is going to care who I am. I know this. I don’t mean that in a bad way and I don’t say it in the hopes someone will contradict me and shower me with praise; this is not said as Compliment Bait.
No, I say it because it’s true. 100 years from now, no one is going to care who I was. The same probably goes for you, too. In fact, with a few exceptions, it goes for most people. Command an army, serve as president, discover the cure for stupidness…history will remember you. But for most of us, this simply isn’t true. History won’t remember us. The wonderful every day glorious things we did: raise a family, work hard, bake a mean apple pie, help our neighbors…these things will never make it into the history books.