My GPS is a no-frills detachable unit BFam found for me. I don’t need many bells and whistles.

Or do I?

Yes. Yes, I do.

During Mooter’s last softball game, I walked around and took random shots of my environment. Things that weren’t my child. I know. Big shocker (to her AND me). I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Just walking and shooting. I got a few interesting takes but, more than anything, I became increasingly frustrated with myself and my camera. I’m starting to get the hang of aperture (for insight into what that is, The Pioneer Woman has one of the most layman explanations I’ve ever seen), even my ISO balance. But I kept trying to tell my dumb lens that I wanted to take a photo of the coach, not the fence in front of the coach, and it wouldn’t listen. It was then I realized I may need to divorce my auto focus crutch.

Oh change. I don’t like you.

I’d read a few places that real photographers rely very little on the automatic functions of their cameras. It’s a nice place to start if you’re not a professional (like me) but, if you’re feeling comfortable about it, should walk away from in most situations. I was nervous. I just knew I’d screw this up, and it was the last game of the softball season. Bad shots here meant no do-overs. No more games to redeem myself. Crap. I took a deep breath, looked my lens square in the eye, er… glass?, and turned the A for Automatic to M for Manual. EEK!

Occassionally, I refer to Manual focus as “Manuel” (pronounced man-well) because he is hot and testy like a Spaniard.

Or maybe because I recently watched Vicky Christina Barcelona. I don’t know.

Just go with it, people.

It was sunny. There was glare. But I was determined. I took my first shot: Poop. The objective was to capture the little girl up to bat and not the onlooker of the opposing team, but you probably already gathered that.

Second attempt: CRAP!

What was I doing wrong? I adjusted the dial. In my lens, it looked right. This manual stuff is tricky business. Just a hair in the wrong direction, and I’m getting out-of-focus attention on my subject. I had the sunlight beaming on my head, the glare coming through my lens. Maybe I needed to move so I could see.

HA! Success! How did I do that?! Could I do it again?! Yay! Oh yay! Let’s try again.

Well sons of biscuits in Jamaica! It happened again! Not quite the end of the world, but more fuzzy than I’d hoped. What is the deal with you, Manuel? You and I are fast on the road to disaster. I don’t want you to be my enemy. Talk to me. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.

Get out of the sun, it said.

Well played, Manuel. Well played.

If you own a digital camera, give Manuel a spin. But be warned. He may passionately love you then leave you cold.

I’ve got to stop watching that movie.

About a year ago, during one of my tougher-than-normal days – those days I have when I like to throw myself a pity party – I sat in front of my computer and aimlessly searched as I am wont to do. I don’t know what I’m looking for when I’m on these benders. I’m not seeking anything thought-provoking and enriching. I guess I’m looking for escape more than anything. Escape from my life, my thoughts, my worries. It is the reason I’ve always written. The reason I read books, watch television, or listen to loads and loads of music. Anything to take me out of myself is fine with me.

Many a thing draws me to a site. I hear so-called experts of sites, that have found the slightest modicum of success, preach content and design. Design catches your eye, content makes you stay.

On this particular day, I happened on a site. I don’t remember how I ended up there (the link of a link of a link of a link). This isn’t uncommon for me. My electronic bookmarks are full-up of these happy accidents. The photos on this site were beautiful. A gorgeous little girl with electric blue eyes. Her little brother, just as beautiful with the same piercing blue eyes. I love photos of children, so I was an instant sucker. The site was bold and modest in design. I hate to sound sexist, but I knew a guy was behind it. It looked guy-ish. Almost industrial. Grunge-rock. Nothing floral or froo-froo. No butterflies or frills. I liked it.

Design. I was caught.

And so, I kept looking. The closer I looked, the more I realized the little boy was attached to an assortment of tubes. He was such a little angel pie, I just wanted to pinch his cheeks. Was he sick? If he was, was he getting better? I checked the About section. Short. To the point. Husband looks happy. Wife looks happy. Daughter, equally happy. At the time, a small blurb regarding the little boy and his illness. I read more. Maybe I was missing something. I scoured the site looking for the origin of this story, the story of the little cutey with his tubes. And then, I found it. Right there, at my desk, at my 9-to-5 job. I was a sobbing mess.

Content.

Suddenly, I forgot what I was escaping from. Whatever it was, I wanted to go back to it. I went home and kissed my two girls. I played with them extra long. I read them more than one bedtime story. I didn’t yell when they knocked over their milk. Didn’t chastise when they hadn’t picked up their clothes, or left their cleats at the door, or tracked mud through the house. They observed me as if a pod person had invaded, and their real mother was laying in a cabbage patch somewhere.

