This is unfortunate.
I can’t even blame it on Nathan, though I’m sure I could and you all would nod with sympathy while thinking, “Are you sure YOU didn’t do it, Mona? This looks like your work.” You caught me. A toddler would have left a peanut butter smear. And pee.
My camera slipped from my hands and landed on the hardwood. If I had softwood floors, I wouldn’t have this problem. Or if I lived in one of those inflatable bouncy houses or in Strawberry Shortcake’s house because she lived in a cake made of strawberry! I could just eat around my lens! Problem solved, tummy full, high five!
The filter is shattered and bent so I can’t twist it off to examine the lens underneath. Rest in peace, 17-85mm.
You see right through me, internet friend! I really just want to take pictures of my cat, Lilo!
Lilo knows I am transparent.
And can I ask why there is so much hate toward women, particularly mothers, who purchase higher-end cameras? I’ve read some blog banter recently that cut through moms with cameras, pointing out that they can never ever call themselves photographers. How dare they mention the word photography! I must always refer to it as square things with my son’s face in the middle. Granted, I am not a professional photographer by any stretch, but those kind of comments shut out those like me who find photography fascinating and cathartic. Tell me, who spiked the punch with haterade?
But you don’t feel that way, right, my sweet internet friend? If we went bowling, you would totally let me win, which would mean you would have to aim for the gutter so my single digit score would pwn you. That’s the kind of relationship we have, you l33t hax0r!