I stumbled sleepily into the kitchen on Friday morning, wiping sleep from my eyes as I yawned a yawn of near-epic proportions.
My dad turned around from the stove, where he was frying eggs and tomatoes for breakfast.
"Good morning, boobs," he said casually as he turned back to the stove.
I stopped. I looked down. I was wearing a decidedly demure grey tank with black slacks.
"I said, good morning, boobs," my dad repeated offhandedly as he flipped the tomatoes over in the pan.
At the end of the day, I waited outside of the station for my ride. It was day 3 of my internship at CFJC, the local TV news, and I was excited that I had my first on-air story. Sure, it was about a United Way project redoing a preschool playground-- about a .75 on the news scale. And it was a mad dash to have the piece ready for 5pm broadcast-- literally, as I ran the tape to the control room two minutes before air and had to cue the staff on supers because there was no time for timecodes. But I was full of pride that I'd made it on camera so soon, even if it was about tots and their tonka trucks.
As I got into the car, dad started talking about the piece. He'd stayed to watch it before running down to pick my sister Catie and myself from our respective jobs.
"Not too shabby," said dad, "for a fluff piece, it was pretty good. But you know, that camera really does add 10 pounds..."
"... well, it might have been the angle. The cameraman was shooting from above; it might have been better to be more level..."
"Let me get this straight... Your daughter gets her first TV story, first time on camera, and the first thing you say is that I look fat on camera?!"
"I never said fat... but the shot was from above... were you on a hill?"
"Yes, I was on a hill... a big dirt pile... it was a mini construction site!"
"Well next time, try not to stand on a hill, maybe. And your hands..."
"Yes, dad, I know I talk with my hands..."
"... Maybe just next time a wider shot would work. Or stop moving your hands so much."
... you come back from a lovely weekend in Ottawa to discover that your room was broken into and your antique jewelry stolen. Nothing else. Not your iPod, your SLR camera, your hard drive or even your other jewelry... just two rings that have been in the family for over 100 years that were given to me by my grandmother who passed away last summer.
But what can one do about it other than report the theft, finish a La Bottega sandwich, and hope karma comes through?