White and Fluffy

Being an old-fashioned sort (which is a polite and somewhat fancier way to admit old age), I long for an old-fashioned complicated 35mm camera. My nose, I have just discovered, regrettably has its own crazy automatic feature, and that is, the appendage elevates itself every time I pick up one of these new-fangled digital cameras with all of their odd and undecipherable settings.

What sort of sadistic madness possesses manufacturers to come up with these cute alien symbols for simple functions such as flash, zoom or view? Am I the only human left on the planet now? My wife understands them. My children, yes, even young David and possibly his hamster as well understands them. I glance over at my Hindu Rope Plant with suspicion, rightly fearing that even it understands.

But here I sit grumbling, thwarted and doomed to go off in search of a thousands words to describe the thick and pristine coat of fluff that greeted my old-fashioned pair of eyes this morning as soon as I got them pried open at seven o‘clock, rather than get up and go find a bipedal that is able to speak the digital language fluently, fearing perhaps that during the course of the investigation my old-fashioned heart might suddenly give out from a frightening flash of uncontrollable human-to-alien-and-back morphing that I understand, after studying many educational episodes of the X-files series and several programs of Entertainment Tonight, happens.

I could go the easy route and ask someone how this camera works and go take a picture of the fluffy scene, and I suppose that would be more wise; especially after I tried to comprehend that last sentence. Whew.

But never mind. Go look at the Weather Channel, people, and leave me alone, for it is simply beautiful outside and I refuse to budge from this chair at the moment. Plus I forgot my intended point.

And now that Rope Plant is giving me looks which I interpret as, “Go fetch me coffee, slave.”