Gus loves his Fancy Feast Savory Salmon.  He spends the better part of his day (when he is not making himself comfortable in my lap) begging for salmon.

While he’s a very sweet kitty and I want him to be healthy and happy, he eats 2 cans per day, about ¼ of a can at a time.  That figures up to 8 feedings per day.

Reminder: Gus is a cat, not a newborn baby.

It’s starting to get out of control.

Here are a few examples of his ridiculous behavior:

I’m hungry.

Will you please feed me instead of taking my picture?

That’s enough pictures, lady.

Now feed me some salmon.

Oh hi.


I’m going to sit on your notes and stare you down until you are forced to pay attention to me and feed me salmon.   I’m confident this strategy will work.

I’ll sprinkle in a few meows to disrupt your concentration as well.

Hello, did you hear me?


Fine then.   If you’re going to ignore me, I will drink your iced coffee.

AAAAALck.   Never mind.  That stuff’s turrr-bul.

I’m so glad you enjoyed your dinner (and neglected to serve me some even though I very politely sat in a chair).

Now where’s my salmon?

Maybe if I sit at the counter you will put it together that I am hungry and I would like some salmon.

Man, what’s a cat gotta do for some grub around here?

These humans are useless.


Y’all come back now, ya hear?


P.S. Thank You

The great thing about cleaning out my parents’ house as I prepare to move is finding little treasures like old pictures, cards and papers dating as far back as kindergarten.

The bad thing about cleaning out my parent’s house as I prepare to move is cleaning out my parents’ house.

We have accumulated a lot of stuff that has not been thinned since…..ever.

(WARNING: tangent ahead)

I’ve decided I like organizing, but not “cleaning out.”  Give me a closet full of items tangled up and in a heap and I will gladly put like with like and in nice boxes and baskets, all labeled, color-coded and sorted by occasion/season.  After all, I used to organize the silverware drawer just for kicks when I was in elementary school.  I know, I’m weird.  I can’t help it.

I do NOT, however, care for “cleaning out,” which includes deciding what to throw away, give away or keep, because this involves many messy (and HEAVY) piles, bins, trash bags, nosy cats and 459 trips up and down the stairs from the warzone to the garage.

After completing this process in several rooms this past week, I still have to organize and store what is NOT going with me to Nashville AND pack what IS going with me.  And THEN I have to drive 18 hours, haul the “keep” pile (mountain?) up TWO flights of stairs and UNpack it.  YIIIIKES!  Maybe I’ll just stay in Boston.

Oh wait, nope.

My love for the South is greater than my hatred for “cleaning out,” so I’m sticking to my plan (but apparently not to the point of this post.  My bad.)

Anyway, back to my first point: I have come across some real treasures in this “cleaning out” process, such as this card from my little seeester, Eugene:

Although she has no recollection of this card, judging by its content, her lovely cursive handwriting, and the fact that this card was created using a card program popular in our household at the turn of the century, I have concluded that this card dates back to the day after my sister tried to amputate her arm.

That may be an exaggeration.  It was her finger and it was unintentional (allegedly).

It was just after her 10th birthday, the height of her horse phase.  She had received several toy horses as gifts.  These particular toy horses come packaged as if they are going to gallop off the shelf, with layers and layers of cardboard, molded plastic and lethal plastic ties that keep the horses’ legs bound to the cardboard.  My sister was in the family room trying to free her toy horses from their boxy oppressors when her scissors slipped from the lethal plastic tie and launched into her left index finger which was holding up the box.

I was up in the attic on the computer when a calm voice and a trail of blood drops made its way toward me.  Upon processing this scene, I realized that this was not good but tried to keep my cool.  I was 13 at the time and obviously could not legally drive my sister to the emergency room.  Oh and my parents weren’t home.  Did I forget to mention that?  My mom was on a business trip and my dad was at a dinner in Boston and somehow in the 2 hours between when our nanny left and when my dad was due to arrive home, my sister and I found ourselves in a situation requiring professional medical attention.

