Photographer's Block / Easter

Well shoot, after joining Betty's blogger photo project and uploading a handful of pictures, I haven't added anything since. Week 13 was "Luck" and Week 14 was "Easter," and I honestly couldn't think of anything I wanted to take a picture of for either of those prompts. I could take a picture of playing cards--the ace of spades--or maybe some dice, but it just didn't seem worth the effort. I didn't do anything special for Easter this year, unlike Jessica, who dyed some eggs (and for some reason hasn't uploaded those photos to the blogger photo project!).

I don't have an egg to take a photo of, nor do I have a chocolate Easter bunny laying around (and if I did, it would be ear-less or have a big chunk taken out of its rear end). For me, the purpose of the blogger photo project isn't about the subject of the photos, rather it is about getting me out and more familiar with my camera. Which is why any excuse I try and make is lame.

I've only taken one picture over the last two weeks, and it had nothing to do with photography, other than I thought a picture would do a better job of telling the story than me trying to describe the situation:



Yes, that is a bowl of Trader Joe's clam chowder with a school of goldfish swimming to and fro. Eat your heart out, Astin. I'm coming for your "best cook" title in the blogosphere.

Instead of trying to dig into my psyche and figure out why I don't want to take photos, I'm going to write about Easter instead of photographing it.

Growing up, my family would dye eggs every Easter. Multi-colored eggs with invisible wax crayon drawings and messages. I would play mad scientist and try to see how many different color layers I could put on one egg. It usually didn't turn out too hot. Dyeing Easter eggs was fun and all, but there was another tradition that takes the Easter cake.

The Egg Hunt.

What kid doesn't love searching through the house for plastic Easter eggs?? The fact that my Dad enjoyed hiding the eggs more than my greedy sister and I liked finding them, made the annual egg hunt last until my sister headed off for college. Sara and I will never be too old to search for plastic Easter eggs, especially when those plastic eggs have a little jingle to them.

Dad would hide the eggs all over the living room and kitchen. In the toes of shoes, in potted plants, behind the fireplace, behind books, in magazines, in the card drawer, under chairs, under cushions of the couch, etc. Those were the normal spots my sister and I would hit first. Dad would get tricky and place eggs in lampshades and under the cover of the piano keyboard--where we would have never looked if not for his nods, glances and hints. Of course, every year he would forget where he placed a few eggs, and they would show up days or weeks later. My parents would also make sure that my sister and I were even on eggs, and my bigger bully of a sister (and admittedly quicker than me at finding Easter eggs) would have to either give up some of her eggs, or wait for me to catch up.

If I were in her position, I would have thrown the biggest temper tantrum imaginable. Take my eggs?! Oh HELL no! You're welcome for making you such a patient and loving individual, sis :)

(hah)