Once upon a time, I went to an overpriced house of education, worked my little (yes, it WAS little) ass off and earned a degree in journalism. A degree I like to hang in my closet so that it may collect dust. Which is about the extent of how much I actually use said degree.

During my journey to become the world’s most useless journalist, I picked up a course (or four or five) in photography. Those courses taught me many things about the art of photography and the inner workings of a camera. What they didn’t teach me was the common sense not to take nude photos to give to your husband so he wouldn’t forget about you and then oneday threaten to post said photos on the internet to prove a lousy point.

I digress.

Because I have bought a camera or two in my time, and have taken a picture or two in my day, my friends and family often turn to me when buying a new camera. Which, of course amuses me to no end and feeds my God complex, but hey, who am I to refuse their pleas for help?

The latest in a long line of people to pick my brain on camera qualities (which I really know ABSOLUTELY nothing about) is Boo’s eldest sister. A formidable beauty who awes me daily with her wit and charm. So when she asks, I obey. (That and I’m scared silly of her. She could snap me like a twig.)

Yesterday evening I was poring over my notes and articles I had compiled in my efforts to find her the best camera to fit her family’s needs. My son wandered over and asked what I was up to.

“I’m doing homework.”

“You don’t go to school, Mom.” Said with a loud sigh and big rolling of the eyeballs.

“Your Most Beautiful and Intelligent Aunt has asked me to help her buy a new camera. I don’t want to get it wrong and then be known as the Twit Who Told Her To Buy A Piece Of Crap. My reputation depends on my choice.”

“Oh,” Frac says, clearly unimpressed and unconcerned with his mother’s impending Twit status.

“Why don’t you go play video games, or, I know, better yet, why don’t you go clean your bedroom? You’re making me nervous breathing over my shoulder like this,” I whined ordered.

Frac laughed while rolling his eyes and completely ignored me. See how I command the fear of Doom in my children?

“You must know a lot about cameras, right Mom?”

“I know a little about cameras. Mostly how to turn them on and off. When I went to school they taught me to always take the lens cap off. Why do you ask?” I was still ignoring him at this point, trying to figure out how I could avoid being labeled a TWIT by my formidable sister in law.

“Well, you took all those naked pictures of yourself and they turned out really good. You need to be a pretty good photographer to do that, right?” Frac innocently says.

He has my full attention now. “How do you know about any naked photos?” I screech.(It’s not like I took them and then asked my kids to help me decide which ones I liked best. Sheesh, people.)

“I heard Dad on the phone. Telling all his buddies that you were going to lose a bet and he would get to post the pictures you gave him on the net.”

“Well, ya, but they’re not naked pictures, Frac,” I hurried to cover. “They are just nice pictures of me in a dress. That’s all.”

Cue the eyerolling. He’s not stupid.

“Then why did Dad call them nudies?” By now Frac knows he has me by the short hairs.

I stammered and stuttered and envisioned ways of killing my husband creatively and painfully.

“Does this mean you are going to be famous? Will you take us to Disneyland then?” he asks, ever so naively and hopefully.

Yes, that is exactly what it means. If those photos make it up on the net, you can bet your ass I’m going to Disneyland.

Because I will be on the run for murdering my husband. I just haven’t decided if I am taking the kids with me for the ride.