After calmly escorting my sister down to the bathroom, I pulled the scissors out of her hand (turns out I should have left them in there, but I thought she might contract tetanus or something terrible) and wrapped her finger up tightly in a towel.   As she sat tight and with very few tears, I called my dad and asked him what I should do and he told me to call my neighbors to see if one of them could drive us over to the emergency room where he would meet us as soon as he could.

I then called one of my neighbors.

Ring, ring, ring…ring… “We can’t come to the phone right now, please leave a message.”

I figured maybe they were having dinner or something so I tried again immediately, hoping these back-to-back calls would communicate a sense of urgency.

Ring, ring, ring…ring… “We can’t come to the phone right now, please leave a message.”

Hmmm (translation: AHHH!).  I tried one more time and then decided they must not have been home.  Then I called my other next-door neighbors.  They did not pick up after several calls either.  I was about to lose my cool, but remembered that my sister was watching me very closely so I called my dad again and asked him what to do.

He told me to call 911.  All of the sudden, this seemed very serious and scary, but somehow I called 911 and the ambulance arrived a few minutes later.  As we were getting into the back of the ambulance, the second neighbor I called came running out of her house, got in the ambulance and traveled with us to the hospital.  At this point, I started to tear up, but my sister (the injured one) kept her cool.

We arrived to the hospital quickly and the doctor checked out my sister’s wound.  My dad got there shortly after.  After seeing my sister’s wound under fluorescent light and hearing the doctor say she needed stitches, I started to feel a little light-headed and had to go back to the waiting room until Eugene was all stitched up and released from the ER.

Even though she was the brave one for not freaking out when she stuck a pair of scissors in her finger, she made this very nice card to thank me for taking care of her.  The card was very sweet and thoughtful, but the P.S. note cracks me up:

As if I didn’t catch on to the sentiment on this card, she just wanted to be sure I got the message in the postscript.  I don’t know why I find this so funny, but I do. Even though that was not an evening I would like to relive (and I’m sure Eugene wouldn’t either), I’m so glad I found this card because it is so Eugene and it makes me smile.

To help you make sense of this post, I have put together a list of takeaways:

  1. Always answer your phone because it might be your panicking 13 year old neighbor calling about a scissors accident
  2. Deliberate long and hard before deciding to have children
  3. Packaged toys (particularly horses) pose a threat to your life and opening them may result in stitches
  4. Don’t move to a new place or you will be subject to some “cleaning out”
  5. “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”
  6. (what?)
  7. P.S. Thank you

Y’all come back now, ya hear?


Fresh Air and “Flairs”

Last week marked not only the official beginning of spring, but also record-breaking temperatures for this time of year in Boston.  We got up to 88 degrees one day and it was glorious.  I wasted no time opening all of the windows and doors in the house to air the place out.  Man, I love me some fresh air.

Inspired by all of the flowers (or “flairs” as my granny calls them), bushes and trees that seemed to be bursting with blooms overnight, I decided to take my new camera for a spin in my parents’ yard.

I had to get about 40 out of focus pictures out of my system before I was able to capture any of nature’s glory in an identifiable manner.

Bear with me.

Ahhh, here we go.  This is a flower.  A hyacinth, to be exact.

I LOVE hyacinths.  They smell so lovely and have very unusual and articulated flowers.  I’ve planted dozens of hyacinth bulbs in years past, but the deer and ground squirrels (grrrrr) seem to have discovered that these bulbs make a delicious winter snack.  Thus, my rows of blooming bulbs are now quite patchy.  Harumph.

Moving on.

Hello, mint.  Are we going to be friends this year?

Come on, little phlox blooms!

This is my attempt at an artsy photo with the old, dried hydrangea bloom looking nice and crunchy on its last leg before the new growth obscured in the background bursts forth with life.  Deep stuff.

I’ll stop now.

This is what a baby hydrangea bud looks like up close and creepy.  It resembles a vicious Venus flytrap the way I have captured it, but I promise it will turn into a beautiful blue mophead soon.

Let me apply some bronzer to this drab photo and see if that helps.

Well, she’s no beauty queen, but it’s an improvement.