I have been following the Owens and their story this past year, from the end of little Gavin’s illness until his death. What pulls me in, post after post, is the strength of this family. I was so compelled, so moved by it all, I wanted to reach out to them. Show them, in some small way, their story affects me daily. I reached out to Adam Owens in an e-mail. What I wrote was probably the most sincere, heartfelt thing I’ve ever written to a stranger. I was sure he and his family received thousands of e-mails like this a day, if not more. If I never heard from him again, I’d understand. I just wanted to pour out my condolences and admiration.

Adam not only wrote me back, but conveyed the deeper meaning of what was being scratched on the surface of those pictures: He and his family were hurting. He and his family were mourning. He and his family… were human. Sometimes, pictures are worth a thousand words. Sometimes, they can’t say enough.

For weeks, I’ve known I had wanted to make their story a moral to my own self-wallowing. If ever there were an experience to teach me about getting over myself, living life, and giving thanks for all my blessings, this was it. After reading Adam’s e-mail, after getting up enough courage to communicate with him and respectfully ask his permission to talk about his family’s story on this site, I was a mess. I had to do this right.

I couldn’t imagine losing either of my children. I think about it, more than should be held within the limits of sanity, but the process of experiencing it is far beyond anything I could think of. And, more than telling his story, more than expressing how it affects me, more than convalescing with a grieving family, I had to do this right. I had to find the word that packaged this entire experience as eloquently as I’d hoped. Beyond the words, I had to convey to Adam, his family, myself, the meaning of it all.

Perspective. And whenever I need a dose, I always return to the story of the Owens’.

To Adam, Karen, Madison and Gavin: thank you.

To follow Adam, go here.
To follow Karen, go here.

At least that’s what I try telling myself.

TV is also how I find out about new songs or up-and-coming artists I may have missed out on otherwise. Sometime in the late 90′s, early 2000′s, music became the driving force behind TV shows. There is no bigger offender of this trend than Grey’s Anatomy. Don’t get me wrong: whoever is in charge of finding the music for some of their episodes is a fraktaculating genius. (Hey, if Sarah Palin can say “refudiate“…) With the exception of last season’s finale that was sans music yet, distinctively, just as powerful, they are right on the money with their selections. The soundtrack elicits the kind of emotions they were looking for – so says my bath towel.

Last season (outside of the season finale), I was on GA strike. It was getting too silly and I, for one, was not laughing. This Summer, I’ve been all about the silly shows because that’s what Summer is for. (You can mess with my Summer, people, but hands off my Fall.) Surprisingly, there’s been less of the normal silly, and more of the hard-to-believe-yet-entertaining attempts. In that light, one show gracing my DVR is Covert Affairs (think Alias). At the end of the premiere episode, the featured song played. It was necessary for the moment, but I lost focus of it because I was completely enraptured in the song. This is a common occurrence for me. I can find meaning in a song from a commercial where hamsters are the star. It’s not hard. But this…

In researching, I would soon find out this song played during a GA episode this past season. I love Brandi Carlile anyway (discovered while watching an older episode of Grey’s Anatomy), so it wasn’t hard to pin the voice. I was so overwhelmed, I had to find a video for it. In the words of Vivian Ward, big mistake. Big. HUGE.

Sob. Fest. Anybody got a ShamWow?

Up until mid-June, I had no idea the team had a name.

It’s been a long, hot season for these girls.

We didn’t know it, when we signed Mooter up for softball in May, but this would be a long season for everyone. Kids. Parents. Siblings of the kids. Here it is, mid-July, and the team has been playing their hearts out, in 90-degree heat, in the playoffs.

That’s right. I said playoffs.

Who knew they were good enough to be qualified? And, before you judge, that is not the comment of a bad parent. And it is not to say her team stunk it up extra good. It’s just… they’re eight, nine, and ten-year-olds. They get playoffs?!

Mooter wants to get involved in gymnastics. I told her, between soccer and softball, she was going to have to let something go. Her social calendar is full. Momma needs a break. Daddy is dying. Booger is… well, Booger is loving life because she gets to go to the nearby playground every time there’s a practice or game so she doesn’t count. But cheese-n-crackers, give your parents A BREAK. Sure, you could be spending your idle free time getting into drugs and prostitution, and recreation is great for your development, but I think Momma just had a coronary. Oh, and look, there my brains go oozing out of my nose. If you’re not too busy RECREATIONALIZING THE FREE WORLD, Momma would like a Kleenex for her weeping and oozing frontal lobe. Take your time.

I guess telling kids they’re in the playoffs works wonders for motivation because, holy smack, they made it to the finals!

And lost.

Was it worse than the trauma we suffered last week?

Of course not.

But look at that sportsmanship!

Take notes, LeJerk. Take. Notes.