Sound the horns, shoot the canons, we bought a new camera.
Sleeker and sexier than our last, it fits in the palm of my hand (My palms are big, they match the rest of my hands, so I’ll add that two could easily fit)
It will never be this grandaddy of them all camera. But it will diminish the likelihood of revisiting the images of the girls as babies and feeling a bit like we are walking through an abstract art exhibit.
It also won’t show images of me as a tall drink of quirky, heavenly, blonde bossiness. I get plenty of bossy of another kind. Every day, particularly around three o’clock and when the issue of sharing princesses comes up.
Though I’ve been toiling night and day (maybe more like alternating afternoons and Tuesdays) in the garden, it likely won’t take any pictures along these lines.
And this friend.
So far it’s taken only one picture, which for whatever reason, I love. When it comes to cameras, if they take a shot you like, and it happens to be of you, and it’s taken at unforgiving close range, by your husband, on the hottest, stickiest, most vile personal body odor provoking day, well than I think its worth its flashing weight in gold.