Guess what this is?

YES! Another bizarre photo of a hydrangea bush.  At least this one has some nice light.

And this is a birdhouse flower.  Very unusual, no?

(Just ignore me.  I’ve been cooped up in my house too long.)

This birdhouse, although it looks like a tear-down, is apparently quite charming inside.  It has been home to a black-capped chickadee family for the past few years.  Each year, the mama bird works tirelessly, bringing small twigs one by one into the house to build her nest.  Then, a few weeks later, she makes endless trips fetching worms for her little chirping babies.  If you stick your head right up close to the birdhouse, you can see their little open beaks and hear their faint high-pitched screams for more food.

As captured in the picture below (from last year), when I leave the deck door open, my cats sit right up next to the screen, mesmerized by the sound of the baby birds and the sight of the mama bird.

There’s a lot of chop-licking as well.

Good thing my cats aren’t allowed outside.

This is a new birdhouse that I purchased in Vermont at the end of last summer.  It’s made of reclaimed barn materials (if you hadn’t already deduced as much) and, though it is hard to see in this picture, it actually has a slight lean just like an old, weathered barn.  I knew I had to have it the instant I laid eyes on it.

I would like to crawl into this picture and bask in the warm glow of the sunlight, especially because it seems that spring is now over in Boston.  Somehow we have skipped the rest of spring and summer and gone straight back to winter as the temperature has barely grazed the high 40’s the past few days.

Good news:  I am soon moving to the South.

Bye-bye wacky Boston weather.  It’s been real.

Y’all come back now, ya hear?


New York City on Business

My mother and I were just in New York City for a quick business trip before I leave the nest at the end of next week.

Clarification: My mother was in NYC on business and I was there to eat, not for business…….unless you consider eating serious business……which I do.  So, never mind, I am sticking to my story that my mom and I were both there on business.

Side note: My mother would like the record to show that, while on the train from Boston to New York, a fellow passenger asked if we were able to connect to the internet on our laptops.  She informed him that we were indeed connected and asked if he had completed a few steps required to connect.  He had.

Then she suggested he open a browser window and see if that prompted the final step of agreeing to the terms of use policy.  After a few seconds, he confirmed that that “did the trick” and he was connected to the internet. 

My mother then beamed with delight and made some celebratory hand gestures because she had just (successfully) provided technical support.  If you knew my mother (and also knew that my father is in the field of Information technology), you would realize how monumental this moment was in her life.  And with that, we were off to a great start.

Upon de-training in Penn Station, I passed Detective Lionel Fusco from one of my favorite shows “Person of Interest.”   We both played it cool, but it was a pretty big deal.  I would have taken a photo but a) I’m not that quick on my feet and b) I was playing it cool.

After checking into our hotel, my mom and I made our way to Bloomingdale’s.  Here are some pretty flowers they had in the entry:

We didn’t hit it big at Bloomie’s, but we each got a dress.  Actually, it was the same dress, one for me and one for her.  I must have still been on a celebrity-sighting high to have bought matching dresses with my mother (especially after all of the years I was forced against my will to wear matching outfits with my sister), but we will soon be living 1,000 miles apart so I guess I’ll let this one slide.

After leaving Bloomingdales, it wasn’t quite time to eat yet, so we strolled around the city for a little while. There were lots of purty trees in bloom even though the weather had decided to turn back to winter less than a week after the first day of spring (confirming my decision to move to the South):

OK, enough of that.

Now, let’s get down to business:  Eating

Dinner: Dos Caminos

I have been waiting years for this dining experience and boy did I have some high expectations after all of the talk from my parents, friends, and Jessica Simpson about how great this place is.  I am pleased to report that it did not disappoint.  Very tasty guacamole (although I think Rosa Mexicana has a slight edge), delicious tacos pescados and dos enchiladas. Yum.  I just ate a huge lunch, but typing that made me hungry again.  Mexican food does that to me.

Apparently I liked it so much that I forgot to take a picture. But before my voracious appetite took over, I did manage to snap a shot of the best sangria ever.  My mom and I debated over whether to order individual glasses or a pitcher given it was just the two of us.  After a long debate and some number crunching, we decided to go for the pitcher and agreed to just leave the extra if it seemed like too much.

We had no problem polishing it off…

Hey now, don’t judge.  It was a special occasion: my first dinner since the night before.

Lunch: A Voce

Oh my word was this divine.  This wasn’t just really good, fancy-shmancy Italian.  This was exceptionally innovative, light, and yet rich in flavor and texture, and just the right portion size (to keep me from overindulging and feeling ill, although I could have plowed through a few more servings without hesitation).

Thank goodness this was not an all-you-can-eat buffet or I might not have lived to tell about it.

I think I have found my new favorite non-Mexican dish and it is comprised of gorgonzola-filled gnocchi, topped with finely chopped smoked walnuts and tiny cubes of apple, served in a butter sauce.  Soft, creamy, and savory with a hint of sweetness.  Perfection.  My taste buds are still rejoicing and my stomach is growling for more.

(What happened to my gnocchi? Oh, that’s right. I ate it. Darn.)

As we finished our glorious meal, my mother and I promptly made a pact to meet up in NYC every year.  I think this agreement had a lot to do with our determination to dine at this establishment again.  And again. And again and again.


Y’all come back now, ya hear?



This is my cat Scarlett.

She’s a piece of work.

She is a tad smarter than my cat Gus and knows when she is being bad but goes on doing whatever she pleases anyway. What a punk.

She is nosy on a clinical level, which leads me to believe she is half raccoon.  She would prefer to spend her days making bird noises (strange, given she’s a CAT), rummaging through small waste baskets (thus leaving a crime scene on the floor) and dragging food scraps out of a sink of dirty dishes.  So far, my attempts to discipline her have been unsuccessful.  If her behavior gets any worse, I am threatening to send her to a feline correctional facility.  Here’s how she feels about that (note: photo taken after an altercation with the vacuum hose, her nemesis):

Here’s a mug shot from her previous offenses:

When I catch her in the act, she runs and hides, though she could use a lesson on being stealthy.

She also insists on sitting on/getting in any item you place on the floor (even if it’s a scrap of paper and especially if it is a box/bag/large purse).

Even though she’s a little rascal, I keep her around because she provides excellent tech support.

And, sometimes she just kills me with that little puddin’ face.

She wouldn’t want me to give you the impression that she’s really a big softie at heart so here is a much more regal shot from her linkedin profile:

She’s a mess but I love her.

Y’all come back now, ya hear?


P.S.  Most of these photos were taken before I got my new camera so I apologize if they look as if they were taken underwater.  I assure you that they were not because Scarlett HATES baths/anything to do with a large quantity of water.


This is my cat Gus.

He is not normal.

I think the root of the problem is that he missed the memo that he is a cat.

He behaves like a puppy/small infant/possum.

He leads a life of leisure (understatement).

When he is hungry (which is every 20 minutes) he will chase you around, meowing pitifully in several different keys until you feed him savory salmon morsels.  If you happen to be seated, he will either sit in the floor in front of you and burn a hole through your laptop/reading material with his stare (pictured below) OR circle you like a shark, walking up the arm of the chair, around the back and down the other side and round and round again, all the time purring on maximum volume, until it is impossible for you to concentrate on whatever you were doing that is obviously less important than his savory salmon morsels.

After he has had a few courses of salmon, he then calms down and comes and sits/naps in my lap, looking so cute and snuggling into my arm that I am reduced to using one arm at the risk of disturbing him.  My productivity then declines. But, if I disturb him by trying to use two arms, we start the pitiful begging bit all over again and my productivity declines then also. I just can’t win. So this is how I spend my day:

Some days, when my lap just won’t cooperate, he opts to sprawl out on my desk for his nap:

I put up with his nonsense because he is the sweetest kitty and I almost lost him about a year ago.

He went into renal failure and was given a pretty grim prognosis after several days at the animal hospital.  We were told it might be a few days or a few weeks, but probably not much longer than that. We brought little Gusser home and he ate like he had been starved for months.  He gradually gained his strength back over the next couple of weeks and one year later he is a lively (and demanding) young fellow.  My little miracle cat (who may never realize he is a cat, but that’s fine with me):

When Gus was at the animal hospital, we brought him a few things from home so he would have something familiar.  We brought him his “camper” (a cat bed with a hood) to sleep in and “the mommy,” which is a cable-knit blanket with which he has developed a very special/peculiar bond.  The instant you put up your feet up on the ottoman and drape this blanket over your legs, Gus is right there, making himself comfortable on “the mommy” covering your outstretched legs.

Here he is in the “camper” on a kitchen barstool, his preferred spot when there is activity in the kitchen:

Here he is on the “mommy” on my mom(my):

What a little dumpling.

And here he is swaddled in “the mommy”:

And that is an introduction to my spoilt cat/dog/infant/possum named Gus.

More to come as his behavior reaches new levels of absurdity.

Y’all come back now, ya hear?


“Eugene” Cont’d

I just found these photos while cleaning out the attic.  I think they sum up why my sister is totally a “Eugene.”

Here we have her gangsta phase.

And after a stint in jail, she turned her life around and entered her Mary Poppins phase.

And here……well, I’m not really sure what’s going on here.  Everything ok there, Eugene?

Need I say more?

Y’all come back now, ya hear?



I have mentioned my sister, Eugene, in several of my posts.  You may be wondering if her name is really Eugene since that is not a girl’s name nor has it been popular since 1950.  It’s not technically her given name, but it’s what I call her.

Her real name is Petunia.

Just kidding.

It’s actually Gloria…..

Ok, fine.  It’s Julia.  But there was some confusion about her name as an infant so for a few seconds it was Gloria.

My great great aunt (my great-grandmother’s sister-in-law. I promise I’m not lying about that one) stopped by my grandparents’ house when my family was visiting just after Eugene/Gloria (Julia) was born.  My great great aunt sat down on the sofa and my mom handed her Eugene/Gloria (Julia).  My great great aunt looked at the new creature adoringly and asked her name.

My Mom: “It’s Julia.”

Great great aunt: “Oh GLORIA! What a beautiful name!”

Everyone in the room: “No, JULIA.”

Silence. The child was then handed back to my mother.

Just kidding.  Everybody moved on pretty quickly and my great great aunt still thought my sister was precious.  But you see the beauty of her being born in the 90’s is that we have this gem on tape and I like to watch it whenever possible for a good laugh.  What really sends me over the edge is that Gloria is not in the top 99% of names my mother would choose for her child.

So now you’re probably wondering why I call her Eugene.  If you knew her, you would realize that she is such a Eugene.  I think the name actually originated from me morphing her name from Julia to Uja, which naturally then became Eugene (duh, isn’t that an obvious progression? No? Well, humor me then).  Needless to say, it stuck and I can’t remember the last time I called her Julia or Gloria.   She is even listed as Eugene in my cellphone.

You may also be wondering if my sister appreciates me calling her Eugene.  I don’t think she minds and she responds to it when I call out to her in public, so I’m going to continue calling her Eugene.

We share a very bizarre sense of humor that only the two of us seem to understand and I believe me calling her Eugene falls into that category.  It’s just part of our special sisterly bond.

If you saw us together, it would be clear instantly that we are sisters.

We’re practically twins!


(Heels? Really Eugene? Throw me a bone here, would ya?)

So that’s how Eugene got her name.

And every Southerner knows you need a good country name.  You’re welcome, Eugene.

I LAH-ve you.

Y’all come back now, ya hear?


Getting Glasses

I decided it was finally time to go to the eye doctor after about a decade (I know, bad bad bad) of not going to the eye doctor.

Diagnosis:  My vision is uneven.  Basically, my right eye is a weakling and my left eye is a champ.

Prognosis:  I’m going to live.

I have to get glasses to be worn for “close work,” which includes looking at a computer screen, reading, drafting, or anything else that requires me to focus my eyes on something within the general vicinity of my face.

I have known for a long time that my left eye is stronger, but apparently the difference in my eyes has gotten more severe.   I frequently “suffer from” (as they say) headaches and migraines, likely the result of me doing a lot of “close work” and thus exhausting my left eye because my right eye has no idea what to make of the screen in front of me.

So, I’m getting glasses that I will wear part-time.  Not so bad.  I think I can handle it and hope it will improve the throbbing head situation.

For a year or so when I was younger, I had to wear a Band-Aid-like eye patch over my left eye for a few hours each day after I got home from school in an attempt to strengthen my right eye.  I think I handled this unconventional eyewear pretty well for a 5 year old, but I’m glad this time I will be getting glasses instead.

Though this wasn’t my best look, at least I had my kitten for emotional support.  His name was Truder. I loved him very much.

Seeing (hahaha) as this whole glasses thing is a noteworthy development in my life, I felt the need to share the news with my sister, particularly since she once faked the need for glasses.  She was 6.  We had just moved to Boston and she was the “new girl” in her class for the first time in her life.  I suppose she was feeling left out or wanted to attract some attention (for having glasses?) or wanted to hide behind something.  I really can’t say why she faked the need for glasses, but the eye doctor caught on to what was happening when one day my sister told my mother that she couldn’t see and started squinting a lot.  He subtly conveyed this message to my parents by winking as my sister pretended to be unable to read the lower half of the letter chart.  He then told them that this was probably just a cry for attention at school given her age and that we had just moved to a new place and a new school.  My parents, being the sensitive and supportive parents they are, played along and invested in Eugene’s desperate cry for attention to the tune of several hundred dollars. God bless my parents.

So given her complicated history with her vision, I thought she would be a good person to tell about my new glasses.

It was late the other night after I returned from the eye doctor, ate dinner, watched some TV, wrote a post, dilly-dallied, and pondered life a bit, so I opted to text my dear sister instead of calling her to tell her my glasses news in case she was asleep (hahaha) or in the library (surprisingly, much more likely at 11:00 PM on a Tuesday for a college student named Eugene).

Before you read the verbatim text conversation that is to follow, I want you to know that my sister and I are very mature and well-mannered young women.  In public.

Me:  Guess what?

Eugene:  chicken butt!

Me: Yes!

(Long pause to appreciate that my sister just guessed exactly what I was thinking.)

Me: I have to get gafas.

(side note: My sister and I often speak in Spanglish because we’re weird and took a lot of Spanish in high school)

Eugene: What?! For reals?

Me: Yes. For reading and “close work” because one of my eyes is stronger than the other (which I knew) but the doctor thinks that’s exhausting my eyes to try to focus so I have to wear glasses for that stuff.  I picked out some real sassy ones.

Eugene: oh la laaa! Slash kinda sounds like daddy.

Me: Getting sassy glasses?

Eugene:  hahahah no no the stronger eye thing!

(End Scene.)

So as my sister mentioned, this whole uneven eye strength thing (and not surprisingly the migraine thing), runs in the left side of my family.  Almost all members of this side of my family (that I am biologically related to) wear glasses.  I guess it’s now official.  I am a for sure my father’s daughter.

One point of divergence, however, is the type of glasses we will be sporting.  His glasses are rectangular, simple and subtle.  My selection is none of those things.  I went for cat-eyed, sassy and bold.  Here is my selection:

I am very pleased with my choice, but I also considered another more rectangular, tailored and professional looking pair.  I selected these after asking the nice man who helps people pick out glasses if there was any section I should avoid since I was “trying not to break the bank” on my new glasses.  He responded that the glasses were arranged by manufacturer and there was a range within each of them so there wasn’t really any section to avoid.  Being me and having a specific arrangement with gravity to pull me towards expensive items, I of course selected one of the most expensive pairs in the whole place.  The nice man saw what was happening and politely mentioned to me that “The Fendi options are probably not as budget-friendly.”  Oh.  Darn.

So then I found my lovely sassy glasses that had a much more agreeable price tag.  And I was pleased.

I am now waiting (not so patiently and with a slight headache) for my glasses to arrive because I (unlike someone in my family who is younger that I am and named Eugene) actually need them.

Y’all come back now, ya hear?


Glasses photo courtesy of

Me + New Camera: Test of My Patience

I got a new camera today.

It’s a belated graduation gift from my parents.  Belated, not because my parents are slackers, but because I can never make up my mind about anything related to myself.  With my clients (who pay me for ideas and decisiveness) and other people (who would rather I put a lid on it), however, I always have thoughts and direction.

My first idea was a nice ring, but I decided that wasn’t really a pressing need.

My second idea was for my parents to contribute to a sectional sofa for my new apartment.  And then I had this hypothetical conversation in my head:

Normal Person: “What did your parents get you for graduation?”

Me: “Oh, you know, three-fifths of a sectional.”


My third idea, after doing some number crunching and integral calculus on my rent and utilities expenses this coming year, was to have them subsidize my rent for a year, perhaps enough to cover some of my utilities.  Practical, no?  YAWN.

(Two months go by.)

(Oh look-a-there, it is now spring and I graduated in December.)

After taking some pictures of my interior design work and for this blog, I realized I did not have an adequate camera for my purposes.


(What if I request a nice camera for my graduation gift?!?!? O.M.G. that’s brilliant!)

I amaze myself sometimes.

So, anywho, today I got a new camera and I thought I would celebrate by taking a picture.  (But just one.  Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.)

Here’s what happened next:

Now, mind you, for all of my picture-taking life, I have had a little point-and-shoot nugget for a camera.

Thus, armed with my camera prowess, I took out my new Canon dslr in order to take my celebratory photo.  I unearthed it from seemingly endless layers of cords, pamphlets, warranties, instruction manuals, and other bubble-wrapped miscellanea about which I haven’t the faintest clue.  I then unwrapped the lens, took off the lens cover thing and tried to put the lens on the camera.  No dice.

(Apparently, the camera must be turned on in order to attach the lens.)

So then, naturally, I hit the “on” button.  No dice.

I then casually pushed the latch/almost broke the camera trying to open the battery compartment to discover that there was, in fact, no battery in the camera.  Hence, it would not turn on.  Duh.

Slightly miffed, I dug through the sea of camera accoutrements and found the battery, stuck it in the battery compartment and triumphantly pushed the “on” button.  No dice.  (And then I scratched my head…….Hmmmmmmmm…….the battery must not be charged.)  Duh.  Why would the battery be charged? That would be too easy.

So then I dug around some more in my camera box and found the battery charger.  Ahhh.  Finally, something familiar, just like my point-and-shoot’s charger.   I felt for the prongs to plug it into the wall outlet and……WHAT??….NO PRONGS?!?  Then I noticed a devilish little indentation on the bottom of the charger that looked like it hooked up to some sort of cord.  Steam then came out of my ears.

At my wits’ end, I returned to the camera box to search for a cord that had one end with a plug and another end shaped like the indentation on the bottom of the battery charger.  To my utter delight (overstatement), I found it, crammed it into the bottom of the charger and plugged it in to the wall.  (why me???)

And guess what? I now have to wait several hours for the dang thing to charge.

And guess what else? Just for kicks, I then went back to my desk and tried to put the lens on the camera again.  I got a little craftier this time and decided not only to put the lens in the hole on the front of the camera, but also to turn it.  And GUESS WHAT?!? The lens clicked into place and is now attached to the camera (?!?!??!?!).

But you know what? I still have to wait several hours for the battery to charge.  What a buzzkill.

So not only did I get a nice camera today (for which I am very grateful despite my challenges), but I also learned that fancy cameras are like spoiled lap dogs.  They’re high maintenance and have a lot of accessories that don’t seem to make sense.

And here’s the kicker:  Even after the battery is charged and in the camera, and the camera is turned on, I still have to figure out how to use this sucker.

So at this rate, I may have that celebratory photo by next Christmas. (But, I’m not making any promises, ok?)

Man, what a day.

Y’all come back now, ya hear?